Franz could still hear the party from here, but it was now a manageable murmur in the background. There was only so long that he could stand his mother’s attempts to add him to the dance-card of every eligible young lady in the room. Sitting in his favourite ivy-covered seat, he looked out over his father’s fields. By the looks of it, the crops would soon be ready for harvest. He could almost feel the slight give of stalks between his fingers just thinking about it, but that was as close as he could get this year. His father would hardly allow his son to descend to the level of a common farmhand. Footsteps approached, a hesitant clip of heels against flagstone. 

“I thought you would be out here,” Swanhilda said. “May I take a seat?” 

“Feel free. Don’t leave it long though, I’m sure that there are plenty of guests who sorely miss your company,” Franz replied, moving over to give her more room. 

“You exaggerate, I’m sure,” Swanhilda said, her attempt at nonchalance undermined by the nervous aversion of eyes. “There are plenty of other ladies who are much more popular than I am.” 

Franz smiled and settled back in his seat. Sweet, anxious Swanhilda. She was a vision in pink taffeta and golden curls, and by far the only pleasant justification that he could think of for heading back inside. But the idea that her company could be desirous seemed to be a concept that she had difficulty grasping. 

“Besides,” she continued, “if anyone’s company is being missed, I would think that your absence would be noticeable sooner than mine.” 

“Has Mother been making pointed comments?” 

Swanhilda stayed silent, but Franz could see a slight flush appear in the dim evening light. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, laughing. 

“You needn’t be so mean. Is it so unusual for the hostess to wonder where her son has gone?” she asked. 

She scolded him, but he could hear that she didn’t mean it, not really. 

“I’m sure she’ll be able to overcome the terrible damage that I have wrought to her reputation,” he said. “There’s only so much that a man can dance in one evening, and I’m afraid that I have reached that limit.” 

She looked over, a dubious look on her face. 

“Your first dance of the evening was with me, and I can’t remember seeing you in anything after that,” she said. 

He grinned. 

“Guilty as charged. Since you mention it though, I could muster the energy for whatever slots you have left empty on your dance-card this evening. Would you perhaps be interested?” 

It was a pity that the light was so dim, because he could imagine that right now her cheeks, already rosy under normal circumstances, would be a rather fetching shade of cerise. 

“You shouldn’t joke like that,” Swanhilda said, getting to her feet and taking a few nervous paces. 

“Very well put, Fräulein Offenbach.” 

Franz’s father only ever seemed to speak in quiet, clipped tones, but then he never needed raise his voice. Swanhilda’s spine was ramrod straight in an instant, and fanning herself as if she had merely stepped out to get some air. 

“May I borrow my son a moment, Fräulein? I need to speak to him in private,” his father continued. 

“Of course, Herr Christensen. I should return to my chaperone. Have a good evening, Franz,” Swanhilda said, averting her eyes. 

“Good evening, Swanhilda. I will see you later, and intend to claim that dance,” Franz said, keeping his easy smile in place. 

Swanhilda’s flush deepened and her step quickened as much as decorum allowed. They watched her walk away in silence, before his father gave a curt nod of the head towards the other door into the house, currently darkened. 

“To my study, boy. I would prefer that we discuss this in private before your mother gets wind of this,” Herr Christensen said. 

“Fine, make this quick.” 

Franz had never liked his father’s study. Whether it was a remnant from receiving punishment as a child, he couldn’t say, but there was something about the room that was oppressive. It was a spacious room, but you would never be able to tell from the plentiful dark wooden furniture that seemed to loom over its occupants. The light from the desk lamp never seemed to reach much beyond the dead centre of the room, revealing only a chiaroscuro of anyone standing within its reach and the merest hint of brass-accented curios on unseen shelves. 

“You shouldn’t raise her hopes like that,” Herr Christensen said, taking a seat at the desk. “It is unbecoming of you.” 

“I intend to live up to my promises to Swanhilda. I have no other obligations to prevent me,” Franz said, perching on the edge of the desk. 

His father’s lips thinned in disapproval, as Franz knew they would. It was perhaps unwise to rile his father up, but he couldn’t help himself at this point. 

“Honourable though your intentions may be, I must disagree. You can’t have forgotten Doctor Spallanzani’s daughter, surely?” Herr Christensen said. 

“Olympia? You must be joking. Wasn’t it you who told me that she was critically ill? ‘Unlikely to pull through’ were your exact words, if memory serves. I can hardly marry someone who has already expired.” 

“You needn’t be quite so crude.” 

“Even so, my point still stands.” 

“It would do, but it would appear that I was over-hasty in proclaiming the poor girl’s death. Her complete recovery takes on hues of the miraculous, if earlier information about her condition is still to be believed.” 

Franz found himself struggling for words. While he was under no obligation to agree to his father’s wishes, he knew that souring relations further could only spell disaster. 

“Fräulein Spallanzani will now be attending the functions of some mutual acquaintances,” Herr Christensen continued, sliding over a daguerreotype case, “where I will be expecting you to accept the good Doctor’s introduction and ingratiate yourself into the young lady’s affections.” 

Flipping open the case, Franz cast his eye over his intended bride. Dark hair pulled back from a long face, her eyes lowered demurely to hands folded over a small book and a sprig of what he identified as hemlock. 

“I will speak to her and assess her as a prospect. That much I can promise,” Franz said, snapping the case closed. 

Noting the deepening of his father’s frown, he continued, “Much as you are fixated on setting me up with your friend’s daughter, I don’t know her in the slightest. Much as you are set against the idea, Swanhilda is far from an unfavourable match. I should be a fool if I were to throw away a strong match in favour of a weak match based on sentiment.” 

Herr Christensen glared at him for a moment, before a humourless chuckle left his lips. 

“I was beginning to wonder what you had inherited from me. Fine. Assess the two to your heart’s content, but I shall expect a decision by the end of the season. Is that a satisfactory deadline?” 

“It will have to do.” 

Next Chapter: My Homeward Dove