#A Dance
Outside darkness was settling on the English countryside, but Lord Bostonburry's crowded and expansive ball hall was kept well-lit by crystal chandeliers. Clarke stood uneasily among his fellow gentlemen and officers, clad in an immaculate red dress uniform, his left side adorned in medals and a tassel gifted to him in China.
He felt profoundly out of place there, chafing at the opulence, indulgence and sin on display. How much food would go to waste, how many garments discarded or locked away, how much energy and money expended just so able men could spend their time idly, or at worse pursuits, while millions still lived in bondage and barbarity ruled large swathes of God's earth. One need not even leave Britain, merely visit the streets of London, Manchester, Leeds, any of Her Majesty's great centers of industry, to find squalor that should shame any idle man.
Yet there he stood, at the invitation, which he had taken as more of a command, from his superior officer. Did they still expect him to marry, was this an attempt to entice him? He had already suffered the jibes and goading of his peers that evening, their words jovial but their accusation clear; Clarke was a coward when it came to women. Of course he wasn't, it was a matter of chastity! Wasn't it? After internal deliberation he supposed a quick, chaste dance would not hurt if that's what it took to put the question to rest and give him some peace...
Gathering his breath he strode into action and marched across the room with the grim resolve of a man heading into battle. Not meeting their eyes, he approached a group of ladies. He stopped, a stride earlier than he should have, and bowed deeply and stiffly, extending an upturned hand. "Madams" he trembled slightly, holding the stiff pose with his eyes set on the floor "a dance?"
