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I endeavour, Gentlemen, to always hit the mark in everything, whether it be sinking a French warship or leading a lady in the conventions of the dance floor at We Make History’s Pride & Prejudice Ball.

Adapted from the Journal of Lt. Christopher Francis of the H.M.S. Victory

Illustration by Lady Joy!

An odd lot, those Americans, our host observes.

They are enraptured with the upcoming election of ’08. Indeed, they have much to occupy their thoughts. Many speak of the response, or lack of such, to a great war an ocean away. Many grumble of the wounded and faltering economy brought about by the policies of the congress and chief executive.

The speculation is, then, who shall replace Jefferson?

We subjects of George III concern ourselves with greater dilemmas as presented ungraciously to us by that knave Napoleon who, to our amusement, still considers himself an emperor. Our duty is to drive him from those lands in his grip. The Portuguese require our assistance as of late, which leads to a moment of clarification.

“With that uniform, I would say you are close fit for a Portuguese.”

“I think myself British,” I correct with graciousness, wondering if the red, white and blue cockade on my bicorn is not large enough.

* * *

When the call comes for the procession, I find myself in a curious position. Usually one or more ladies are left isolated, odd, and without accompaniment as couples line up for the grand march. This time, however, I find myself the odd fellow, wandering about in search of a lone lady. The gentlemen, to be sure, are doing their duties as instructed and letting no lady walk alone. As I survey the hall, one does not need intricate explanation to deduce the reason. The men are dressed in a stylish black this evening, rejecting those flamboyant colors of the aristocracy for something of pleasing simplicity.

As my hope of finding a lady depletes, I find her. She too is wandering about, headed perhaps to the other side of the hall. Perhaps we shared the same thoughts before I bow to her, and we join hands.

I am a First Mate in the Royal Navy, I respond when she prompts me about my uniform. “I serve my country and my king.”

“And who is king?” she asks.

I regret to inform you, dearest readers, that this is where the reach of my mind overextends itself, as if it were sailing into a deep fog.

“I have been a long time at sea,” I volunteer. “I am not quite sure if it is a king or a queen. But I shall serve him or her!”

We step lively to the pianoforte and strings, greeting each other as the parade of couples separates and reforms into a long and weaving line of joined hands. We are warmed up for a set dance, but our host ventures something different.

A great number of newcomers fill out the ballroom, ladies and gentlemen with a great desire for social grace and the joy of dance but unsure of how to achieve it. The objective, therefore, is not to overwhelm but to gently lead them in, just as the gracious gentleman takes a lady by the hand and escorts her on to the floor.

The host introduces a tune named “I Care Not For These Ladies,” evoking the story of a man who once stood stupidly about instead of partaking in the revelry surrounding him.

We shall not make that mistake. Our host leads us through the basic figures: slipping to the right and then the left, setting to our partners and turning in place, turning by the right and left hands, and siding left and right. Elegance and simplicity will go hand in hand this evening in many ways.

I can comfortably gather my lady is unsure of some steps. The setting confuses her at first, as it does for several. The host and his lady demonstrate it beautifully, and the others quickly follow their lead. Having danced this dance before, I know it is customary to change partners as the tune progresses, but our host prefers us to spend more time dancing with a familiar partner. We do indeed care for our ladies… and gentlemen, too!

Such is evident during the first longways set dance. If our newcomers have seen the style, they are not familiar with the concepts of progression, or standing out one iteration of the dance when reaching the end of the set.

Again, our host graciously simplifies some figures. “We’ll skip this section.”

Still, some confusion arises as couples at the ends of the set attempt to dance and find themselves isolated or isolating others.

“I’m sorry ladies,” he apologizes to our trio of musicians, “but I have to stop you again.” He is determined, and so are we.

“We’ll get this right,” I say softly to the ladies and gentlemen around me. “We cannot fail.”

After thrice a false start, we are off and dancing, leading our partners between the other couples and casting off to the next position in the set. Not one to let anybody forget, our host steadily calls the figures. My lady, a different partner now, weave our way from the very top of the set to the bottom, a job well done.

“Thank you for a wonderful dance,” I say to her, bowing low and removing my bicorn.

* * *

I later notice a young lady in a puffy, light blue gown that was the height of fashion a few decades ago. Obviously the latest styles have yet to extend to some parts of the world, but her innocent charm infects me.

“Are you seeking a partner for a dance?” I ask her with a bow.

Her eyebrows rise in shock. “Me?”

“Yes,” I answer with a smile, and we join in a joyous round of “The Doubtful Shepherd,” that dance characterized by the ladies and gentlemen in sets of six circling about each other, and on this occasion, other sets. Our ladies would dash off to another set of gentlemen at the caller’s command, and we would have to seek them out like lost sheep at our host’s command. The young one is quite versed in lively dancing and her smile never leaves her face.

* * *

The gentlemen stand at attention, lined up by the Sergeant of His Majesty’s armed forces.

“About face!” our host commands.

Some turn in the proper direction to face the crowd of snickering ladies. Many do not. It is a comically frustrating moment.

“Turn back around,” he mutters in exaggerated disappointment, withholding his amusement. Just as with the first set dance, he will not be satisfied until everyone gets it right.

“About face!”

After three or four attempts, he is relieved.

“Fix bayonets!”

We feign the motion, showing our readiness for battle to the fair ones.

“Show them your game face!”

A pause. A few snickers.

“I mean your game face, not your Lucky Charms face!” (a reference to alleged leprechauns among us - shirt statured, wide-grinning fellows with their suspicious chucklings)

Finally, the order.

“Charge!”

The battle-hardened burst from the line and dive into the pair of assorted ladies’ shoes, freshly removed from one foot. The emerge holding their prizes in the air, seeking their Cinderella for the next dance: “Well Hall.”

If I should ever happen to give advice as a dancing master, which I freely admit I am not, I would tell each student of the joyous art to never neglect the power of peering into your dancing companion’s eyes. They are indeed the window into the soul, and the ladies or gentlemen who do not labour to submit to the spirit of the dance deny the totality of peace and happiness that await them.

So I fix my gaze upon my lady as we cross back and forth several times in the set. I beg her in my heart to not avert her eyes from my countenance, but she is attentive to the steps she is making. Perchance she wants to avoid a humourous blush, and I will not fault her for that. But oh, how I wish she would join eyes with me more often when we cross each other’s paths in courtly fashion!

* * *

“What shall I give you now?” our host ponders, peering over the list of possible dances and the allotted time. “Christ Church’s Bells?”

“Aye!” I shout.

“Come, Let’s Be Merry?”

“Aye!”

“The Fields Of Frost And Snow?”

“Aye!”

“Rufty Tufty?”

“Aye!”

“Duke Of Kent’s Waltz?”

“Aye!”

He smiles. “The gentleman wants it all.”

“I shall not be satisfied with less!” I cry.

I approach two ladies in beautiful gowns of the latest style, hoping to take one as a partner. But they have already partnered up.

“Oh go ahead,” one says to the other.

“I do not want to interfere,” I add, hoping I would not be inconveniencing anyone. So she graciously accepts my invitation to dance, and we engage in “Christ Church’s Bells.”

“This is one of my favorites,” I tell her. I do not think she is familiar with it, but we learn as we turn, clapping hands and then clapping each others hands to the rhythm before casting off. She is a quick study and fleet of foot. She also realizes the value of eye contact.

“A fine dancer,” I say to her friend when I escort her back to the lady that accompanied her earlier. “Thank you for indulging me,” I add with a bow.

* * *

“You have three options,” I say to five ladies and gentlemen surrounding me. “Like this…”

I walk up the center of the set, one hand in the air with an imaginary lady, demonstrating a graceful, inwards-and-outwards waltzing step.

“Or this…”

I demonstrate a hesitation chasse, joining both hands with the virtual lady and slipping up the set.

“Or if you’re really adventurous…”

I show a spiraling waltz, twirling around with my lady of air to the top of the set.

The dance is another favorite of mine, “Come Let’s Be Merry.”

Another veteran dancer accompanies me in the set, and with the help of our gracious caller, we learn the dance nearly instantly: turning gracefully, casting down and leading up in three-quarter time.

But something is quite odd. Only the first and third couples are progressing to the top to be head couple. What about myself and my lady? Will we ever get to go through the motions?

I quickly realize we have skipped a figure somewhere.

“Do not worry,” I tell the others. “We shall fix this.”

We soon find the missing element: a cast-off to the center of the set necessary to complete the progression. All is proper and we dance on, enjoying the time like nothing had ever gone wrong. Perfection is our mission, but patience our tonic. Both are in abundance this evening.

* * *

I share one last waltz with another beautiful lady. As has been the rule this evening, I venture only a simple two-step. No boxes or anything fancier than she would be comfortable with, other than the occasional twirl. I can tell she is a bit uncertain.

She is looking about. But my eyes remain fixed on her.

Could I be a burden to her? Is my dancing that monotonous?

Will I ever stop worrying about this?

* * *

I wait for my companions outside a local inn.

“The British are coming!” shouts a man from a modern-day carriage.

“They’re already here!” I reply.

For those who insist on more pictures to accompany the words, kindly click here.

This was my 25th Ball with We Make History in Arizona! Thank you, everyone, for 25 unforgettable nights of happiness. When I first stepped into the historic ballroom, I had no inkling of how much my life was about to be transformed. All time now is measured as time between balls, and all of you who have shared a dance with me have helped to make that happen... especially the ladies. God Bless All Of You! Never stop dancing!