by Ruby Moone
Dances Long Forgotten
Ruby Moone
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Keep in Touch.
Chapter 1
December 2014
It had been a good idea to open the Abbey on Christmas Eve. Loads of visitors had arrived, given the crisp, bright winter’s day, and plenty of them had eaten lunch in the café and bought last minute gifts in the shop. All in all, a good day for Winsford Abbey.
As the building fell silent, James Pell-Charnley, fifteenth Marquess of Winsford, walked through the chilly corridors of his old, stately pile. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor of the massive hallway as he headed for the library. The visitors were long gone, the cleaners too, leaving a soft, lingering scent of beeswax and lemon on the wood that settled gently into the old-world smell of a three-hundred-year-old house. The staff were gone too, only the security people remained, except for his second in command, Dylan Lewis.
His chest warmed at the thought. Dylan would be in the library. It was where he always went after the house closed. They’d worked together almost two years now. Dylan had asked him out on a date, well over a year ago, and James had gently turned him down. They’d never mentioned it since, even though James regretted it every day because, somewhere along the line, he’d quietly, but completely, fallen in love with him.
He needed to get everything shut down. It was late, and he had a Christmas party to go to. He ran a hand through his hair. Christ, he hated parties.
He pushed open the heavy, wood panelled door into the library. It was warmest in there, thanks to the fire that always burned. It was also James’ favourite part of the old house and not open to the public. It looked even more inviting with Dylan in it.
He stood by the fireplace, tall, lanky even. A shock of dark curls and eyes of a curious greenish grey made him look as though he belonged in the white linen shirts and cravats of his relatives from years ago. He glanced at the portrait above the fire and smiled. He’d have suited the styles of the Regency years. He looked more than a little Byronic.
“What are you grinning at?” Dylan turned and put his hands on his hips. He was grinning in response.
“Just thinking you’d have suited the Regency style.”
Dylan rolled his eyes and cast a glance at the portrait of two young men James was looking at.
“Handsome devils, weren’t they.”
“Indeed.”
They looked at each other and smiled. The look lingered. They did that more and more these days. James cleared his throat and glanced at the floor.
“You should get off. I’m sure you’ve parties to go to.”
Dylan shoved his hands in the pockets of his black skinny jeans. “Nah. No parties.”
James wanted to ask him to go to the party with him. But he didn’t. “Hot date?” The words tasted awful.
Dylan looked at him. His gaze lingered on James’ mouth making his heartbeat pick up and his mouth dry. He hated it when Dylan dated.
“Nope.” He pursed his lips and looked away.
It was torture.
“You going somewhere?”
James sighed and nodded with a grimace. “Yeah. Supposed to be.”
“S’pose we’d best go then.”
They stood still. Firelight danced and sent flickering shadows around the room. James wondered what Dylan would look like if he turned the lights off and only the dancing firelight played across his face.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. We should.”
He turned to go, trying to ignore the familiar dull ache in his chest, when Dylan spoke.
“Wait.”
James paused, and turned to face him. He looked awfully serious. He swallowed and waited.
“I think…” He hesitated and fidgeted. “I think…”
A tiny flicker of hope fluttered somewhere in James.
“You think what?”
Dylan nodded and licked his lips. “I think I need to give you my notice.”
James stood stock still as the flutter evaporated, trying not to let show the fact that his entire world was crumbling around him.
“You want to leave?” Was his voice hoarse? Probably.
“I think I should.”
It felt like someone had a hold on his throat. It hurt to breathe. Speaking seemed like an impossible task. James nodded. It was all he could do. He needed to get away before the pressure behind his eyes and nose gave way.
“Okay.” It came out as a croak.
“James…” Dylan took a step forward, then stopped and tilted his head. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” James managed. He turned away and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to compose himself. What would he do? What would he do without him? It was unthinkable.
“Music. I can hear music.”
James looked back. Dylan was frowning and looking around as though expecting to see something. It gave James something to focus on.
Dylan pulled out his phone and put it back. “Not me.”
James did the same and shook his head.
Dylan tilted his head the other way. “I can definitely hear something. It sounds like violins.” He paused and smiled tentatively. “It’s a waltz.”
James stared at him. Surely not. He couldn’t know. He was the only one who knew.
“A…waltz?” His words were high-pitched. He couldn’t help it.
Dylan looked at him. “What?” His green-grey eyes were serious. “Don’t you hear it?”
James listened, and his legs almost buckled when the soft strains reached his ears. “Oh, my God.” He stood in the middle of the library and turned around and around, listening. Was it true?
He stopped and smiled at Dylan. “Can you waltz?”
Dylan shook his head, puzzled. “After a fashion.”
James held out both arms, and with only a small hesitation, and a wary look, Dylan walked into them. After a few false starts, and an extremely tentative hold, they were twirling around the room as the music got louder and louder and they moved closer and closer.
James screwed up his eyes and held Dylan as tightly as he dared. As the music faded, he struggled to get himself together.
“What? What is it?” Dylan stayed within the circle of his arms, tilted his head, and tried to make James look at him.
James cleared his throat and attempted a smile. “There’s a legend in my family.”
Dylan nodded. He still held James’ hand and one thumb stroked gently over the back of it as he waited.
“And a story attached to it that was never written down, never discussed, except with selected members of the family.”
“Like a secret?”
“A massive secret. Or it was then.” James reached out to touch Dylan’s cheek but pulled his hand away before it made contact. It was now or never. It really was.
“If you’ll sit with me, I’ll tell it to you. Maybe when you’ve heard it, you can decide then if you truly want to leave.”
Dylan hesitated, but then tugged at his hand and they sat side by side on the soft sofa in front of the fire. A huge Christmas tree stood beside it complete with twinkling lights and an angel. James hesitated, then got up and turned off the lights. Outside the huge window, snow was starting to fall. He paused, closed his eyes for a moment, then went and settled beside Dylan. He was as beautiful as h
e’d imagined him in the firelight. If not more.
“Well. Back in 1814, the youngest son of the family was… Well, he was gay.”
Dylan grimaced. “Not a good time to be gay.”
“Not at all. That’s why it’s all secret. The story is only ever told to a member of the family who will understand. Someone who can be trusted with it.”
Dylan blinked. “So, someone shared it with you?”
James nodded. “My uncle.”
“And you never told your father?”
James shook his head. He moved closer so their arms were touching. “It always starts with someone who hears the music in the library. Those who hear the waltz playing when the house is quiet.”
Dylan gave him a wary grin. “Like we just did? Are you…are you saying it was a ghost playing that music?”
James shrugged. “Like we just did. As for a ghost, who knows. Do you want to hear the legend? It’s a long story.”
“I do.” Dylan settled a little closer. “I really do.”
“Well, it started right before Christmas in 1814. The waltz had only been around for a couple of years and wasn’t much danced outside of London. My ancestor, Lord Hugo Pell-Charnley was twenty-five years old, the youngest of the family, and frankly, in a bit of a mess…”
Chapter 2
December 1814
Lord Hugo Moreton Pell-Charnley peered out of the carriage window as he approached Winsford Abbey, his Hertfordshire family home. The vehicle swayed on the uneven road, and Hugo let his head languish on the squabs as he pulled a blanket around him. He felt numbed by the cold, but knew that once he arrived, the dreadful, nauseating worry would set up immediately.
He could see the house in the distance. Imposing red brick bathed in the winter sunset, nestled in the countryside like it had always been there. Belonged there. He used to think he belonged there.
He closed his eyes. His family would be as welcoming as ever. As the youngest son of the Marquis of Winsford, he’d been coddled and adored all his life. Being some twenty years younger than his eldest brother, Simon, and thirteen years younger than his youngest brother, Vincent, he’d always been the baby. As a child, he’d longed for siblings his own age, someone to play with, but none had arrived. He’d thought boarding school might have afforded him the friendship and companionship he’d craved. He shuddered at the memory of how wrong he’d been.
Still, he’d always been loved by his older siblings, particularly after his parents died. He’d been seven and Simon, now Winsford, and his eldest sister Jocelyn had stepped in and done their best to guide him to adulthood.
As the house grew closer, his chest hurt more at the thought of all the love and care that had been lavished on him. He should have been a better brother; a better person.
He never visited enough, never corresponded enough. He’d slipped into a life in London that his elder brother financed, whilst he made up his mind what kind of career to follow.
And hid who he really was.
Although they all loved him, they’d all stigmatised him as flighty, with windmills in his head from an early age, but had, nonetheless, indulged him. It was a lowering thought to realise that they’d been right all along.
As the carriage drew close to the driveway, he closed his eyes and breathed in. For a moment, he wondered yet again about telling the driver to turn around so he could spare Winsford. Face up to the mess he was in and take the only other option. It wasn’t only the terrible thought of leaving his family weeping by his graveside that made him hold fast. Rather that removing himself from the centre of the scandal would not spare his family. Far from it. Better to abase himself and allow his eldest brother to see what a complete mull he’d made of his life than to shatter the bubble the rest of his brothers and sisters had placed him in.
The carriage made the turn and headed down the drive. Hugo could see that he wasn’t the only one arriving. He’d hoped to get to the house early enough to avoid the hustle and bustle of the guests, but he’d managed to miscalculate that too. Several carriages stood about near the entrance, so he tapped on the roof with his cane, pulled down the window and stuck his head out, grimacing at the cold.
“Head for the stables, Clarke.”
“M’Lord.”
The driver changed course, but before long they were blocked by another carriage.
Hugo grit his teeth and as the carriage stopped, he opened the door.
“Take the horses in and make sure they don’t get chilled. I’ll walk to the door.”
Clarke protested, but he waved his concern away. His boots crunched on the gravel, and as he looked over at the person causing the blockage, his heart sank. He recognised that crest. God’s elbows, this was going to be worse than he imagined.
He paused as a commotion set up. He wasn’t surprised. Lord Harry Lockford had been a vile boy at boarding school, and from what Hugo had seen in London, he’d turned into an even worse man. He hesitated as he heard Lockford shouting, tried to ignore it, but when he grabbed a small servant beside him by his shirt front and proceeded to shake him like a dog might a rat, and throw him against the wall, Hugo couldn’t stand by.
“What ho! Lockford. How are you?” He raised a hand and loped towards the man. Distraction had always worked better than confrontation with Lockford, plus, he was six inches taller and a good deal heavier than Hugo. He was outrageously handsome with a head of chestnut curls and penetrating blue eyes. Shame his mouth was twisted in a perpetual sneer. The years hadn’t been kind either, Hugo noted when he spotted the strain on Lockford’s waistcoat.
He frowned a moment, and then an unpleasant smile spread over that sneering mouth.
“Pell-Charnley,” he said, completely foregoing Hugo’s title, and the nasty smile spread. “Pell Smell! How in God’s name are you?”
Hugo cringed inwardly at the hated school nickname but kept the smile on his face. At least Lockford had stopped shaking his servant. The man seemed to have taken a serious knock and was leaning against the wall, holding the back of his head.
“Clarke,” he called. His own servant was scowling. “Clarke, would you assist Lord Lockford’s man and get his luggage arranged?”
“I need more than luggage arranged, I need a damned new wheel!” Lockford said, the volume of his voice raising as he glared at his servant.
“Clarke will see to it. Have no fear. We have an excellent blacksmith in the town.”
Lockford frowned.
“Winsford Green. You must have travelled through it on the way here?”
Lockford grunted and looked for a moment as if he would continue berating the servant, so Hugo held out an arm to gently guide him away from the fracas he’d created. “You must tell me all. What have you been doing? It’s an age since I’ve seen you.”
He walked as he spoke, knowing of old there was little point in calling Lockford on his actions. The man had no manners, or indeed any finer sensibilities. Lockford grinned and took his arm to walk to the house. Hugo shuddered inside but kept the smile on his face and guided the brute to the door where more of the staff waited to greet the guests. He cast a glance over his shoulder and saw Clarke helping the servant. He was a small man, slight and neat as a pin. Clearly older than Lockford, but that wouldn’t matter. The man was a boor. A bully. Hugo had scars that attested to that. He managed to send Clarke a pointed look that he seemed to understand.
He handed Lockford into the capable hands of the staff and shook himself down. The interlude had been almost welcome. It briefly took his mind off what was to come, but now that he stood and looked at the edifice of his ancestral home, awful in its grandeur yet so warm and welcoming, he had to return to the task in hand. He’d be greeted like the prodigal son, but the knowledge that in reality he deserved to be cast out like the worst sinner sat like lead in his stomach.
He nodded to the footman and jogged up the steps to the grand entrance and wondered if gossip had spread. Servants knew everything about the lives of their masters,
so it wouldn’t surprise him a jot. The thought that everyone knew his business made him feel queasy. At the door, the family butler, Waring, bowed.
“Lord Hugo.”
“Waring. Good to see you.” Waiting footmen divested him of his caped great coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and he ran his fingers through his hair, no doubt disturbing the work his valet had put in to rendering his too short, wayward red mop into some kind of fashionable order. The pomade he used made his fingers feel sticky, so he hurriedly wiped them on his handkerchief and shoved it back in his pocket.
“Your room is ready, Lord Hugo.”
“Thank you, Waring. I think I’ll retire there a little before seeing everyone.”
No sooner had he spoke than his eldest sister, Jocelyn, came into the hallway.
“Hugo, darling? You’re here. I thought I heard your voice.”
He gave her what he hoped was a bright smile. “Jossy, how wonderful to see you.”
She came over, eyes bright with pleasure, arms outstretched, and took both his hands. “I cannot begin to tell you how delighted I am that you could join us. It’s been far too long since you were with us for Christmas.” Her welcoming smile almost undid him.
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. Of all his sisters, Jocelyn bore the strongest resemblance to their mother. She had her dark hair peeping out from her lace cap, hazel eyes, and petite stature. It always hurt him to remember his mother. She was almost as distant and shadowy a figure as his father and both had died when he was far too young to lose one parent, never mind two.
He smiled as she chatted away, drawing him with her. It was strange. He loved Jossy and his elder brother Simon, nay, Winsford, with all his heart, yet he’d resisted every attempt to bring him into line. Most of his early years had been spent dreaming of getting away from the strictures they imposed on him. Frequently stigmatising both as stick in the mud, unable to understand the modern world, and if he had a shilling for every time he’d told them they couldn’t control him, that they were not his parents, he’d be a wealthy man.
