Miss Wilton's Waltz

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “You there.”

  She ran, her thin black coat billowing out behind her like a cape and her heart nearly beating out of her chest. Her foot was on the bottom step when her coat was caught from behind. She swallowed the scream that shot up her throat, aware even in her panic that her voice would give away her secret. Even her ability to scream was quickly quashed, however, when she hit the ground, every bit of air pushed out of her lungs, leaving her gasping. She had never thought to bind her chest when she went out at night, never expected anyone to get close enough to notice. She could see nothing through the darkness surrounding her except the pinpricks of light popping in her peripheral vision.

  The severity of her situation weighed on her as she realized how vulnerable she was, how badly this could end. She tried to think of what Cassie would do, but panic overwhelmed the clarity she so desperately needed.

  The man leaned down, grabbed her collar, and lifted her to her feet. She pulled free, but the man stood between her and the stairs. She rounded her shoulders forward to hide her chest and reached up to pull her cap down over her forehead. Her hand touched hair; the cap was gone.

  “I didn’t mean to pull you off your feet. What are you doing here so late?” the voice asked her, low and gruff.

  She’d only heard one voice, which meant he was alone. Not that she felt much relief. She finally took a full breath, then lowered her voice to answer. “Walkin’.” She must have lost the cap when he pulled her to the ground. Had she truly been pulled to the ground? Had he noticed the plait pinned at the back of her head? This was bad. Very, very bad.

  She stepped away from him, glancing at the stairs that she now had a clear path to; they were only four or five feet away. Could she make another run and be successful this time? He took a large step to the side, matching her positioning and blocking her view of the stairs. He folded his arms over his chest, making him even more imposing. She did not look up.

  “On the river at midnight? What’s your name?”

  “Christopher,” she grumbled, giving her brother’s name as though she had planned it, as though she had done anything like this in her life.

  “Do your parents know you are out? How old are you?”

  She tried to step around him. “Gotta get home.”

  The man stepped to block her a second time. Lenora couldn’t lower her chin any further without exposing the plait pinned at the back of her head. She still hoped the dark night would conceal her. The man took her chin in one hand and raised her face toward his.

  She saw longish dark hair free of a hat, dark eyes, and a square jaw peppered with a day’s growth of beard. The cut of his coat testified that he was gentry, but his class only gave her mild relief. He might not be as prone to hurting or robbing her as some ruffian might, but he could ruin her reputation if he realized who she was. She could see the question in his eyes; he knew something was not right. Her instinct to get away took hold. She’d watched her brothers squabble in the yard for years—one could learn a great deal through observation.

  She only had one chance. Fast and sure, she leaned into him rather than pulling back, throwing him off balance just enough to allow her to bring her knee up and then jab the heel of her boot onto the top of his foot as hard as she could. At the same time, she pushed both hands against his shoulders. He hadn’t been expecting the attack and crumpled to the side.

  Lenora took the stairs three at a time, mentally chanting Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip! If she fell, he would be waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs and the life she’d built here would be destroyed. She could feel her plait pull loose from the pins, bouncing on her back as she ran. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, didn’t dare risk losing her focus.

  She jumped over the crumbling top step, then leaped onto the top of the wall, but lost her balance and fell on the other side. She scrambled to her feet, hearing pounding on the steps behind her and a voice though the words were lost in the pulsing heartbeat sounding in her ears. She skirted the crates and ran through the alleyway. She had never run so hard in her life and was unsure how long she could sustain it. Her lungs were bursting, struggling to draw a full breath.

  To Milsom Street—turn right, she told herself. She heard a voice curse behind her. She rounded the corner on Milsom Street and nearly collided with a group of men. She spun around one of them, whipping him with her plait in the process.

  “A chit!” he called.

  She put her head down as hot tears rose to her eyes. She had never been so terrified in her life, and the terror kept her moving forward. She heard footsteps behind her and headed into a park, through trees, around the pond. There was a fence along the back, surely there was a gate somewhere close . . . there—

  She darted through it, and then ducked behind the next shop she passed. She collapsed in the shadows, a hand over her mouth to try to hide the sound of sucking for breath. Her hands shook, and her brain felt like mush. What had she done? She pulled further into the shadows, listening for footsteps but unable to hear anything over the pounding pulse in her ears.

  He didn’t catch me, she tried to reassure herself. But what if he had? She imagined being pulled to her feet, being identified and—what? Taken to the constable? Forced to beg for release? It seemed more likely that she would die on the spot, her heart giving out completely.

  How could she have ever felt safe playing such a stupid game? She was twenty-six years old, respectable, well-bred. She was a teacher for heaven’s sake, and the daughter of a vicar raised to always choose the proper course in any situation. If she were caught, it was nothing less than what she deserved.

  She didn’t know how long she crouched in the corner like a child—half an hour, perhaps longer. No one passed her hiding place, but it still took several minutes before she could gather enough courage to stand. She had to get back to Aunt Gwen’s house before the panic she felt exploded out of her chest and left her to bleed to death in this alley.

  She tucked her plait into the back of the coat and turned up the collar to conceal it as best she could. She headed toward the street, pausing between each tentative step to listen closely. She was on the north end of Milsom Street. If she could reach Quiet Street, she could cut across to Queen Square, then follow it up to Gay Street. Ten minutes. Fifteen at most, and then she would be safe in her room.

  She reached the edge of the shadows; she heard nothing other than the expected night sounds. She took a step, cautious and ready to run if anyone confronted her. No one was there. She took another step into the darkness, looked both ways, and headed for the nearest corner.

  She walked as fast as she could without running, afraid it would make her too conspicuous or that she’d collapse in the street from the exertion or that her plait would come loose again. When she heard the laughter of a group of men coming the other direction, she entered an alley and went around a row of shops. Her heart nearly stopped when a cat leaped across her path.

  Soon enough she was on Gay Street—Aunt Gwen’s house in view—and she felt as though she could finally draw a full breath. She went through the gate and took hold of the metal trellis with shaky hands, all the time half-expecting the pipe-smoking man to step out of the shadows.

  Had she truly gotten away from him? Was he terribly hurt? She closed her eyes, stunned that she had acted so quickly, disgusted with herself for having possibly hurt him, and yet a tiny bit impressed that she’d gotten away. She—Lenora Wilton, who had hid behind a pianoforte most of her life—had bested a grown man. She shook her head, refusing to take any pride in the actions of the night.

  She slid through the bedroom window and closed it quietly behind her. Only then did she allow her knees to give out. She huddled on the floor and cried with fear and relief. You’re safe, she told herself. But she didn’t feel safe. She felt vulnerable and foolish. Tomorrow was the first day of the new term. She would take her trunk back to
Mrs. Henry’s Female Institute on Chilton Road in the morning and stand before the young women she was charged to serve as an example for. There was the parents’ tea tomorrow afternoon. Would she still be shaking when she had to make polite conversation with the parents who were responsible for her salary and believed she lived a life above reproach? What would they say if they knew? How would she get through it?

  She wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes, trying to calm herself and ironically wishing the river were there to help her.

  Lenora slept—praise the heavens. When Dorothea woke her at eight o’clock, Lenora sat up, rubbed her eyes, and told herself that everything that had happened the night before had been a dream. The memory caused her heart to race, however, and she knew she’d never succeed in talking herself out of what had happened.

  Daylight restored some of her security. She hadn’t been found out. She hadn’t been hurt. The night had been dark, the man who’d blocked her path was a stranger and, since she would never go out at night again, she had no fear of encountering him or the other men on the street she had bumped into ever again. She’d learned a powerful lesson—she would not waste the education.

  When she arrived at the school, the houseman took her trunk up to the room she’d be sharing with another teacher on the third level. The evening dresses, opera gown, pearls, and headpieces Aunt Gwen had deemed absolutely necessary stayed at the terrace house awaiting Lenora’s weekend visits. Her serviceable day dresses, practical shoes, and reading glasses would remain at the school with her music and her students.

  Lenora went straight from the foyer to the music room, which served as both classroom and recital hall. The term schedule was on her desk, and she was relieved to see that her advanced classes were first and the Introduction to Music class was at the end of the afternoon.

  Mrs. Henry’s institute was a modest school, without fine furnishings or highly-pedigreed students, but it offered a solid education in those subjects necessary for young women preparing to enter society. Lenora was fortunate to have this position, and after last night’s escapade, she was more determined than ever to be worthy of Mrs. Henry’s trust in having hired her. She’d had no experience and stammered through the first interview, but Mrs. Henry had been impressed by Lenora’s musical ability and was willing to take a chance.

  Lenora spent fifteen minutes setting out her music sheets, arranging the chairs, and trying not to think about last night, which of course meant she thought about little else. The feeling of hitting the ground. The way her ribs and shoulder ached today. What if her head had struck a rock? What if the man had noticed she was a woman when he’d pulled her to her feet? What if he’d kissed her like some debaucherously wicked hero in a Gothic novel? That thought made her cheeks flush with heat. Where had such a thought come from?

  Her cheeks had barely started to cool when someone entered the room a few minutes before her first class was to start. Summoning what she hoped looked like an authentic smile, she turned and felt the smile soften quite naturally.

  “Emmeline,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her and allowing the girl to make her way across the room.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Wilton,” Emmeline said, holding out a box as she curtsied slightly. “My mother asked me to give you these caramels as a back-to-school gift.”

  The day was off to an excellent start, and Lenora pushed last night further to the deepest corner of her mind. And her father may have been right about reading novels—something she’d only taken up after coming to Bath. Apparently, they did fill her mind with wicked, horrible thoughts. If only she could blame the river walks on the stories, but she’d started them long before she’d ever pulled the first novel from Aunt Gwen’s collection.

  Performance Level Three was delightful. All four students were returning ones and had kept up their practice during their summer holiday. In addition to Emmeline’s caramels, Regina’s mother had sent a length of Italian lace, a luxurious item Lenora was humbled to receive. She planned to use it on a dress she kept at Aunt Gwen’s.

  The level two class had two new students, one of whom played the flute, bringing the total of that class to six. Lenora had never taught such a large class that relied primarily on instrument work. There were only three pianofortes, so she’d have to come up with the best way to give each girl the attention and practice time she needed. She’d had flute students in the past, however, so she felt confident she could make it work.

  Advanced Music was made up of five students who had experience with either the pianoforte or singing and who wanted to improve their skills to performance level. This was an optional class, which meant each girl wanted to be here. Lenora reviewed what the girls could expect during the term and explained when they would have access to the music room for practice. Each class had an allotted hour each day through which the girls would rotate. Four hours on Saturday were open to any of the girls so long as they signed up in advance. Lenora would also be available on Monday and Wednesday afternoons for additional tutoring in half-hour sessions, as needed.

  The girls were attentive, and one of them stayed after to tell Lenora that she had come to Mrs. Henry’s school specifically because of the music program, which she had heard of from her cousin who was currently one of Lenora’s level-three students. Lenora was beyond pleased at such a compliment, and she told the girl how excited she was to have her as a student.

  The day had gone so smoothly that Lenora had forgotten to be anxious about the introductory class, and she was able to welcome the new girls quite naturally as they came in. All twelve of them were first-time students at the school and ranged in age from twelve to fourteen.

  It was a large class, but Lenora knew a few of the girls would be respectful, shy away from trouble, and try to do their best—girls who would rather go unnoticed than cause the least bit of discomfort to anyone. Lenora related best to that type since she had much the same temperament. Then there would be a group of girls who were looking to be led. And then there would be the third group: the leaders who the first group would respect but avoid, and who the second group would follow. Lenora had seen any number of confident, kind, and determined girls take on the role of leader.

  But not every natural leader was on her side, and within two minutes of orientation, Lenora knew Catherine Manch was going to be the type of leader Lenora dreaded. At twelve years old, she was one of the youngest girls in the class, but she was outspokenly defiant.

  Miss Manch kept turning around to face the other students instead of Lenora. All eyes went to her as though the girls could not help themselves. They laughed at her interruptions and comments, and Lenora had started to sweat by the time she finished introducing herself and her musical experience. She moved on to talk about what the girls could expect from the class, fearing that last night’s horrible encounter had left her more sensitive to this student’s behavior than she would have been otherwise.

  Lenora focused on keeping her voice steady and maintained a level louder than normal in hopes of keeping the students focused on her. “By the end of this week, you will know your solfège for pitch and sight reading—”

  “And then you shall reward us with sweets?” Miss Manch interrupted, her eyebrows high on her forehead as she looked at Lenora with doe-eyed interest. She was a pretty girl with curly brown hair, hazel eyes that reflected a keen mind, and a slender build since her body had not yet transitioned into a woman’s shape. “I prefer orange custard to raspberry and chocolate biscuits to shortbread. I detest treacle.” She said the last with a dramatic flourish of her hand and a scowl that made some of the other girls laugh.

  Lenora smiled tightly but could feel her anxiety increasing. I’m just shaken from last night. Everything seems worse than it really is. She chose to ignore the interruption in hopes that by not responding, she would not play into the antics. “And then we shall continue learning the notes of the staff. My goal by th
e end of the first month is that you know your notes and where to find them both on a written measure and on the pianoforte. Then we shall—”

  “Dance a jig and parade through the Circus?” The same innocent expression reflected back to Lenora. The followers tittered; the quiet girls had wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

  “I would ask that you please not interrupt, Miss Manch,” Lenora said with what she hoped was the right balance of authority and patience, though she could feel a flush creeping up her neck. “Once we get through my introduction, I will teach each of you how to play the single hand of a little ditty called—”

  Miss Manch stood. “Oh, I can play already. Both hands.”

  Lenora’s smile tightened, but she kept it in place. Of course, the girl could play. Why else would she be taking the most basic music class geared for girls without any musical education? “No interruptions, please. Sit down, Miss Manch.”

  Miss Manch did not sit. Instead, she gave Lenora a challenging look, turned sharply, and moved toward one of three pianofortes, sitting down at the center instrument.

  Lenora moved toward her, wondering if she should send for Mrs. Henry to help get this girl in line. She’d had to do that on one occasion during her first year. Be strong. You are the teacher.

  “Students are not allowed on the instruments without permission and orientation, Miss Manch.”

  Catherine sat up straight, put her fingers on the keys, and began playing Greensleeves. Lenora stopped halfway across the room in surprise. The other girls in the room were as stunned as she was. Even in their ignorance, they could tell a proficient hand when they heard one. Why on earth was Catherine Manch taking an introductory course if she could already play?