“No, not only on Sabbath,” Uncle Ramsay said. “Dancing is not allowed here in general.”
Alec stared at the man, certain he must have misheard. “I don’t understand.”
Aurora gave a tentative smile. “You must be teasing, Uncle. For you know Alec is a dancing master.”
Uncle Ramsay’s mouth fell ajar, apparently thunderstruck. “What?”
Alec felt a quiver of dread snake up his spine but steeled himself and met his uncle’s gaze directly. “I am a dancing and fencing master, sir. Like my father and grandfather before me.”
Uncle Ramsay’s face darkened in displeasure. He turned to his sister. “Really, Joanna. You should have told me your son was following the family line before you came.”
“I knew you would not approve,” she replied, setting aside her book and averting her eyes.
Alec looked from his mother to his uncle, mind reeling. “Surely my profession does not come as a surprise to you.”
“It does. And not a happy one. I knew your grandfather was a dancing master, and French in the bargain. But your father vowed to forsake the profession if I would permit him to marry my sister.”
“He did give it up,” Mrs. Valcourt said, then added, “for a time.”
Cornelius Ramsay shook his head, eyes troubled. “He promised. Upon his honor.”
Mrs. Valcourt’s lips tightened. “Men do not always keep their promises, I find.”
Several moments of strained silence followed. The mantel clock ticked. Aurora sent Alec a nervous look. It was the nearest thing to an accusation they had yet heard from their mother.
Uncle Ramsay picked up the fire iron and jabbed at the embers in the hearth. “I suppose your husband’s return to the profession, and your son’s following him, explains your vague and infrequent letters over the years?”
He sent his sister a challenging look, but she did not meet his gaze.
“Well, well,” he said briskly. “If you had divulged your son’s profession, I could have warned you there is no dancing here in Beaworthy. And precious little call for a dancing master. In fact, I cannot think of any place less in need of one.” He shoved the fire iron back into its stand with a clang.
“But . . . why?” Alec sputtered.
“A decision of the leading family of the parish. Lady Amelia Midwinter, daughter of the last earl.”
Alec’s stomach churned. Flabbergasted, he asked again, “But why? Is she a Quaker or some such?”
His uncle shook his head. “It’s the way things were when I came here years ago as partner to old Mr. Ley—God rest his soul.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying there’s an actual law or ordinance that says one cannot dance here?”
Uncle Ramsay’s lower lip protruded in thought. “Not an actual law that I know of, though certainly an unwritten one.” He shrugged. “I own I’ve never looked into it. Didn’t affect me—I never went in for that sort of frivolity.”
“But—”
His uncle laid a hand on his arm. “The reason is not the main point here, my boy. The fact is, dancing is not done here in Beaworthy, hasn’t been for twenty years, and is unlikely to start now you’re here.”
Alec looked at his mother, stunned by this unexpected turn of events. “Mamma, why did you not say anything? If I had known—”
Her eyes sparked. “If you had known . . . What? We still would have come. We had no other choice. And thanks to my generous brother, we have a roof over our heads. Let us be thankful.”
“But we cannot presume to live on Uncle Ramsay’s goodwill for long, Mamma,” Alec insisted. “I must earn my own way—support you and Aurora.”
His uncle nodded. “Well said, my boy. Well said. A young man of nearly five and twenty must have some skills and abilities to recommend him.”
Alec lifted his chin. “I am a skilled and able dancing and fencing master, sir.” He hesitated, then added, “Though I did apprentice as a clerk for a time, before Father reopened his academy.”
“Ah! A clerk. Now, that’s something useful.”
“I’ve never regretted the experience,” Alec allowed. “Even after I began teaching alongside Father, I was able to help with the business side of the academy—keeping the books, paying taxes, that sort of thing.”
His mother asked hopefully, “Might Alec help you in your law practice, brother?”
His uncle considered this, then shook his head. “Unfortunately no. I have two clerks at present and haven’t need of another. Nor have I heard of any such position available nearby. But I shall ask around.”
Alec wanted to please his uncle, but he did not want to be a clerk. He said, “Perhaps there is more interest in dancing than you think. And I teach fencing as well. I might find pupils for that skill at least.”
“Enough to support yourself? I think that highly unlikely.”
“Then I shall go farther afield to seek pupils,” Alec said. “I may have more luck in neighboring villages.”
“But folks around here are primarily farmers and laborers. Few well-to-do families interested in dancing.”
“How do you know?”
“Call it an educated guess. My professional opinion.”
“It cannot hurt to ask.”
“Actually, it can. It can hurt your reputation and your reception. It won’t do me any favors either.”
“But—”
Uncle Ramsay held up his palm. “Look. Alec. I am a reasonable man and will not forbid you. However, I would advise you to tread carefully and be discreet. And do not tempt fate by going to Buckleigh Manor or its neighbor, Medlands. Give yourself, say, a week, and if you haven’t rummaged up sufficient pupils by then, we shall discuss alternate plans for your future. All right?”
“That sounds reasonable,” Alec’s mother agreed. “Quite generous, brother. Thank you.”
A week? Inwardly, Alec rebelled. He felt his life beginning to spin away, out from under his control, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Dismissed, Alec exchanged his violin for a sword and strode back outside. Instead of turning right into the village, he turned left into the countryside. In his uncle’s compact cottage, there was precious little room for privacy. He needed a place to exert himself and burn off his vexation with no one to criticize, or scoff. A place where he could toss aside his coat and work himself into an ungentlemanly sweat.
His small sword held inconspicuously to his side, he strode down the unpaved road, eyeing with interest the wooded area ahead.
He passed a walled churchyard, the listing graves and grey limestone church far older than the one he’d attended in the village. Not sure if the place was in use, he walked on. The road entered a copse of trees both deciduous and evergreen. Though only February, birds sang hopefully. Evidently, spring returned earlier here in the southwest. Perhaps all was not as bleak as it appeared.
The vague rumble and wave of two voices reached him. Through the trees, he glimpsed movement. He paused, not wishing his footsteps to announce his presence, or to meet anyone in his current mood. Something about the uncertain shapes beyond the pine boughs drew his attention. He walked gingerly from the road into the copse, careful to avoid stepping on downed branches.
He stopped behind a dense Scots pine and peered around it. The shapes became clearer. Two horses. Two people. Partially shielded by the horses, a man and woman stood, reins in hand, heads near in conversation. A love scene? he wondered. At all events, Alec realized he had no right to intrude.
Alec was about to turn away, when one horse lowered its head to nibble among the brush and he saw the young woman more clearly—Miss Julia Midwinter, whom he had met in church. Who was supposed to be out riding with another young lady. Her present companion was young but not female. He was a handsome, well-dressed gentleman in green coat and buff trousers. Miss Midwinter smiled coyly up at him and leaned very near.
Again the image of Miss Underhill appeared in Alec’s mind, and his gut pinched with guilt and regret.
Suddenly Miss Midwinter looked right in his direction. Had Alec made a sound after all?
The pretty blonde frowned and murmured something to the man. Then she added more loudly, “What a pleasant surprise to happen upon you, sir. But now I must bid you good-day.”
Alec turned and walked away. Her stilted words had not fooled him. Miss Midwinter had clearly deceived her mother. What would he do if he ever came upon his sister in such a compromising situation?
Deep in contemplation, Alec tripped over something in the wood.
“I say, have a care,” a man grumbled. “That’s my leg you’re kicking.”
Alec spun around, startled by the affronted male voice. He had not realized anyone else was near.
And no wonder, for the person addressing him was seated on the ground amid the brush, legs sprawled, back reclining against a tree. The offended man was a few years younger than Alec and well dressed, though his cravat was an untidy wad and stained with mud. Or was it . . . chocolate?
“I beg your pardon,” Alec said. “I did not see you.”
The fire faded from the man’s dark eyes. “Well, no harm done.”
Alec hesitated, taking in the man’s position. “Are you . . . all right?”
“I expect so. Good thing I was wearing my boots.”
Alec looked down at the man’s riding boots and saw that one of them was clamped between the metal jaws of a trap.
“Good heavens. Are you hurt?”
“Not too bad, I don’t think.”
“How can I help?”
The man thought. “You don’t happen to have a fire iron or crowbar on your person, I don’t imagine?”
“I’m afraid not.” Alec raised his sword. “I have this, but I don’t think—”
“A sword? Handy thing, that. Not every chap carries one these days.”
“I fence,” Alec murmured. He feared that using his blade as a tool would break the tip, but he couldn’t very well leave the young man entrapped. He searched the ground for a sturdy stick, then knelt beside the fallen man.
“Dashed foolish of me, I know,” the young man said. “The gamekeeper has warned me time and time again to mind his traps. Yet somehow I stumbled into this one.”
Alec slid the edge of his sword between the metal jaws and pried the trap open just far enough to insert the sturdy branch.
The young man eyed his sword with interest. “Perhaps we might fence together sometime. Though I fence very ill, no doubt.”
“I could help you improve your skills.”
“Really? Excellent.”
Using the stick as a lever, Alec began prying open the trap.
“Wait ’til James learns of this,” the young man moaned. “I shall never hear the end of it.”
“James?”
“My brother.”
“Perhaps he needn’t learn of it.”
“You’re not from this parish, I gather, or you’d know there’s no keeping it secret. Everyone hears everything eventually. Besides, I’d not rob my brother of a good laugh, would I? Have you no brothers?”
“No. Only a sister.”
“Ah.” The young man nodded. “One ought to be gentler with sisters. Though Patience is quite sporting about our teasing, I will say.”
Trap released, Alec held it gingerly while the young man extracted his foot. He woefully eyed his dented boot. “At all events, I fear there’s no hiding this. Father’s valet will throw a fit when he sees all his polishing gone to ruin.”
“And your foot?” Alec asked.
The young man rotated his ankle. “Hurts but seems all right.”
Alec offered his hand and helped pull the man to his feet. He nearly lost his own footing, so much heavier was the man than he appeared. Standing, the man’s lanky height became evident—he was several inches taller than Alec and likely a stone or two heavier.
Tentatively putting weight on his foot, the young man winced.
“Is it broken?” Alec asked.
“I don’t think so. But it’ll be black-and-blue tomorrow if I don’t miss my guess.”
Alec offered his shoulder. “Here, lean on me.”
“I don’t live far. Medlands. Do you know it?”
“No. I’ve only just arrived from London.” Though Alec did recall his uncle mentioning the place. “We’re staying with Mr. Ramsay—my uncle.”
“I know him—he’s my father’s solicitor. Well, welcome to Beaworthy. A good show you came when you did.” The young man stuck out his soiled hand. “Walter Allen.”
Seeing the muddy hand, Alec withdrew his pocket kerchief and placed it in the man’s waiting palm. “Landed in a spot of dirt when you fell, by the looks of it.”
Walter looked down at his palm, then obligingly wiped his hands. “And so I did.” He held out the soiled kerchief. “Many thanks.”
Alec smiled and waved away the offer. “Keep it.”
The man shrugged and pocketed it. “Didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Alec Valcourt. How do you do?”
“About average.” Walter grinned. “For me.”
He put his arm around Alec’s shoulder, and the two walked slowly out of the trees and onto the road. Not far past the walled churchyard, they came to a wrought-iron gate with a lion’s head baring its teeth and glaring down at them from atop the metal scrollwork.
Seeing him glance down its long drive, Walter said, “That’s Buckleigh Manor.”
“Is that where the Midwinters live?”
“You’ve met them?”
Alec nodded. “At church.”
“Ah.” Walter lifted his chin in understanding. “Yes. They’re our neighbors.” He turned his head. “Medlands is just there, on the other side of the road.”
Ahead, an open, inviting entrance awaited, with two stone pillars on either side of a gently curved drive, with no menacing lion to warn visitors away.
The house beyond seemed relatively modern and well maintained, or perhaps recently refurbished. It was built of warm red brick with white-framed doors and windows. Its roof of many gables and tall brick chimneys was crowned by a cheerful white cupola.
In spite of the man’s humble, self-deprecating manner, he was apparently from a wealthy family.
Glancing up at the house, Alec glimpsed a fair head in one of the upper windows. A flick of a curtain and the figure disappeared. As they reached the front stairs a few moments later, the door burst open and a young woman hurried out, pale face a mask of concern, framed by the lightest blond hair Alec had ever seen.
“Walter!” she exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Pet, I am.”
“Then why are you limping? What happened?”
“I shall tell you by and by, or you’ll wring it from me, I know. But first, let me introduce my rescuer.” He released Alec’s shoulder and gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Miss Patience Allen, my sister, please meet Mr. Alec Valcourt, newcomer to Beaworthy.”
She turned to him, her light blue eyes round. He found himself comparing her to Miss Midwinter, who was also blond, though that lady’s curls were a deeper, honey hue. Miss Allen’s eyes seemed wide and innocent, compared to Miss Midwinter’s knowing gaze.
“I believe I saw you at church today, Mr. Valcourt,” Miss Allen said. “Allow me to express my heartfelt appreciation on behalf of my entire family. Better yet, come and meet them. I know Mamma and Papa will want to thank you.”
Alec hesitated. “I don’t wish to intrude.”
“Not a bit of it,” Walter said.
“They are just here in the drawing room. This way.” Miss Allen turned and led the way across the hall. When she opened the broad paneled door, Alec glimpsed a scene of domestic happiness framed in its threshold. A woman of forty or forty-five sat at an embroidery screen before the fire. She had paused in her needlework to regard with fond amusement her husband holding a biscuit before a hound on its rear haunches in eager beggar’s pose. Hearing the door open, the man gave the hound his rewa
rd and praised him with a fond “Good boy.” He then rose and turned toward the door with a ready smile.
He was a tall, handsome man with silver threaded through dark blond hair. His wife was equally attractive with faded blond curls and the dimples of a young girl. She rose and stepped to her husband’s side.
Walter introduced Alec and shared the story of their meeting. As he did so, Sir Herbert and Lady Allen gazed at Alec with smiles that lit their eyes and gave him a warm feeling of approval and value. Their expressions of gratitude were instant and genuine, and both took turns vigorously shaking his hand.
Sir Herbert insisted on inspecting Walter’s foot and bid him sit in a nearby chair to do so.
As the examination commenced, Walter’s older brother, James, came in, dressed in green coat, buff trousers, and tall boots—riding clothes. Alec recognized him with a start as the man he had seen with Miss Midwinter near the wood.
Perhaps then, Alec thought with relief, there had been nothing untoward about Miss Midwinter stopping to speak with a neighbor while out riding. Mr. Allen had clearly not lingered with the young lady.
James Allen’s hair was a halo of tawny gold curls, his features finely formed. Even Alec could not miss noticing that he was an exceedingly handsome young man. He was in appearance very like his sister, Patience. And both resembled their parents. Alec wondered idly who Walter resembled.
Walter repeated the story, and James Allen thanked Alec and shook his hand, though with more reserve than his parents had shown.
But when James turned to his brother, his reserve fell away. His eyes sparkled and a smile played about his mouth. As Walter had predicted, James lost no time in teasing him. “Not another trap, Walt. What does that make—two or three this year?”
Walter ducked his head to hide a sheepish smile.
“You might have called out,” James said. “I rode very near that spot.”
He didn’t mention meeting Miss Midwinter on his ride, Alec noticed, and wondered why.
James continued, “We shall have to ask Hooper to paint the traps yellow to warn you off—and all the foxes and weasels in the bargain. What do you say, Papa. Spare the game birds or poor Walt’s foot?”
His father smiled. “There are many birds in those woods, but Walter has only two feet. Better spare those.”
The Dancing Master Page 3
