“Thank you, Uncle. What’s his name?”
“His original name was Apollo. But I simply call him Dun. Fitting, don’t you think? Since my client was in dun territory when he handed him over to settle his debts.” His uncle’s mouth quirked in a rare display of humor. “Well. I shall leave the two of you to become acquainted.”
Once Uncle Ramsay returned to the house, Alec approached the stall tentatively, hand extended, wondering if he appeared as foolish as he felt. A horse is not a hound, Valcourt, he thought, but did not know if there was a better way to greet an unfamiliar horse. The creature stiffened, then turned its long muzzle in Alec’s direction and whickered an airy trill of question. Its watchful, long-lashed eyes reminded him of the sad-eyed schoolmistress.
“It’s all right, boy. I mean you no harm,” Alec said in a low voice. The horse did not jerk away as he feared. Instead Alec was able to reach out and touch its coarse forelock. The horse sniffed his outstretched hand, and Alec felt the velvety lips, wiry whiskers, and warm breath. He wished he had a carrot or a lump of sugar in his pocket.
Alec wondered if he could manage to bridle him, or at least get a lead around his neck. He looked this way and that for a halter or hackamore and instead saw his uncle’s manservant, Abe, walk into the stable, eyeing him curiously.
“Hello.”
The old man nodded his grizzled grey head and began polishing harnesses.
“My uncle said you might saddle him for me tomorrow.”
Abe nodded. “Aye. Saddlin’ him is the easy part. What time do you want him ready?”
“I’d like to arrive in Holsworthy by nine. Shall we say . . . seven thirty? Is that enough time, do you think?”
“Oh, plenty of time, I’d say. More than enough.”
Alec didn’t like the knowing look in the man’s eye but said nothing more.
Dance developed strength and began a basic training that was foundational for lessons in fencing and riding. Indeed fencing masters often doubled as dancing masters, which demonstrates the proximity of the two arts.
—Kate van Orden, Music, Discipline, and Arms in Early Modern France
Chapter 4
In the morning, Alec rose early, washed, and dressed. Since he planned to ride, he selected a pair of cord breeches and his caped Carrick coat. Then he pulled on a pair of Wellington boots he’d purchased last year because they were fashionable, not because he rode. They would certainly come in handy now that he had a horse.
As Alec buttoned his coat, he glanced out his small window down into the paddock. Abe stood there with the dun horse. The old manservant reached up and forced the bit between the horse’s large teeth and the leather bridle over its head and black ears, though the creature jerked up his chin in silent protest. Then Abe went to work on the saddle. Perhaps the horse was better behaved than his uncle had led him to believe.
Alec finished dressing and combing his hair, then went downstairs for another solitary breakfast of toasted bread and tea. Remembering his resolve to make friends with the horse, he helped himself to a few lumps of sugar from the sideboard and pocketed them.
He also wrapped a thick slice of bread and another of cheese in a table napkin, in case he was absent for the midday meal, as he’d been the day before. His uncle’s cook-housekeeper strode in from the kitchen while he did so, and he felt like a thief, caught. Mrs. Dobb gave him a suspicious, resentful look, then returned to the kitchen with a sniff.
Alec would be glad when he’d begun earning money and could contribute to the household funds—and eat without guilt.
He quietly left the house and walked back to the paddock. He let himself inside the fence and approached the horse cautiously. The horse looked over his shoulder and watched him in wary interest, nostrils flaring. Did he smell the sugar?
“Good morning, boy,” Alec said quietly.
He saw his uncle’s manservant hovering in the doorway of the adjacent stable. “Thank you, Abe,” he called.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Alec offered a lump of sugar on his flat, open hand. The horse sniffed it, then puckered his lips and took a tentative nibble that tickled Alec’s palm. The horse managed to get the sugar into its mouth, the bit clearly little hindrance. So far so good.
Alec reached up and grasped the saddle with one hand, then raised his foot to the stirrup. The horse stepped to the side, taking Alec’s captured boot with him, causing Alec to hop on his grounded foot to keep from falling. “Steady, steady on,” he quietly urged.
“Shall I hold him for you, lad?” Abe offered.
“No, I’m all right, thank you.”
Alec managed to yank his boot from the stirrup, tugged his coat back into place, and patted the horse’s withers. “You’re all right,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you. You don’t mind the saddle, see? And I am not such a heavy man. Not like my uncle.”
He wondered again why his uncle, who ate so abstemiously, managed to remain portly.
He tried once more to mount, but the horse again shied to the side. The tied rein limited his range of motion, yet his rear end fanned nearly to the fence. Thinking the horse could not back away farther, Alec tried to mount again, but the horse sidestepped in the opposite direction—forcing Alec to leap backward to stay out from under his hooves and finally pressing Alec against the fence.
Oof. Alec felt the air pushed from his lungs.
“Doesn’t like to be ridden,” Abe observed.
“You don’t say,” Alec murmured dryly.
Alec met the horse’s big brown eyes. “All right. You win for today.” He pushed the horse away to gain a breath and a foothold on the fence. The horse yielded and resumed its original position with an air of offended dignity.
Alec decided he would put off the trip to distant Holsworthy until the following day, hoping by then the horse would have grown more accustomed to him and allow him to ride. For today, Alec would walk west out of town, as he had walked east the day before.
Leaving his uncle’s property, Alec walked into the village, passing the inn and several shops, all relatively quiet at this hour. As he neared the bakery, he noticed an old man asleep on a bench outside. Sleeping it off? Alec wondered. He tried to ignore the warm savory smells coming from the shop as he passed.
The bakery door opened with a jingle, and a woman with faded ginger hair emerged. She looked vaguely familiar, though Alec didn’t think he’d met her before.
“Halloo! Mr. Valcourt?”
Alec paused, and the short, buxom woman asked, “Venturing out again today, I see?”
“Um . . . yes,” he replied.
“And what has my sister given you to eat?”
“Your sister?” He didn’t even know the woman.
“Martha Dobb, of course. Works for your uncle.”
“Oh!” Perhaps that explained why she looked familiar. There was a slight resemblance between the two, though Mrs. Dobb was painfully thin while this woman was pleasingly plump. Alec faltered, “She . . . em . . . allowed me to, um, choose as I liked.”
She eyed him shrewdly, hands on hips. “Which means she gave you exactly nothing, and allows you very little indeed.” She held out her palm. “Let’s have it.”
Alec felt like a wayward schoolboy producing a frog from his pocket as he pulled forth the bread and cheese.
She eyed it with displeasure and wrinkled her nose. “As I suspected. Wait here.” She walked away with his meal.
“But I—”
“No buts.”
She returned a few moments later, holding forth a thick, fragrant pasty lying on a square of brown paper within the same table napkin.
Alec salivated at the sight and aroma.
“But I can’t afford—”
“Psht,” she shushed him. “We’ll call it a trade.” She placed the meat-and-potato-filled pastry into his palm. Still warm.
She tsked and shook her head. “That sister of mine. A young man needs more than a slice of bread and cheese to see him thr
ough the day.”
“I am not certain how long I shall be gone, or—”
“Never mind. I doubt you’ve had a decent meal since you arrived. You stop by and see me every morning before you head out. You hear? It shall be our secret.”
“I . . . Thank you, Mrs. . . . ?”
She pointed at the sign above the door as though he were daft. Tickle’s Bakery.
“I am Mrs. Tickle, of course. Famous throughout the world for my pies and pasties. Or at least throughout the parish.” She winked.
Alec found he hadn’t the heart or iron will to refuse the woman’s gift, though he wondered at her reason. Apparently she had taken pity on him. Whatever the case he—and his stomach—was grateful.
He thanked the woman again and walked away. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her hand his bread and cheese to the old man sleeping on the bench outside her bakery. “There you are, Mr. Gawman. Breakfast!”
Late that afternoon, after another fruitless day, Alec trudged back through Beaworthy. He noticed flower baskets filled with dry, dead flowers hanging listlessly from lampposts. He continued along the walkway, detouring around the greengrocer’s crates and giving way to a shoemaker carrying a roll of leather into his shop.
Returning to the walkway, something in the window of a secondhand shop caught his eye and Alec paused to look. There beside a display of old toys, tinware, and copper kettles, he saw a flute. Its price card bore two crossed-out numbers, leaving a third, pathetically low price. Alec wondered whose it had been. He could guess why the owner no longer had occasion to play it. For a moment Alec stood there looking at that instrument: tarnished, silent, and sad. Like Beaworthy itself.
With a sigh, Alec forced himself to walk into the inn to ask about an assembly room. He entered the beamed taproom with several open fireplaces and crossed the flagstone floor.
The short, slight innkeeper looked up from behind his counter.
“Good afternoon.” Alec removed his hat. “Are you the proprietor here?”
“I am. Jones is the name.”
“And I’m Alec Valcourt. New to Beaworthy.”
“You don’t say,” quipped a thin man slouched on a stool nearby. “And I’m Alvin Deane. Old to Beaworthy.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Mr. Jones rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. What can I do for ya, Mr. Valcourt?”
“I was . . . em, admiring your inn from outside and wondered if you had an assembly room.”
The two older men shared a look, smiles fading.
Jones said, “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“May I see it?” Alec asked.
“Suit yerself.” Jones nodded toward the stairwell. “Top of the stairs.”
Mr. Deane, a man with a gentle face and thinning hair, unfolded his tall self from the stool. “I’ll go up with ya. Miss seein’ it.”
“Take a lamp,” Jones advised.
Mr. Deane did so, and Alec gestured for him to lead the way.
At the top of the stairs, Mr. Deane crossed the passage to a set of double doors. He pulled one open with a squeak and led the way inside. The candle lamp projected an arc of light into the dim, musty room. Boxes and crates were stacked haphazardly about, and a row of barrels blocked their way. “Become a storeroom, sad to say.”
They stepped around the barrels, and Alec surveyed the long, modest-sized room, like so many used for public balls. On one side stood a shrouded harpsichord. Chairs lined the opposite wall and at the far end lay a raised platform for musicians.
It was perfect. Alec wondered if Mr. Jones might allow him to clean up the assembly room and use it to teach lessons, assuming he ever found any pupils.
“How long since it’s been used?” Alec asked.
“Oh . . .” The man puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. “I think it was December four or five years ago. Had ourselves a Christmas concert. Used to have one every year, before the old rector died. He organized the affair and gathered us together to rehearse.”
“And the last dance?”
Mr. Deane gave him a sharp look. “Back before you were breeched, I’d wager.”
Alec shook his head. “That is a long time.”
“Don’t I know it. Should have seen this place then. . . .” His eyes took on a distant wistfulness. “Men from shops and forges turned gentlemen-musicians in Sunday best. Ladies in frocks every color of springtime. Hopeful spinsters dancin’ with our rector. Schoolboys with their mums. Pretty girls and eager lads . . .”
“You’re quite the poet, Mr. Deane.”
“Hardly. Just cursed with a good memory.” He turned. “Let’s go down. Jones’ll wonder what became of us. And the missus will scold if I’m not home in two shakes.”
When they returned to the taproom, Mr. Deane retrieved his hat and bid them both good-night.
Alec turned to the innkeeper. “An excellent room, Mr. Jones. How sad to see it sit idle. I don’t suppose you would consider letting it out?”
Mr. Jones shook his head. “Not for dancing, son. I’ve heard what you’ve been about this week, and yer wastin’ yer time, I can tell you.”
“It certainly feels that way.”
“Don’t you know dancing isn’t done here? I’m surprised yer uncle hasn’t told ya.”
“He told me, but I don’t understand why. Do you?”
A horn blew outside, announcing the arrival of a coach. In a matter of moments, the innkeeper was busy filling pints and taking orders for supper. Alec knew his questions would have to wait.
He waved to a harried Mr. Jones, who acknowledged the gesture with a terse nod. Replacing his hat, Alec took his leave.
As he crossed the High Street, a man stepped from his uncle’s law office. “Mr. Valcourt?”
Alec paused. “Yes?”
“Milton Pugsworth. Your uncle’s senior clerk.” The stout, homely man appeared to be near Alec’s own age.
“How do you do, Mr. Pugsworth.”
“I am well, thank you. Listen, I hear you mean to teach dancing lessons. Is that right?”
“I hope to, yes. It was my profession in London.”
Mr. Pugsworth nodded. “Your uncle confided as much. He’s worried you’ll have your eye blackened going door to door. And vex a few important personages in the bargain.”
“So he has said.”
“Between you and me, I’d be keen to improve my own dancing skills, would it not irk your uncle and no doubt several clients. And I’m afraid there is scarce little space in the rooms I share with Bixby.” He pointed to the windows above. “But if you ever open a place of your own, do let me know.”
“I shall.”
Mr. Pugsworth chewed his thick lower lip. “Do I understand correctly that you called in at Miss . . . at the girls’ school?”
“I did.” Alec nodded. “Yesterday.”
“And . . . may I ask what the schoolmistress said?”
“Miss Llewellyn declined my offer.”
“Oh.” The man looked surprisingly crestfallen.
Alec added, “I will say she did so regretfully. Even . . . wistfully.”
“Did she?” Pugsworth’s eyes brightened. “I am glad to hear it.” He added apologetically, “Not glad that she refused you, of course. But that she was sorry to do so.”
“It eased the sting, I admit. But why should that please you?”
“Oh, it’s only that . . . Well, I met Miss Llewellyn at a public ball in Holsworthy. Only the once, you see. She hasn’t been back.”
“Ah. I understand,” Alec said, thinking again of the schoolmistress’s reluctance to go against Lady Amelia’s wishes. Generous benefactor, indeed.
After dinner that night, Alec went out to the stable to spend time with his horse. He plied the dun gelding with sugar as before and patted his neck. Again Abe saddled the horse for him, and again Alec tried to mount the skittish creature. He managed to get his leg over the gelding’s back only to be tossed onto his backside. He looked up in time to see old Abe bite back a grin.
Alec gingerly rose, dusting off his backside, disgusted to find he’d got more than dirt on his trousers. Inwardly he sighed.
It really wasn’t his day.
By Saturday night, Alec found himself longing for the Sabbath with a zeal due less to the prospect of worship than the thought of an extra hour of sleep, and rest from another round of disheartening calls. Even strengthened by Mrs. Tickle’s pies, it had been the longest week in Alec’s memory, and at the end of it, he had very little to show for his efforts. He had been set upon by dogs and a vicious goose. Thrown from his horse and forced to walk many miles each day. He’d been scoffed at and stared at like a man with two heads. True, he had been received civilly by several others, though declined just the same in the end.
He did have a few nibbles from the calls he’d made farther afield. A few families said “someday” but had little time or money to spare at present. The most promising among them were the Stricklands—a wealthy family who lived between Beaworthy and Holsworthy. They were interested in lessons for their son, although not until he returned from school for the Easter and summer vacations. The Millmans, a merchant family from nearby Shebbear, were also interested in lessons for their twins, but they preferred to wait until Alec had acquired other pupils with whom their children might practice.
Even if the latter two possibilities came to pass, Alec knew three pupils would not be enough.
On Sunday morning, Alec forced aside the temptation to stay in bed, and rose with a groan. He knew it was his duty as the man of the family to escort his mother and sister to church—and his obligation to his uncle, who had been so generous in hosting them and who expected them to attend. As newcomers, he’d said, they must do all they could to establish respectable reputations.
It wasn’t that Alec didn’t deem God worthy of worship. But his view of the Almighty had taken a blow of late. Alec had grown up believing God was someone like his kindly, benevolent grandfather—at least hoping that was true. Though there were times he feared God might be more like his disapproving father, who was as parsimonious in serving up morsels of praise as Uncle Ramsay was in serving food. Colin Valcourt had never been satisfied with Alec, always remonstrating him for his reticent manner, his reluctance to push more lessons on families who could ill afford them, or in soliciting business from strangers. And then, of course, came the disillusionment over Miss Underhill.
The Dancing Master Page 5
