“You don’t approve?”
“It’s my mother you’re thinking of. I don’t disapprove of dancing. How could I?” She lifted her chin and placed a solemn hand over her heart. “I, Julia Midwinter, have never danced.” She glanced at him, eyes twinkling. “And if you tell my mother otherwise, I shall deny it to the end.”
They shared a grin. Then Alec felt his grin fade.
Tentatively, he asked, “Why is your mother so set against dancing? Some people object for religious reasons, I know. Some Methodists and Quakers and . . .”
She shook her head thoughtfully. “I don’t think my mother’s reasons are religious. At least not primarily.”
He waited for her to explain, but instead Julia pointed down into the churchyard.
“Do you see those large headstones?”
Alec followed the direction of her finger and nodded, though from this height the headstones appeared small indeed.
She said, “That’s the family plot. My grandparents are buried there. My aunt and uncle. My father.”
He glanced at her, surprised at how many close relatives she had lost, but unsure how this answered his question. He nearly joked, “Don’t tell me they all died dancing,” but knew such a jest would be tactless. Instead he asked, “How long has your father been gone?”
“Two years.”
He watched her face, afraid she might cry. When she did not, Alec ventured, “But apparently your mother did not dance even before she lost her husband. Is that right?”
“It has nothing to do with him—my father, I mean. It has to do with her brother. My mother has never divulged the details, but I gather he died in a fight at the last village fair twenty years ago. During the May Day dance.”
Alec frowned. “So . . . she blames dancing for her brother’s death?” He tried not to sound as incredulous as he felt.
“That’s part of it, I believe. I’ve asked her several times, but she refuses to talk about the past in any great detail. Nor to yield in her stance.”
Alec sighed. “Too bad.” He drew himself up. “Well, I had better be on my way. Otherwise I shall be late and Mr. Barlow shall box my ears.”
“Oh, Barlow is a lamb, for all his gruff ways. Tell him you were helping me and he shall forgive you anything.”
Alec hoped that was true.
“My mother, on the other hand, will not.”
“Right.” Alec tipped his hat and hurriedly descended the tower.
Fortunately, Alec did not encounter Lady Amelia when he let himself in through the tradesman’s entrance and slipped into the manager’s office. Inside, Mr. Barlow stood at his desk, pointedly regarding the clock high on the wall.
“You are nearly a quarter of an hour late,” he announced, his hound dog face sagging in disappointment.
“Sorry, sir. I stopped to . . . help Miss Midwinter.”
His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Did you? And where was this?”
“In the churchyard.” Alec looked about him, then lowered his voice. “Balancing atop the church tower.”
The man winced, then nodded. “Very well, Valcourt. I take your meaning. Now, not a word about that to anyone. Understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Good. Now. I’ve got a batch of rent receipts for you to add to the ledger and then there’s the window tax to figure . . .”
Alec suppressed a groan. It was, after all, better than cutting clay bricks all day. And after his wrestling “lesson” yesterday, he was glad no backbreaking tasks awaited him. He felt broken enough as it was.
After Mr. Valcourt left, Julia remained atop the church tower for some time, thinking about their conversation. She couldn’t blame him for believing her life a charmed one, but there was more to life than ease and advantage. Especially when that advantage came with strings—and an anchor—attached.
“For to whom much is given, much shall be required,” her mother never tired of reminding her, paraphrasing Scripture.
Julia’s life might have been enviable—had her father not disliked her, and her mother not begun grooming her to take her place at such a young age. When Julia thought back over her childhood, she recalled being trapped indoors with her governess or mother—practicing her curtsy and manners, learning to differentiate seven different types of forks, orders of precedence, and correct forms of address for the ranks of nobility—and glancing out the window and seeing James,Walter, and often Patience, riding together or heading off with fishing poles or cricket bat in hand.
No. Julia had no interest in assuming her mother’s role as prim-lipped matriarch of Buckleigh Manor. She did not want to spend her days in interminable meetings and answering endless correspondence. She wanted to live her own life. Charmed or not.
Looking out over the estate grounds that morning, Julia felt uncomfortable in her own skin, and empty inside. Something was missing—had been missing her entire life. And she was quite certain she was not going to find it within the walls of Buckleigh Manor.
After his duties were completed for the day and Mr. Barlow had gone to his dinner, Alec put on his hat and left by the rear door.
He was pleased to see Walter Allen leaning against a tree outside. Walt pushed himself upright and hailed him.
“There you are. Wanted to stop by and see how you are getting on today.”
“Sore and stiff, but not too bad, considering. I’m surprised you came over—your mother seemed certain I would be recuperating at home today.”
“I knew better, didn’t I?” Walter winked. “She doesn’t yet know how strong and stubborn you are. Not as I do.” He extended two lengths of steel in his large hands. “I’ve brought your sword. Such as it is. You left it at our house last night.”
“Thank you.” Alec accepted the pieces with a sting of regret.
“Papa says to tell you to see the old smith. His forge is less than a mile out along the Sheepwash Road. There’s a newer forge behind the inn, but Papa says the old man is the best and the very man to mend your sword, if anyone can.”
“Then I shall go and see him. Thank your father for me.”
“I shall. Hurry and get better—you and your sword.” Walter grinned. “Your fencing partner is eager to continue his lessons.”
After dinner and evening prayers with his family, Alec decided to take his sword and stroll to the blacksmith’s. It was after regular hours, and he doubted anyone would be working the forge, but he was stiff after sitting at his desk all day and thought a bit of exercise would do him good. And if the man was there . . . Well, Alec was eager to have his blade repaired as soon as might be. He judged his injured leg equal to a mile walk but hoped he would not encounter anyone named Wilcox on the way.
He thought again of the dun horse his uncle had given him. Perhaps he ought to try to ride him again. After his ribs healed.
Dusk deepened the sky as he left the village behind, taking the Sheepwash Road as Walter had instructed. A chorus of whirring frogs accompanied his steps. Ahead in the distance he saw the orange-red glow of a fire. And as he neared, the dim outline of a small building came into view. An open-sided porch extended from an enclosed workroom at the rear. The old forge, he assumed. He remembered passing it when he’d come this way on his initial calls.
Within, a man sat over the fire, alternatively heating something and then shaping it with pliers. No sound of clanging metal rang out. No sparks flew. Alec wondered what he was working on. No everyday horseshoes, apparently.
Alec was surprised the old man was not inside having his supper or preparing for bed—but thankful too.
“Hello,” Alec called as he neared, not wanting to startle the man by emerging from the darkness unannounced.
“Evening,” the man returned, glancing up from his work.
Alec was the one to be startled. This man was not old. Nor a stranger. It was the man who had rescued him from the Wilcox brothers the day before.
“I say . . . you are not who I was expecting.”
“Oh?”
&nb
sp; “I was told an old man owned this forge.”
“That’s right.” He nodded toward the house. “Old Mr. Desmond.”
“Ah, I see. Is he . . . ?” Alec followed the direction of his gaze toward the house.
The man grimaced. “He’s taken ill, I’m afraid. I’m helping out.”
“Sorry to hear it. I am Alec Valcourt, by the way. I’m afraid I never got your name when you came to my rescue.”
The man didn’t immediately reply, his focus drawn back to the tool and metal in his gloved hands. “Sorry. Give me a minute to finish this before it cools.”
“Of course. Forgive me; I don’t mean to intrude.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Valcourt.” The man nodded toward a finely crafted bench.
Alec sat as bid, laying the sword pieces across his lap and watching the man’s actions with interest. He asked quietly, “May I ask what you are making?”
“A hunting knife.”
Alec felt his brows rise. “You don’t say. For I’ve brought my own blade to be repaired. Those scoundrels broke it.”
The man’s eyes glinted. “Not planning to run them through, I hope.”
Alec shook his head. “It’s a French small sword. Still, sharp enough if need be.” He looked over at the man and asked quietly, “Would you have shot them, by the way?”
The red-hot metal reflected eerily in the man’s eyes. “I don’t know. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”
Alec considered, then inhaled deeply. “I have never physically injured anyone in my life. But I have a mother and sister to support. Next time I will do what I must to protect myself.”
Watching the man handle the sharp blade with such single focus, Alec bit his lip, then asked tentatively, “Have you . . . ever injured someone?”
“That’s quite a personal question, friend.”
“Sorry. Never mind.”
The man looked up from his work and sighed. “Yes, I have hurt several people in my life. And one physically. I’m not proud of it.”
He returned his focus to the blade. Alec watched as the man’s gloved hands plunged the knife into a barrel of water. He then regarded the glinting blade in the light of a lamp, and set it in the curing rack.
He pulled off his thick leather gloves. “All right. Let’s have a look at this blade of yours.”
The man took the pieces Alec proffered, studying the break, the lines of each.
“Can you mend it?” Alec asked.
“Maybe. Though she’ll never be quite the same. Leave it with me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Very well. Thank you.” Alec rose. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
The man looked down. “I know. I’m sorry, it’s just that I am not eager for news of my return to get round. I know it will eventually in a small village like Beaworthy, but I’m not keen on helping spread the word.”
Alec remembered how the man had stiffened when James had mentioned Buckleigh Manor, and felt foreboding prickle over him. He asked, “Why?”
The man stared at the severed blade in his hands, and slowly shook his head. “I am not a popular person here. That’s all I’ll say for now.”
The legend Miss Midwinter had told them about the large stone in the village echoed in Alec’s mind. The story of how the bell ringers had failed to turn it last year and what it supposedly meant: the return of the devil. Alec looked at the strange man before him—red embers reflected in his dark eyes—and felt a shiver snake up his neck.
I shall be told that a person has no bent for dancing; to which I reply we can always learn when we wish to do so.
—Pierre Rameau, The Dancing Master, 1725
Chapter 9
The following day, Alec and Mr. Barlow inspected the estate’s tenant cottages—noting which cobbed exteriors, thatched roofs, or stone walls needed repairing. Alec wrote as fast as he could with a stubby drawing pencil, taking notes as Mr. Barlow poked and prodded, reporting his findings for Alec to inscribe.
On their way back to the manor, they passed the paddock where Miss Midwinter was again putting her brown mare through a course of rail jumps. Today she wore a deep green habit with a short snug spencer that accentuated the curve of her waist, often lost in the shapeless fashions of the day. Her black brimmed hat was nearly as tall as a man’s topper.
She trotted her horse toward the fence when she saw them. “Hello, Barlow. Mr. Valcourt tells me he has a horse but cannot ride it. I told him you were the very person to remedy that.”
The last bit about Barlow was news to Alec, but he did not contradict her.
The estate manager’s brows rose. “And why would you say such a foolhardy thing, miss?”
“It is not foolhardy, Barlow. As well you know.” She turned to Alec. “Mr. Barlow is too modest to own it, but he is an excellent horseman. Father put him in charge of selecting and training all our horses.” Her eyes twinkled. “I think he used to bewitch them with that violin of his.”
Alec looked at the man in surprise. “Do you play, Mr. Barlow?”
“Not anymore,” he gruffly replied. “No time for it.”
Julia continued, “Of course, that was before Mother raised him to his current lofty position, and now he believes himself far above the notice of mere horseflesh.”
“Not at all, miss. But Isaacs runs the stables now. Not I.”
Ignoring his demur, she continued, “Barlow rose through the ranks like no one I’ve ever known. Stable hand when just a lad, then groom, then coachman, then estate manager. Apparently he enjoys spending his days sitting in cramped, airless offices with solicitors and tradesmen. I’m sure the thought of a grassy paddock on a fine spring day with only a promising horse and birdsong for company no longer appeals to him.”
“I didn’t say that, miss,” Barlow objected. “It’s true that now and again I miss the old days, but you’ll not hear me complain.”
“Of course not. You are all goodness. So you will help poor Mr. Valcourt, then? Say you will, Barlow. For me?”
He regarded her lovely, earnest face. “Oh, very well, miss.” He glanced dourly at Alec. “Always could get me to do anything she wanted.”
“So I see,” Alec said. “And in this instance, I am grateful.”
The next day, his uncle’s manservant bridled and saddled the dun horse for him. But Alec didn’t bother trying to mount. Instead he led the horse by the reins to Buckleigh Manor, ignoring the questioning looks of those he passed on his way. Reaching the estate, Alec led the horse back to the stable yard, where a young groom offered to remove its bridle and saddle. They decided to leave the horse in the fenced paddock for the morning. He and Barlow would have their first lesson at midday.
At the appointed time, Alec returned to the paddock, where the groom had the horse saddled and waiting. Mr. Barlow nodded. “All right. Let’s see what he does.”
While Miss Midwinter and Barlow looked on, Alec approached the horse’s left side, hoping to mount, but the wary-eyed creature sidestepped. Alec advanced again, and the horse sidestepped again.
“Are you trying to teach him to dance?” Julia teased.
Alec grumbled, “I would make a better job of it.”
Perhaps a muzzle rub or chin scratch would help. He stepped forward toward the horse’s head. The gelding stepped back. He extended a placating hand. “It’s all right.”
Another step forward. Another step back.
Ready to give up, Alec backed away. But the fool horse stepped forward, toward him.
“He is following your lead!” Julia exclaimed.
Alec regarded the horse. “I’ve had slower pupils.”
Elbows on the rail, Barlow asked, “Where did your uncle say he got him?”
“A client of his.”
Barlow said dryly, “A client from a circus?”
“Very funny. Look, if you don’t want to help, just say so.”
“No, I never said that. Now that I’ve had a look at him and see what we’re up against, I am ready to
take a turn.” Barlow let himself in the gate. “May I?”
Alec gestured toward the horse. “Please. By all means.”
“What’s his name?”
“Apollo. Though my uncle had been calling him, simply, Dun.”
Barlow frowned. “How would Mr. Ramsay like it if I began calling him silver side-whiskers?”
Julia stifled a laugh. Alec, however, was torn between offense on his uncle’s behalf and laughing out loud.
“Horses are smart,” Barlow continued. “He knows his name, assuming he’s been called more than ‘Hey, you.’”
“Easy, Barlow,” Julia soothed. “Not everyone loves horses as much as you and I do.”
Barlow pursed his lip in disapproval. “A pity too.” He drew himself up. “Well, leave him to me for the time being. I’ll introduce myself and let him get used to me. Call him Apollo from now on, mind?”
Letting himself from the paddock, Alec said, “I shall. Thank you.”
Alec walked alongside Miss Midwinter back to the house.
“You are clearly very fond of Mr. Barlow,” he began. “And he of you.”
She nodded. “Yes. He has been more like a father to me than my own father was in many ways. Mother respects Barlow but doesn’t like me spending too much time with him—with anyone in her employ, for that matter.” She sent him a pointed look. “I think she keeps him busy to spite me.”
“I don’t know. There is a great deal to do to keep an estate of this size running smoothly, as I am learning.”
“Then, I wonder Mother didn’t hire a clerk long before now.”
“Oh, I think Barlow, busy though he may be, was handling things fairly well without me. Some of my tasks seem like busywork. But hopefully he’ll come to trust me and allow me to do more real work.”
“I hope so too. Then perhaps he’ll have more time for me.” She grinned. “And your horse.”
Alec sat at his small desk a short while later, balancing the postage log at Mr. Barlow’s request. The manager was meeting with Lady Amelia in the library, so the office was quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock. Alec relished the rare moments of solitude, as well as the task at hand.
The Dancing Master Page 11
