The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  “Wondered what it might cost to let it—that’s all.”

  Desmond stilled. “For what purpose?”

  Alec hesitated. This man had only recently returned to Beaworthy. How long had he been gone? Perhaps he did not know about the unwritten law and would not laugh and naysay as others would. Besides, he had seen the man playing his pipe for a ball, so he likely held no scruples against dancing.

  “I thought I might let it to teach fencing, and . . . dancing.”

  The man’s brows rose. “Dancing?”

  Alec sighed at the man’s incredulity. “That was my profession in London. I was a dancing and fencing master there.”

  The man held his gaze a moment, then looked down, as though suddenly interested in the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

  “I don’t think that will go over well here, friend.”

  “So you know about the ban on dancing?”

  Desmond looked out into the distance and said softly, “Aye. I know.” Then he asked quietly, “Do you know why?”

  “Why no dancing?” Alec clarified. At Desmond’s nod, he continued. “I know it was Lady Amelia’s doing. At first I thought it went against her religion, that she was a Quaker or something, though I see her regularly enough at St. Michael’s. But her daughter told me—”

  “You are acquainted with her daughter?” Desmond asked abruptly.

  Alec shrugged. “Yes. I worked as clerk at Buckleigh Manor for a time, and we—”

  “Interesting,” Desmond interrupted. “Is Lady Amelia aware of your former profession?”

  “Yes. I believe that is why she offered me the post.”

  He tilted his head to the side, dark eyes speculative. “You don’t say.”

  “It is also partly why she removed me from that same post earlier today.”

  He raised his brow in query and waited for Alec to enlighten him.

  Alec winced. “She’d written to a friend in London to plumb the Valcourt reputation there. Today she received her friend’s reply.”

  Desmond’s brows remained high, awaiting further explanation. But Alec didn’t have the energy to deliver one. “It’s nothing that affects my suitability as a tenant, I assure you.”

  Desmond did not push him. Instead, he asked, “Does the daughter look like her mother?”

  Alec was momentarily taken aback by the question, the change in topic. He shrugged. “There might be some resemblance, I suppose, though not a striking one. Lady Amelia’s hair is darker, but I believe their eyes are similar. Though I am not the best judge of such things.”

  Desmond nodded his understanding.

  Alec thought, then added, “Their personalities are very different—and that, I think, makes them seem less alike.”

  “Different how?”

  “Oh . . .” Alec puffed out his cheeks in thought. “Julia—that is, Miss Midwinter—is all liveliness and changeability. Rapturous one moment and wistful the next. Given to frequent smiles and laughter. She—”

  Alec broke off, aware of Desmond studying him closely. Knowingly. He felt warmth creep up his neck and changed course. “On the other hand, I don’t believe I’ve seen Lady Amelia genuinely smile once—and certainly never heard her laugh. Granted, I don’t know her well, but she certainly doesn’t seem happy.”

  Alec glanced over and found Desmond staring off into the distance again. “No, I don’t imagine she is.”

  Having no wish to be uncharitable, Alec said, “But then, she is a widow, so I suppose a certain . . . sobriety must be expected.” He added, “Though according to her daughter, Lady Amelia has never been happy.”

  Desmond gave him a sidelong glance and shook his head. “That’s not true.”

  “No?” Alec asked in surprise.

  Desmond skirted his gaze. “I knew her when she was young, growing up here as I did. Though that was before she married, or had a child, or lost her family.”

  Alec regarded the man’s profile with interest, wanting to ask him questions but unsure where to start. He hardly had a long enough acquaintance with the man to ask personal, prying questions.

  Desmond asked a question of his own. “And how did her daughter respond when you asked why Lady Amelia was set against dancing?”

  “She said it had something to do with her uncle being killed in a drunken brawl at the last village dance.”

  Desmond shook his head. “It was no drunken brawl. It was a duel. And both men perfectly sober.”

  Alec gaped. “How do you know? Were you there?”

  Desmond nodded bleakly. “It did happen during the May Day dance, but the dance itself wasn’t to blame.” Desmond’s eyes shimmered in memory. “The fault lay with the dancing master himself.”

  Alec stared as realization dawned. He breathed, “You were the dancing master . . . ?”

  Desmond hesitated, then nodded.

  “Were you responsible?”

  A grimace of pain contorted the man’s handsome face. “For her brother’s death? Yes, God forgive me, I was. I suppose had I not been there, the rest might have been avoided as well.”

  Desmond drew himself up. “It’s all last year’s thatch at this point. And, friend, a word of advice? It’s obvious you admire Miss Midwinter, but sheathe your heart. You would never be allowed to marry her.”

  Alec ducked his head. It was his turn to avoid the other man’s gaze. “I know that,” he said, sheepish. But did he? Did he really believe it?

  Desmond turned away and bent over his workbench. Alec thought it was the end of their meeting. When Desmond turned back, however, he handed him a scrap of paper inscribed with a modest figure. “This is the rate we set some time ago, but let me talk with my father before we go any further. Come back tomorrow, all right?”

  Alec nodded, though he felt little victory. Suddenly the prospect of letting the place held less appeal than it had a few minutes before.

  Not to go back, is somewhat to advance, And men must walk, at least, before they dance.

  —Alexander Pope

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, Alec rose early and volunteered to help his uncle’s manservant prepare the large garden plot for planting seed potatoes and other vegetables. Old Abe was clearly surprised by the offer but did not refuse.

  Pushing the wooden plow with its dull blade, Alec tilled row by row—stopping only to dig out roots or stones by hand and then continuing on until his muscles burned and sweat ran down his back. He needed the exercise, the exertion, and found the strenuous labor oddly satisfying. He finished by digging shallow trenches according to Abe’s instructions. He offered to plant the sprouted seed potatoes as well, but Abe waved him away, muttering that he wasn’t about to let some young buck work him out of a job.

  Alec cleaned himself up and dressed to face the day.

  After the midday meal, he steeled himself and walked over to Buckleigh Manor to retrieve Apollo. The weather was damp and grey fog hung low in the air, mirroring his dismal mood. As he walked, scenes from the previous day returned to him, increasing his depression of spirits. Lady Amelia’s cool dismissal. His talk with Desmond at the forge. How Alec had hoped to return to his uncle’s house possessing an alternate plan to present to his family, to soften the blow of his bad news.

  But the trip to the forge had not resulted in the clear path he had hoped for. Desmond would discuss it with his father and let him know. Was it only the rate he was unsure of—or was it Alec’s suitability as a tenant? And what of the reverse—did Alec really want to enter into any contract with a man who had killed another in a duel—her ladyship’s brother no less?

  His stomach soured at the thought.

  Then his mood sank further when he recalled his mother’s wide-eyed dismay and his uncle’s stiff-lipped disapproval when Alec had confessed he’d lost his position at the manor.

  “What did you do?” his uncle had asked.

  Alec hesitated, then said, “She inquired into my background.” But could he really blame it all on the past?
Had he not provoked her into doing so by presuming to spend time with her daughter?

  “And why did she feel the need to do that?” Cornelius Ramsay had asked shrewdly, giving Alec a glimpse of the keen solicitor he truly was.

  His mother frowned. “Brother, I am sure Alec did nothing to—”

  Alec interrupted her with a hand to her shoulder. “It’s all right, Mamma. Uncle is right. I brought it on myself.”

  After the unhappy scene, Aurora had followed him upstairs and squeezed his arm. “It isn’t your fault, Alec. Don’t take it to heart.”

  He’d pressed his eyes shut. “Aurora, it is time I stopped blaming others for all my troubles. My position at Buckleigh Manor and my conduct there were my responsibility. You and Mamma are my responsibility, and I am done trying to pass the blame.”

  Now, as Alec passed through the Buckleigh Manor gate, he felt for the first time that he deserved the lion’s scowl. He walked around the ornamental lake, giving the house a wide berth on his way to the stables. He should have taken Apollo back to his uncle’s after he’d broken Barlow’s arm, but Barlow and even Miss Midwinter had encouraged Alec to leave Apollo so they could continue to work with him. And both horse and horseman had become better trained, though Alec knew he was still far from a skilled equestrian.

  Reaching the stables, Alec began to saddle Apollo on his own. Young Tommy earnestly offered to help, his sad eyes telling Alec he knew neither horse nor rider would be back. He thanked the groom, and Mr. Isaacs, for all their help and generosity in allowing him to board his horse there these several weeks.

  When he led Apollo out, there stood Mr. Barlow waiting for him. Perhaps he’d seen Alec walk past from the office window or had simply anticipated his intentions.

  Looking uncomfortable, Barlow said, “Her ladyship didn’t go into the particulars. But if you misrepresented your character or qualifications, I cannot blame her. I trusted you, Mr. Valcourt. I hope I did not err in doing so.”

  “You did not err, sir. And I have never breathed a word about . . . any duty I have undertaken here.”

  Barlow nodded with a distracted frown, and Alec’s stomach clenched at the thought of disappointing and disillusioning this man.

  Alec added, “And I am deeply grateful for all your help, sir. With Apollo and . . . everything.”

  Again, that terse nod, and then the manager turned and walked away, hands behind his back.

  Alec would have liked to shake his hand, but he doubted the gesture would have been accepted or appreciated.

  Tommy brought out a pair of riding gloves Alec had forgotten, and Alec thanked the groom again. Then he mounted without trouble.

  As he rode past the house a few minutes later, he looked through the office window, and there stood Barlow. Alec halted Apollo and raised a hand.

  Barlow hesitated, then raised his own hand in solemn farewell.

  Miss Midwinter, he noticed, had not come out to say good-bye. No doubt a wise move on her part, but still it chafed. As he trotted away from Buckleigh Manor, he determined to push her from his restless thoughts.

  He glimpsed a flicker of movement over the churchyard wall and looked over, his foolish heart constricting. All he could see was something bobbing beyond the stone wall—a feather in a woman’s hat as she walked past? He did not recall Julia wearing a feathered hat.

  Not wishing her or anyone to witness his mortifying retreat, Alec did not investigate to see who was passing by on her way to Buckleigh Manor. Instead he set his face in the opposite direction.

  He urged Apollo into a canter, as though speed would help him outrun the memories of their times together, the image of her face, her two faces—smiling lively Julia and vulnerable lost Julia. And their kiss . . . Alec knew he should regret it, but he did not. Not anymore.

  Why? Why her? he asked his heart. She was unsuitable. Changeable. A determined flirt. She didn’t seem to care what he thought of her—what anyone thought of her. Was that part of her appeal? Worse yet, she was expected to marry another man. How could Alec compete with wealthy, handsome James Allen?

  He rode on, urging Apollo off the Buckleigh Road and across the open meadow.

  Why could he not moon over a lady like Patience Allen, above him as well, though perfectly sweet in character and temperament? Or Tess Thorne—pretty, full of faith, and closer to his social equal? He must force himself to put Miss Midwinter from his mind. He must. He would.

  Lady Amelia stared at herself in her dressing table mirror. She did not like what she saw. Her hair was still thick and auburn, her jaw still firm. She was three and forty, yet to her critical eye she appeared older. Widowhood did not suit her. Nor, apparently, did motherhood. Had worry for Julia caused the lines across her brow, the dull wan complexion? Or was it guilt?

  Probably both.

  She remembered with discomfort the scene with Mr. Valcourt over the letter and his dismissal. Her cool superiority when she’d insisted truth was always the best way.

  Again she heard Mr. Valcourt’s challenge, “Can you truly say that?” echo in her memory.

  What did he know? Had Lieutenant Tremelling told him? Mr. Valcourt’s uncle had been Mr. Midwinter’s solicitor—might he have confided in Mr. Ramsay and he in turn mentioned something to his nephew?

  Please no. Not yet. I want to tell her myself. But how? she silently asked her reflection. She hates me as it is. . . .

  With a sigh, Amelia rose and went down to the library.

  When the footman announced a caller, a slurry of irritation, dread, and guilt rained down on Amelia. She would not refuse to see the woman, though she was tempted to do so. But she knew neither of them would enjoy the meeting.

  Mrs. Valcourt entered still wearing her coat. Hopefully that meant she did not plan to stay long. Amelia gestured her nearer, staying seated behind her desk, as though it might shield her from the unpleasantness ahead.

  The lonely feather atop Mrs. Valcourt’s outmoded hat quivered, but she did not look nervous. Rather she appeared resolute. Determined.

  Amelia indicated a chair, but the woman shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  Amelia thought it best to take charge of the conversation straightaway. “I do hope, Mrs. Valcourt, that you have not come to ask me to reinstate your son.”

  “I am here only to tell you the truth.” The woman spoke softly but with conviction.

  “Good. Better to allow our children to face the consequences of their actions and learn from their mistakes. Do you not agree?”

  “I do agree, my lady. However, in this instance, Alec is not guilty of the accusations laid at his door.”

  Inwardly, Amelia groaned. Had Mr. Valcourt persuaded his naïve mother of his innocence? She hated to be the one to disillusion her. Amelia clasped her hands on the desk. “Mrs. Valcourt, I realize mothers are often reluctant to acknowledge the flaws of their own offspring. But your son is a man, after all. Are you saying he is incapable of wrongdoing, of becoming involved with a female pupil?”

  Mrs. Valcourt’s eyes flashed. “I am fully aware that my son is not perfect. Of course he is capable of making mistakes. We are all of us guilty of some sin or other. However, this particular sin you refer to is my husband’s and not Alec’s.”

  “But the young woman in question specifically named Mr. Valcourt—” Amelia broke off in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you are trying to shift blame to the other Mr. Valcourt, who can no longer defend himself. How convenient for everyone, except of course, the memory of your dear departed husband.”

  Mrs. Valcourt shook her head, thin mouth twisted bitterly. “He is neither, my lady.”

  Amelia stared at the woman, felt a frown pucker her face. More wrinkles. “What do you mean? Not dear . . . or not departed?”

  “Neither, as I said. He is not dead. At least, not as far as we know.”

  “But . . .” Amelia sputtered, “you wear black.”

  The woman nodded. “Yet you have likely noticed Aurora and Alec don’t. Perhaps you thought the
m disrespectful, not to honor their father by remaining in mourning for the full six months.”

  “It did cross my mind, yes.”

  “Well, now you know better.”

  Amelia searched her memory. “I am certain you told us he was dead.”

  “I never said so.” Mrs. Valcourt shook her head. “We said he was gone, and he is. Fled the country to avoid repercussions.”

  “But you let us assume it.”

  Mrs. Valcourt nodded. “When I put on mourning in London, I had no intention of deceiving anyone. It was a genuine reaction—my husband, my marriage, my former life . . . were dead to me. But continuing to wear it here was deceitful, I own. But it was also—”

  “Expedient for pretense?” Amelia suggested. “For insinuating yourselves into our society, our good graces?”

  “Yes, all of that,” the woman agreed, with gravity though little evidence of remorse. “But it also spared my children and me the great shame of having to explain the truth of why my husband was not with us. I thought it the lesser of evils.”

  Amelia shook her head, self-righteous anger simmering within. “Truth is always the better way.” Those words again. She hoped God would forgive her.

  Mrs. Valcourt looked her directly in the eye, held her gaze for two ticks of the mantel clock. Two ticks too long.

  “Are you telling me you have never been tempted to shield your daughter from a painful truth?” she asked. “Can you not understand, at least a little, a mother’s desire to protect her children from the shame caused by the wrongdoing of a parent? Their own flesh and blood?”

  Amelia felt a knife of painful realization slice her heart. Yes, she could well understand the desire to shield her daughter from her parents’ shame. From mistakes not of her own making. But Amelia said nothing of this to Mrs. Valcourt. What a hypocrite I am.

  Mrs. Valcourt continued, “Well. However poorly you think of me, I am not willing that Alec’s reputation should suffer. That he should suffer because of his father’s wrongdoing. Though he and his sister have, in fact, already suffered a great deal through all of this. As have I.”