The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  Questions paraded through her mind. She told herself to wait, to think through all the possibilities before rushing off to confront her mother—not to mention the likely consequences of acknowledging she’d entered the attic’s forbidden territory.

  Even so, she found her feet striding down the corridor and into her mother’s bedchamber, only to remember that she had gone out.

  This is better, Julia told herself. It would give her time to compose her thoughts, to decide how best to wrest the truth from her mother.

  Alec and Desmond met at the old academy in the High Street as planned. Taking the yet untried key from his pocket, Alec offered it to Desmond. “Want to do the honors?”

  Desmond waved the offer away, gesturing for Alec to unlock the door. The lock was stiff from disuse but with a bit of rattling finally gave. Alec opened the door and the two men walked inside. Dusty damp air met Alec’s nose. The floorboards squeaked, and something skittered away in the darkness. Mice, he guessed.

  Extracting a matchstick from his pocket, Desmond stepped back out to the street, lifted the globe off a streetlamp to ignite the tinder, and carried it inside. He moved around the room, lighting several candle sconces on the walls. “You’ll have to get more tapers. I’ll check the storeroom. There might be some old ones still there.”

  The sconces gave off ample light for Alec to get a better look at the place. Much was as he’d surmised—the long room with wooden plank floor, barrels, crates, chairs in various states of repair around its perimeter, and a large dusty mirror covering one wall.

  Alec glanced at the former dancing master. “So this is where you taught.”

  Desmond looked around the candlelit room, his eyes glittering with a hundred memories.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “Were you any good?” Alec asked, hoping his teasing tone was evident.

  Desmond smirked. “I like to think so.”

  “Do you ever miss it?”

  The man considered, then shook his head. “No. Too many bad memories welded with the good. There’s no separating them.” Desmond gestured with his hand. “Well, take a good look. Make sure you know what you’re in for.”

  Alec slowly walked around the room, surveying its condition. The wooden floor was dirty and in need of refinishing yet would be good enough after a thorough cleaning. The roof leaked over the front bow window—a dark stain trickled down the adjacent wall, marring the yellow wall coverings. But he saw no other water damage, so hopefully the roof was otherwise sound.

  Desmond lit a candle lamp and led the way into the back room. The small chamber enclosed the steep narrow staircase to rooms above. It also held a small desk with slots for receipts and ledgers, and floor-to-ceiling shelves, empty except for a half-empty box of tapers, a few pairs of shoes, and scatterings of mouse droppings.

  Desmond gestured up the stairs. “There is a small apartment up there, but I am afraid it has become a refuge for cast-off furnishings and other things over the years. If you want to use those rooms as well, we could see about moving everything out. . . .”

  Alec shook his head. It was premature to think about moving in. He had to see if he could make a go of the business before he even considered leaving his uncle’s home. “I’m only interested in the academy for now.”

  Desmond nodded, his attention snagged by a pair of high-heeled dancing shoes on the shelf. “I can’t believe these are still here.” He picked one up, inspecting the stiff, dried leather.

  “Yours?”

  “No. The man who owned the place before me. I never favored tall heels, but he was quite short and always wore them when teaching.”

  Curiosity piqued, Alec said, “I followed my father and grandfather into the profession. May I ask how a blacksmith’s son came into it?”

  A ghost of a smile touched Desmond’s mouth. “How much time do you have?”

  “All night, if you need.”

  “Very well.” He set the shoe down and led the way back into the main room. “I began helping my father in the forge when I was no more than five or six. You’d think it would be dangerous for a wee bairn, but one burn teaches little hands quickly. I liked being with my father. And I wanted nothing more than to be a smith like him one day.

  “But when I was ten or so, my parents began allowing me to walk alone into the village now and again to buy a sweet or seek out mates for a game of cricket. One day, I heard music coming from somewhere in the High Street. I followed the sound and ended up here, at that window.” He pointed to the leaky bow window. “Curious, I looked in and watched the old dancing master. He was rail-thin but quite elegant in his natty tailcoat and shiny dancing shoes. And the music he drew from his fiddle . . . Some tunes stately and beautiful, others so lively I could not help tapping my toes right there on the walkway.

  “I found myself coming here as often as I could to watch him play or teach.” Desmond glanced toward the corner, to where a coat tree stood. Beside it leaned a walking stick. He strode over and picked it up as he continued, “I can still see him standing here, tapping out the counts and sternly admonishing some hapless merchant’s daughter or clergyman’s son. But when his pupils had mastered the steps, he would lay aside the stick and play while they danced. That’s what I liked best.

  “One day, the old dandy startled me by opening the door and asking me if I liked what I saw. I mumbled that I did and he invited me in. He handed me a broom and asked if I was interested in earning a bit of money. So I began to help him, sweeping up, polishing that old mirror, running over to the inn for his dinner. My mother was happy with the extra money—though, looking back, I can see that my father was wary.

  “I still worked with him at the forge in the mornings but began spending more and more of my afternoons and evenings here. I soon found myself trying to mimic the steps, though my partner was only a broom.” He chuckled. “At all events, the old man took an interest in me. He was a bachelor—never married, no children. I think he was looking ahead to the end of his life and realizing he had no one to leave the place to. So he took me on as an apprentice of sorts, though, generously, he required no apprentice fee or formal arrangement. I think he knew my father would not have agreed, having always planned for me to work with him in the forge. I was sorry to hurt my father’s feelings, but Mr. Sharp opened a new world to me. He lent me books and taught me how to read music and play the violin, along with fencing and dancing.

  “I met people I never would have otherwise—gentlemen, lovely accomplished girls, and fine ladies. The forge could not compete. Eventually my father took on an apprentice, freeing me to spend more time in the academy.

  “When I was eighteen, Mr. Sharp fell ill. I took over his classes until he recovered. After that, he sent me to London to learn the latest dances and acquire taste and refinement. When I returned, he began sending me out to teach his private lessons, because he no longer wanted to bother with the travel. I enjoyed getting a glimpse into the homes of the gentry, and eventually even the great Buckleigh Manor. . . .”

  Desmond’s gaze became wistful, and his words trailed away.

  Then he inhaled and began again. “My father’s apprentice finished his seven-year term and then worked for my father at full wages for a few years. Unfortunately he chose to leave Beaworthy for a more lucrative position in Plymouth. But by then, Mr. Sharp had died and had left his academy to me.”

  Desmond slowly shook his head. “He had no family of his own, so he made me family—treated me like his own son. How sorry I was to squander all the man’s grand dreams for me a few years later, when I had to abandon the academy he had worked so hard to establish. . . .” Again his words trailed away.

  With an air of solemn ceremony, Desmond leaned the walking stick back into the corner and returned to the present, looking around the room once more. “I’m afraid it’s in worse repair than I guessed it would be.”

  “Uninhabited places tend to deteriorate,” Alec observed. “It ne
eds a few repairs and a thorough cleaning, but I expected that.”

  “Do you still want to try and make a go of it? You’re perfectly free to change your mind.”

  “I don’t want to change my mind.”

  Alec held out his hand, and John Desmond shook it.

  Mr. Turner will attend at any house from 6 o’clock in the evening, on grown Gentlemen and Ladies, and assures the utmost Secrecy shall be kept till they are capable of exhibiting in high taste.

  —Boston Gazette & Country Journal, 1774

  Chapter 17

  The next morning, Julia rose even before the housemaid entered and hurriedly readied for the day, choosing a simple day dress with the fewest fastenings, and pinning up her hair herself.

  She was oddly nervous, but why should she be? The infant gown was probably her own, or perhaps even her mother’s. And as Patience had guessed, likely a gift from some poor relation or favored tenant farmer. And the letter? Who knew. But it was unlikely to affect her, beyond the scolding she was certain to receive for unearthing it in the first place.

  Julia let herself into her mother’s dressing room, hoping to catch her before she went down for breakfast.

  Her mother looked up from her dressing table mirror as Doyle finished pinning her hair. Julia held both items behind her back, hoping to appear at ease, though doubting she managed the feat.

  Doyle slanted her a look, sweeping from her face to her hidden hands, speculation glinting in her dark eyes. She returned to her task. “How’s that, my lady?”

  “Lovely. As always. Thank you, Doyle.” Her mother rose and turned to the door.

  “Mamma, may I have a word before we go down?”

  Her mother hesitated, whether more taken aback by the request or by the sweet tone in which it was delivered, Julia was not certain.

  Doyle paused as well, her gaze again locking on Julia’s.

  Julia asked politely, “Doyle, would you give us a moment?”

  Doyle glanced at her mistress, perhaps hoping for a rebuttal, but Lady Amelia dismissed her. “Thank you, Doyle. That will be all.”

  When the lady’s maid had left, Julia held forth the infant gown like a white flag and asked quietly, “Whose gown is this?”

  Her mother stared, her startled gaze flicking from the gown to Julia’s expectant face. “Where did you find that?”

  “In the attic.”

  “In the trunk I asked you not to open?”

  “No. In the hidden drawer at the bottom.”

  “A hidden drawer? How did you—?”

  “It was ajar,” Julia interrupted. “You must have failed to close it properly when you were last up there.”

  Her mother shook her head. “I have not ventured up those stairs in years.”

  If she had not opened the drawer, then who had? Doyle? But her thoughts quickly returned to the more pressing question.

  “Was it my gown?”

  Her mother took the gown in her hands, and ran her fingertips over the green embroidery. “I . . . believe so.” She hesitated. “But I have not looked at your baby clothes in years. Most we gave to the poor after you’d outgrown them.”

  So much for sentimental affection, Julia thought.

  Julia moved on to the letter. She unfolded it and extended it toward her mother. “I found this letter in the drawer as well. Addressed to someone named Grace Amelia.”

  Her mother laid the gown aside and accepted the letter. Did her fingers tremble?

  Julia waited while she read it, then asked, “Who is Grace? And why do you have her letter in your trunk?”

  She expected her mother to become livid and rail, “Sneaking around and reading other people’s post, Julia? How could you?” Yet her mother said none of those things. Her face grew not livid red but pale.

  She rose and stepped to the window. Concocting a believable reply? “That trunk is not mine. It belongs to someone else.”

  Julia had not expected that. “Who?”

  “No one you know. It was left with me for safekeeping—years ago—and never reclaimed.”

  “I don’t understand. Who wrote that letter? And why do you have her things?”

  The door opened, and Doyle entered without knocking, her inquisitive gaze darting from one woman to the other before lighting on the small gown.

  With effort she returned her gaze to her mistress. “Forgive me, my lady,” she began, “but Hutchings asked me to let you know the rector has arrived. He has put him in the library as you requested.”

  “Oh yes. I quite forgot.” Her mother sighed and turned to Julia. “I am sorry, Julia. The rector is already here or I would postpone. I will keep our meeting as brief as may be, and then we shall talk. All right?”

  Julia had little choice. Of course her mother would choose to speak to the rector, to anyone, over her. Julia swept from the room and flew down the stairs, nearly colliding with the stern butler as she rounded the rail. Forgoing bonnet and gloves, she hurried from the manor toward her place of refuge.

  As she hastened across the lawn, Julia’s mind felt troubled, and her spirit restless. She knew her mother was hiding something. Was she keeping it from her because she thought her an untrustworthy child, too immature to handle the truth? It reminded Julia of the other ways her mother treated her like a child. Dictating whom she could spend time with, and what pastimes were and were not acceptable. She was nineteen—not a little girl any longer.

  Julia strode through the rose garden to the door in the churchyard wall. Pushing through it, she walked around the old church toward its entrance. She was about to go inside and up into the tower when she noticed a man standing several yards off, head bowed, hat in hand. He was standing, she realized, before the family plot—the graves of Buckleighs and her father.

  Quietly, she walked over to him. She did not recognize the man, she did not think. He was perhaps forty or a bit older. Tall and athletic-looking, with a tan complexion and dark hair a bit long not to be held back in a queue. His clothes placed him neither as a well-dressed gentleman nor a laborer or farmer.

  Her foot scuffed a pebble across the path, and he glanced up. He looked at her with an odd expression on his handsome face as she approached.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello,” he replied, and then turned back to the graves.

  He said nothing further, so neither did she. She stood a yard or so away from him, facing the plot as he did. She tried to figure out which grave he was there to visit. He stood nearest to the grave of Graham Buckleigh, she thought. Though the graves of her grandfather and aunt were nearby as well.

  Julia was not enamored with silence. Quietly, she asked, “Did you know them?”

  For a moment, he said nothing. She felt his gaze flash to her profile, and then he said in a low, melodic voice, “I was acquainted with them, aye. But long ago, when we were young.”

  “Then you have the advantage, sir. For I never knew them.”

  He nodded toward a headstone. “You remind me of her.”

  She followed his gaze. “Lady Anne? She was my aunt. My mother’s sister.”

  He nodded without surprise. He apparently already knew or guessed who she was.

  Glancing at the name engraved on her aunt’s headstone, she said unnecessarily, “She married a Tremelling. I never met him either.”

  “Yes, I heard she married and had a child,” he said. “Lady Amelia as well.”

  He glanced at her again, and she noticed how dark his eyes were. Like Liberty’s.

  She said, “My aunt died in childbirth, her child with her.”

  “I am sorry.”

  She shrugged. “Such things are unfortunately common.”

  “Yes.” A moment of silence passed, and then he gestured toward the largest of the stately graves. “And Arthur Midwinter?”

  She nodded. “My father.”

  “Him I never met. But I am sorry for your loss. Is your mother bearing up well?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “
Is she in good health?”

  Julia glanced at him in surprise. Felt a flicker of suspicion at the personal question. “She enjoys excellent health. Why do you ask, Mr. . . . ?”

  The man drew himself up. “Forgive me. I will not trespass any longer.”

  The man bowed, replaced his hat, and turned away. She watched him walk from the churchyard, something about his graceful gait reminding her of Alec Valcourt.

  The rector’s pony cart passed by, and Julia noticed the stranger pull his hat down low and look to the ground. But then Julia forgot about the man, determined as she was to continue her conversation with her mother.

  When Julia returned to the house, Lady Amelia was waiting for her.

  “Come up to my dressing room,” she said flatly. “We can talk there.”

  Julia followed her up the stairs and down the corridor. Once inside the feminine chamber, her mother surprised her by locking the door. She indicated that Julia should sit in the armchair while she sat on the dressing table stool.

  Julia clasped her damp hands together and waited, unaccountably nervous. Again whispers of foreboding spoke in a strange tongue in her mind, but she did not comprehend them. Her limbs felt jumpy in eagerness and . . . fear. Was her mother about to reveal a juicy scandal or chilling family secret? She had not locked the door merely to tell her there was nothing to tell.

  Her mother appeared nervous as well. She rose and began to pace back and forth across the small room.

  Julia longed to fill the tense silence. The conversation in the churchyard still fresh in her mind, she asked, “Your sister died in childbirth—is that right?”

  Her mother’s face flickered in surprise at the question, but she did not hesitate to answer. “Shortly afterward, yes.”

  Julia considered this, and asked, “Then, did your sister write that letter?”

  Her mother looked at her, eyes watchful. “Yes.”

  “And the child died as well?”

  Her mother again paced across the small chamber like a bird in a cage.