The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  She picked up a letter—the letter, Julia realized—and shook her head.

  “But . . .” Julia sputtered, “I grew up believing Lady Anne’s child had died along with her.”

  “That is what we allowed you to believe, though we never actually said so—”

  The words reminded Julia of how the Valcourts had allowed them to believe their father had died, though they’d never come out and said the words.

  But if the child did not die, where was she? Julia’s pulse rate quickened. Could it be?

  “Am I . . .” Julia’s words trailed away as her courage fled. Should she—could she—ask the audacious question? There was probably a simple explanation. No doubt her mother would shake her head and accuse her of having a childish imagination or of reading too many novels.

  But she had to know.

  Julia swallowed, pointed to the letter, and forced out, “Was I . . . Grace Amelia?”

  She steeled herself for her mother’s cutting rebuttal, her shocked offense, or hurt feelings over such a wild accusation.

  Her mother said nothing, merely stared down at the letter.

  Julia clenched her hands into damp fists. Was her mother counting to ten for patience? Hatching some story?

  Julia repeated more stridently, “Was I?”

  Unable to meet her gaze, Lady Amelia whispered, “Yes.”

  Julia’s heart thudded. Her chest tightened until she could hardly draw breath. Her mind whirled back over the years and dipped into possibilities, scenarios, and fearful conclusions. Did this not explain her mother’s disapproval, and her father’s cold indifference?

  Incredulous, Julia said, “Lady Anne is my mother.”

  “I am your mother,” Lady Amelia insisted, eyes flashing. “You share my blood. My name. I raised you as my own. You are my family.”

  Julia glared at her. “But you did not give me birth?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Exhaled wearily. “No.”

  Julia blinked, attempting to reorder her world, a part of her wanting to know every last detail, another part of her wishing she had never asked.

  Lady Anne—not her aunt, buried in the churchyard, but the woman who’d given her birth. Lady Amelia—not her mother but her aunt.

  “Why have you never told me?” Julia asked between clenched teeth.

  Lady Amelia seemed to shrink into herself for a moment, a cocoon bereft of its moth. But then she took a deep, shaky breath and resumed her usual ramrod-straight posture.

  “I have wanted to tell you for a long time. Have nearly done so on several occasions. Perhaps you recall your thirteenth birthday . . . ?”

  Julia thought back. That was the year she’d been given her locket, as well as the only present she’d ever received from her father. Mr. Midwinter had been called away to Torrington that day but left behind the strange little gift in his absence.

  Her mother had made a bigger fuss than usual over the occasion, she remembered, something about Julia nearing womanhood. There had been a special birthday supper for just the two of them, and Julia’s favorite lemon-iced cake, but she had immediately noticed a glaring absence of wrapped parcels.

  Probably recognizing her disappointed look, her mother had pressed her hand and said, “I have two things to give you, but . . . later, in my room. All right?”

  Ah! Julia had thought. Perhaps she would receive that new French gown she wanted.

  After dinner, they’d gone up to her mother’s bedchamber, Julia eagerly but her mother oddly nervous. There were two gifts on her side table. Something wrapped in plain brown paper, and a small white box with a gauzy blue bow. Too small for a gown, Julia noted with irritation. Pearls, perhaps?

  But when she’d opened the white box, all she saw inside was a plain gold locket, its scratched, dull finish telling her it was not even new.

  Her mother began, “It was Lady Anne’s . . .”

  Doyle had come in and busied herself in the dressing room. Her mother seemed disconcerted to see her, though her lady’s maid had always come and gone as she pleased.

  Ignoring her, Julia tore open the brown paper and found the unusual brass mermaid on a chain. Then Julia had gone and spoiled their pleasant evening. She didn’t remember her exact words but had blurted something peevish about receiving only her aunt’s old locket and some cheap brass toy when she’d longed for a French gown or pearls.

  Julia had lifted the small brass mermaid hanging from a slender metal tube attached to a chain too short to be a necklace. Frowning, she’d said, “I’m not even sure what this is. . . .”

  Lady Amelia opened her mouth, then closed it again, her expression conflicted.

  Doyle had come forward, glanced at her mistress, and then told Julia, “Why, it’s a gift from your father,” she said evenly. “Is that not so, my lady?”

  Surprise flashed through Julia. “From Father?”

  She looked at her mother for confirmation. “Is it really, Mamma?”

  Her mother hesitated. “Well . . . um, yes, he wanted you to have it.”

  “Why in the world would he give me this?” Julia had scoffed, even as she was inwardly touched.

  Clearly vexed, her mother extended her hand. “Well, you needn’t keep it if you don’t like.”

  “No.” Julia held it to her heart. “I want to keep it.”

  And she had.

  Now Julia felt a twinge of regret over her behavior but blinked it away. She had been thirteen after all.

  She inhaled and said, “I remember. That was the year I received my locket and the mermaid from Father.”

  Lady Amelia blinked, then murmured, “Oh, um, well . . .”

  A chill prickled over Julia, realization dawning. “Wait . . . I always thought it an odd gift, yet I was stupidly happy to have anything from him, so I never questioned. But Mr. Midwinter didn’t buy it for me, did he.”

  Lady Amelia shook her head. “I meant to tell you then, when I gave it to you along with Anne’s locket. But I didn’t think you were ready. And from then on you have seemed so distant. So set against me. I could do nothing right in your eyes. So I avoided it, fearing if I told you it would ruin our already tenuous relationship.”

  “You thought I was distant? Set against you? You are the one who is cold and critical.”

  Her mother’s eyes widened. “Is that how you see me?”

  “Yes.” She glimpsed the pain in Lady Amelia’s eyes, but Julia did not waver. It was the truth of how she felt.

  Julia winced and shook her head. “No wonder Mr. Midwinter never loved me. Deep down, I always knew he didn’t.”

  “Oh, Julia. I am so sorry.”

  “And since he died, you seem to have taken over his role as distant, disapproving parent.”

  Lady Amelia sighed, looking away. “I don’t mean to be disapproving, but I worry about you. So reckless. So much like . . .”

  “Like who? My real mother?” Julia straightened her shoulders and demanded, “If Lady Anne lived long enough to write that letter, she didn’t die in childbirth as I was led to believe. How did she die?”

  Lady Amelia twisted her hands. “I don’t know all the details. Anne was living in Plymouth at the time.”

  “Plymouth?”

  She nodded. “Her husband was a naval officer and was based there.”

  “You say her husband. Do you mean, my father?”

  Lady Amelia went on as though she had not heard the question. “I gather she contracted a fever during or after the birth. Such things are quite common, I’m afraid. Lieutenant Tremelling told me she held on for a week or so, but there was little the apothecary could do for her, and he hadn’t thought, or perhaps could not afford, to call in a physician.”

  Lady Anne not being able to afford something? That didn’t make sense.

  “Why did you not help her?”

  “I did not know of it. She and I had not been in contact for several months.”

  Julia frowned. “But she’s buried here, in the Buckleigh churchyard.�
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  “It was one of her last requests. And her husband and I honored it.”

  How strange to imagine the lovely Lady Anne of the gilt-framed portrait living in relative poverty in some small lodging house in Plymouth—dying there as well.

  “A month or so after Anne’s funeral, Lieutenant Tremelling brought you to me,” Lady Amelia said. “His ship was due to depart, and although there was enmity between us, he asked me to care for you.”

  “What a sacrifice that must have been for you.” Julia could not keep the acidic tone at bay. “I am surprised you agreed to such an onerous task.”

  Her lips tightened. “You are wrong, Julia. The moment I saw you, I wanted to agree. Though I needed to discuss the matter with Mr. Midwinter, of course.”

  “How he must have railed against it.” Julia swallowed the old feelings of rejection.

  “No. He left the decision to me.”

  Julia squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t understand. If I was your sister’s child, and you took me in after her death, why the need for secrecy? Why not raise me as your niece? Buckleigh Manor is not entailed. Would it not have come to me anyway, through Lady Anne, since you had no heir?”

  “It wasn’t about Buckleigh.”

  Julia scoffed. “It’s always about Buckleigh!”

  “Not this time.” Lady Amelia pressed her lips together, as if considering how much to say. “My sister’s reputation was not all it should have been. I thought it better, for your future, if you were thought to be my own child. It was not difficult to conceal the truth. A lady did not announce she was in a family way. Such things were not spoken of in polite company. Nor were adoptions spoken of openly. Even today, families almost always keep such things to themselves, unless there is some question of entailed properties or title, which in this case there was not. There was nothing illegal or unseemly in raising you as my own, Julia. I can think of at least one other family we both know who added to their number in similar discreet fashion.”

  Illogical embarrassment swept over Julia. “Does everyone else know? Am I the last to learn the truth?”

  “No, my dear,” Lady Amelia soothed. “Some people knew or guessed, I suppose, but they certainly would never have told you, the child. And in time the matter was largely forgotten. I confided in the former rector. He understood my desire to raise you as a Midwinter, and he’s the one who recorded your birth and baptism in the parish register. He was nearly like a grandfather to me, God rest his soul.”

  Julia thought about the date on Lady Anne’s headstone. “So I was actually born—what, about a month earlier than the birthday I’ve always celebrated?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did my real father agree to give me up—or did you force him?”

  Again, the accusatory tone cut like a whip.

  Lady Amelia grimly shook her head, her face mottled pale and red. “How you speak to me. Do you despise me so much?”

  Julia made no answer.

  Her mother turned away. “He was . . .” she began, then paused. She seemed to think the better of whatever she had been about to say, which made Julia suspect she was lying.

  “Lieutenant Tremelling was, of course, grieved indeed to part with you. I am sure he loved you a great deal. But he felt he was unable to care for you, being so often away at sea.”

  “Why have I never met him? Did you forbid him to visit me? Afraid your secret would get out?”

  Again the woman hesitated. “I . . . did mention the risk were he to come here.”

  “He wouldn’t have agreed to just give me away like that. Not forever. Not unless you bribed him or threatened him or something. Look me in the eye and tell me you did not coerce him.”

  Lady Amelia met her eyes briefly, before her troubled gaze skated away. “I did not threaten or force him. I give you my word.”

  “Your word? What is your word worth after all of this?” Julia slowly shook her head. “I cannot believe you kept all this from me.”

  Her mother said earnestly, “I only meant to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  “From cruel gossip. From being robbed of your rightful future—a good name, an untarnished reputation, the most advantageous marriage . . .”

  Julia tilted her head to one side, reading between the lines. “Is that what you meant about Lady Anne’s reputation? I was born too soon, is that it?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Yes. But your mother married long before you were born. You were legitimate—have no fear of that.”

  “Well, everything’s perfect, then, isn’t it,” Julia scoffed. “Legally legitimate, but in reality, some sailor’s by-blow.”

  Lady Amelia’s neck reddened. “Don’t use such ugly words.”

  “Why not? If it’s the truth?”

  “Truth is a strange thing, Julia. And not as simple as the self-righteous young like to believe.”

  That night, Julia tossed and turned for hours, scenes from her troubled childhood spinning through her mind. She again thought of the hurtful words she’d once heard her father—Mr. Midwinter—hurl at her mother. “You had better tighten the reins on that wild child while you still can,” he’d said. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. . . .”

  A part of Julia had relished the apparent criticism of saintly Lady Amelia, even though the words cut her as well.

  Now that piece of Julia’s history rewrote itself in her mind. Not a reference to any mistake Lady Amelia had made. But a reference to Lady Anne—the “tree” Julia had fallen from.

  Fallen. How appropriate.

  Captain Cook . . . wishing to counteract disease on board his vessels, took particular care, in calm weather, to make his sailors and mariners dance the Hornpipe; a dance of a most exhilarating character.

  —Carlo Blasis, 1830

  Chapter 18

  Alec began his work in the old academy by taking stock of the situation. He wrote lists of repairs to make, tasks to accomplish, supplies to purchase, and things to clear away, like several irreparably broken chairs and clutter left from its short-lived stints as bookshop and chandler’s. As he moved about the room, the clatter of baking pans from the wall he shared with Mrs. Tickle’s bakery and the faint aroma of cinnamon kept him company.

  On Saturday, Alec spent the afternoon cleaning the back office, and then went home for dinner. During the meal, he shared his progress and plans with his family. Aurora listened with interest, but Uncle Ramsay grimaced and launched into a litany of cautions and concerns. His mother listened to her brother’s warnings with a worried frown.

  After dinner, Alec returned to the academy to tackle the main room.

  He stood there surveying the space and trying to decide where to begin when someone knocked. Alec started, then turned and opened the door to Mr. Lug, who lit the streetlamps of which Beaworthy residents were so proud. The man said he’d stopped by because he was surprised to see light in the window of the long-deserted shop. Alec assured him all was well—he was letting the place from the Desmonds—but did not explain to what purpose. He was relieved when the old man did not press him.

  Alec went back to work, carrying a few broken chairs up the office stairs to join the other castoffs stored there. When he returned to the main room, he saw a shadowy head above the still-papered lower windows, backlit by the streetlamp. Unsettled by the sight, he looked closer, and recognized the tall man’s face with relief. Smiling to himself, Alec crossed to the door and opened it.

  There stood John Desmond framed in lamplight, armed with a broom and a sword. He lifted both. “Thought you might need a hand, friend.”

  Alec eyed the sword with amusement. “Try sweeping with that and you might lose a hand.”

  Alec noticed the man had again waited until after dark to venture into the village. He clearly still wished to avoid trumpeting his presence.

  Desmond stepped inside. “Which shall we take up first?”

  Alec grinned. “Which do you think?”

 
With an answering smile, Desmond leaned the broom against the wall, and Alec retrieved his own sword from the back room.

  The clash of steel striking steel was jarring after the quiet solitary hours working alone. Swords raised, the two men began fencing, advancing and retreating across the long room in a slow, methodical chassé. Gradually both the pace and display of skill increased. Desmond advanced, driving him backward, closer to the wall with every lunge.

  Alec retreated, struggling to parry. Desmond’s blade suddenly flashed, and he barely dodged in time. Thunder and turf, the man was fast. Thank heaven they were using practice tips. Once Desmond had improved his physical condition, Alec doubted he would be able to keep up with him for long. He would enjoy the advantage while he could.

  Finally, Alec’s practice tip hit its mark, and Desmond touched his chest in acknowledgement.

  “Touché,” he panted, wiping a hand across his brow. “That’s two for two, lad. I’ll best you next time.”

  Alec didn’t doubt it.

  After they caught their breaths, they set aside their swords in favor of less manly—and less taxing—brooms. Together they swept the cobwebs from the ceilings and walls, and the dirt from the floors.

  “Ever thought about reopening the place yourself?” Alec asked.

  “No. Those days are over for me.”

  “Where did you go when you left? Did you teach somewhere else?”

  Desmond shook his head. “I left that part of my life here in Beaworthy—buried with Graham Buckleigh. I threw in my lot with the crew of a merchantman and sailed the world. Tried to forget the past by filling my days with backbreaking labor, exotic ports, and the occasional sailor’s hornpipe.”

  Alec smiled at that. “Is there where you learned to handle a sword?”

  “Aye, though I learned a bit of fencing from Mr. Sharp when I was young.”

  “A man who can repair a blade as well as wield one. A rare combination.”

  Desmond nodded. “I’ve spent the last few years working with a sword cutler in Plymouth. That was where I was living when my mother wrote to tell me my father was ill.”

  “You had not been back before?”

  He shrugged. “I slipped into the area to visit my parents when I had leave now and again over the years. But never long enough to make my presence known.”