The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  She flicked him another glance—to gauge his reaction? “She died shortly after I was born. I have only just found out.” She gave a rueful laugh. “What an idiot I am. Can you believe I never knew? Never guessed?”

  He blinked. Faltered. “I . . . believe such things are normally kept quiet. For the child’s sake, and the family’s.”

  Her gaze fixed on the headstone, Julia snorted quietly but said no more.

  He swallowed and asked, “So . . . Lady Amelia and Mr. Midwinter decided to raise you as their own child?”

  Another bleak sound, more scoff than laugh this time. “Lady Amelia, yes. But Mr. Midwinter barely tolerated me. At least now I understand why. Why he didn’t . . .”

  Her face contorted with anguish that tore at his heart, and he had to resist the urge to take her in his arms. She again averted her face, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  He whispered, “She told you?”

  Julia shook her head. “Only after I found a letter Lady Anne had written to me before she died.”

  Alec could not begin to imagine what that must have felt like.

  “Don’t,” she said, eyeing him fiercely.

  He stepped back. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t pity me, or judge me.”

  “Very well.”

  She looked down, kicking at a little clump of moss with her slipper. “I suppose you will look at me differently now.”

  “How so?”

  “Now that you know I am not who you thought I was. Who I thought I was.”

  “Oh, are you not human after all?” he teased. “Are you actually a woodland sprite or a famed West Country piskie?”

  “No.”

  He took a step nearer. “You are still Lady Amelia’s pride and joy. Still headstrong, still a bruising rider and righter of wrongs, still the bravest and most foolish woman I know, still determined to lead every dance, and still an incorrigible flirt. Is that not true?”

  She hesitated, torn between offense and amusement. “Yes, I . . . suppose it is.”

  “Then you are still the woman I thought you.”

  “Very funny,” she said dryly.

  She sent him a covert glance, then inhaled deeply. “I suppose you’ve never had any doubt about who you are?”

  He smirked. “About my role on this earth? Daily. But about my parentage, no. No room for question, I’m afraid.”

  “Why ‘afraid’?”

  He shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable, wondering what all Lady Amelia had told her. “I am afraid I am a great deal like my father. Look like him, and share many of his weaknesses . . .”

  When he trailed off, Julia suggested, “And his strengths?”

  Again he shifted. “I . . . don’t know that either of us are as strong as we should be. Should have been.”

  Julia regarded him, then said quietly, “Aurora told me, you know . . . how you accepted the blame for your father’s wrongdoing.”

  Foolish, loyal Aurora, Alec thought. He pulled a face. “I do blame myself. The young woman started with me. Flirting and flattering. She was a very pretty girl, and I admit I was taken in by her charms for quite some time. I thought she really admired me. But slowly I began to see she was only playing with my affections—she knew her father would never approve of a match between us. I realized no good could come of it. The wisdom and warnings of my grandfather had been drilled into me from youth. So I began to pull away—tried to reestablish a professional distance between us. At first she tried harder. But when she realized I would not yield, she felt snubbed and grew angry. I did not realize at first just how angry. Or that she planned to take revenge on my family.

  “She turned her attentions toward my father. Twice her age, though still handsome, I suppose. I tried to warn him, but he scoffed at me. Who was I to tell him anything? Had he not withstood the flirtations of a hundred schoolroom misses in his day? Even daughters of nobility?”

  Alec shook his head. “I should have tried harder. Should have made certain they were never alone. But we each had our own private lessons to teach, often in pupils’ homes. I could not be with him—with them—every time they were together. . . .”

  Alec inhaled sharply. “The worst of it is, I really believe my father had been devoted and faithful to my mother until that point. Oh, he might have admired a beautiful woman or fawned over some fine lady in hopes of acquiring her children as pupils, but I had never seen him look at a woman inappropriately until Miss Underhill sank her claws into him.”

  He sighed. “He had reached a certain age, you see. Felt his years—and wanted to feel young again. I suppose it made him vulnerable. Not that I excuse him. But nor do I think Miss Underhill some innocent taken advantage of by a cunning older man. No matter what she told her own father about the affair.”

  Again he shook his head. “Well, you can imagine what tales the gossips spun. No parents would send their daughter to Valcourts after that.”

  “No,” Julia agreed. “Understandably so, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes.”

  Julia tilted her head to look at him. “Why didn’t you tell Lady Amelia this, when she confronted you?”

  “I would not add to my mother’s mortification for the world.”

  “Only your own—by taking on your father’s blame?”

  He shrugged. “A small price to pay.” More than a small price—almost all of his income, but he did not say so.

  Julia looked at him earnestly. “I think you’re wrong, Mr. Valcourt. I think you are strong. Very strong in the face of such a loss. In becoming the man of the family. Uprooting your mother and sister and settling with them here in this . . . godforsaken place.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Beaworthy . . . godforsaken?”

  She looked at him, aghast. “Do you mean to tell me you like it here?”

  “Except for the small matter of it crushing my dreams and avowed profession, you mean? Then, why yes, it’s charming.”

  She laughed. “Thank you, Mr. Valcourt. You have cheered me, and not just anyone could have done so today. I sincerely appreciate the effort.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He looked at Lady Anne Tremelling’s headstone once more. A part of him knew he should leave well enough alone, but another part of him—the selfish part—wanted to extend this small bubble of intimacy, of empathetic conversation, as long as possible.

  “And where is Mr. Tremelling?” he asked.

  Her face clouded, and he instantly knew he had chosen the wrong course.

  “It is Lieutenant Tremelling, actually,” she said.

  Lieutenant Tremelling . . . the name rang in his memory. The man he had met in Plymouth in Mr. Barlow’s stead. That was Julia’s father—or, at least, the man Lady Anne had married? But while he was still pondering this, Julia continued.

  “I’ve never met him, that I can remember. He’s gone to sea a great deal. For years on end, apparently.” Again that bleak, heartbreaking little laugh. “Twenty years without a single day of shore leave, poor man.”

  Her sarcasm didn’t fool him. He said soothingly, “Perhaps he thinks it’s for the best. Especially if he knows you believe yourself to be someone else’s daughter.” And perhaps she is, Alec thought.

  “I never felt like Mr. Midwinter’s daughter. Not the way Patience feels about her father. Or the obvious love and affection Sir Herbert feels for her.”

  She glanced at him. “You will think me cruel and cold. But I felt no great grief when Mr. Midwinter died. My deepest sense of loss was for myself. I thought, All these years, I’ve tried to be worthy of him. Tried to be good—make him love me. And when that didn’t work, to at least make him notice me.” She spoke matter-of-factly, without maudlin self-pity. “When he died, I thought, It’s finally over. I shall never know a father’s love, but at least I can quit striving.”

  She shook her head, agitated. “Now to discover I have a father I’ve never met? It scares me.” She pressed a hand to her abdomen. “I’m fr
ightened to death by this sprout of desperate, pathetic hope. . . .”

  Was Tremelling her real father? Alec wondered. He knew Desmond had been accused of seducing Lady Anne, but Julia didn’t know that. And it certainly wasn’t his place to tell her, especially as he wasn’t certain it was true. Either way, his heart ached for her. And Alec felt a pinch of guilt for all the unloving and uncharitable thoughts he’d had about his own father. His father was not a perfect man—not by any means. But Alec had grown up with no shadow of doubt that his father loved him.

  “I am sorry, Miss Midwinter.”

  “Don’t. You promised. No pity.”

  “Very well. But I shall pray for you. You cannot stop me.” He gently pressed her hand.

  She looked at him, almost shyly, and braved a wobbly smile. “I shouldn’t want to stop you.”

  On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

  No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

  To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.

  —Lord Byron

  Chapter 19

  After dark that evening, Desmond again joined Alec in the academy for a bout with the practice foils. After twenty minutes of rigorous fencing, the two men stopped to catch their breaths. Alec wanted to ask him about his relationship with Lady Anne but hesitated to pry. Nor could he share Julia’s revelation, when he’d promised to keep her secret.

  Behind them, the door latch clicked. Alec stiffened and turned to see who was entering. He relaxed when he saw Mrs. Tickle pushing open the door with her elbow, her hands full, holding a plated cake. Alec was glad to see the woman—and the cake—but hoped they hadn’t been too noisy, as he and Walt had been.

  He smiled at his generous neighbor. “Good evening, Mrs. Tickle. I hope we didn’t disturb you.”

  “No, not at all. I—” Her gaze shifted to Desmond and she froze, smile vanishing. She inhaled a breathy gasp. “Well, I . . . I find I am disturbed after all.” Backing toward the door, she shifted the cake to one arm, smearing icing on her apron, and yanked the door open before Alec could move or offer to help. He’d been stunned stupid by the woman’s reaction.

  “You probably don’t know any better, Mr. Valcourt,” she said. “But I will not have you sharing one of my cakes with the likes of him!” She let the door bang shut, taking the cake with her.

  Beside him, Desmond sighed. “Sorry, Valcourt. I should not have come. I don’t want to cause strife between you and your neighbors.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Alec said. “I don’t know what to say.” He looked at him squarely. “But you are welcome here, Desmond. Always.”

  “In that case . . .” Desmond raised his sword to eye level and gave him a crooked grin. “I’ve seen what you can do with a sword in hand, Valcourt, but what about when it’s beneath your feet?” He lowered to his haunches, laid the sword on the floor, and looked up at Alec, one brow arched in challenge.

  Alec grinned in reply. Understanding Desmond’s intent, he reached down and laid his own sword across his.

  If the man wanted a sword dance, he’d be happy to oblige.

  Julia walked into the village alone after dark. It was a very daring thing to do, which is of course why she did it. She hoped to see Mr. Valcourt. Walter had mentioned he’d been meeting him for fencing lessons in the village.

  The lamplighter walked by with his wick and pole, and Julia stepped behind one of the columns of the deserted market hall, hoping not to be seen out walking alone at night. Glancing about her, she saw that repairs had begun on the market hall, but the ceiling was not yet completed. Evidence of workmen—scattered nails, footprints in masonry dust, and anthills of sawdust lingered in the stalls.

  As she stood there waiting for the lamplighter to pass, she found her gaze drawn to the devil’s stone between the village church and inn. It somehow struck her as symbolic of her own situation. Trapped in Beaworthy like that stone that didn’t belong there. Caught between the church and the devil? She thought again of how the bell ringers had been unable to turn the stone last November, and the resulting predictions of doom.

  She shivered.

  A sound drew her attention across the High Street. Music. Near the end of the street, in a long-abandoned shop, light streamed from the top of half-covered windows. She stared. Now and again, a shape bobbed in the upper windows. A head . . . jumping? Were the Bryanites now using that old shop for their meetings, since the collapse of the market hall? She supposed it made sense. But the music she was hearing . . . it didn’t sound the sort to be played at a church meeting, “ranters” or no.

  Looking both ways and seeing no one about, Julia crossed the street and tiptoed closer. She was not tall enough to look over the covered lower windows, but she did find a tear in the paper and bent to peer in, feeling foolish, yet unable to resist the tug of curiosity.

  Inside the lamplit room, a man with his back to the window played a lilting tune on a pipe. On the floor were crossed two swords. Over them Alec Valcourt danced, his feet flying in steps, hops, and leaps from one quadrant of the sword-cross to another. He danced in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The snug buff trousers showed his muscular thighs and calves in high relief.

  “My goodness . . .” Julia breathed.

  A voice startled her. “Miss Midwinter?”

  Julia jerked upright, her face heating. Aurora Valcourt and her mother stood on the walkway, looking at her expectantly.

  “I . . . heard the music,” Julia stammered. “I was only curious. . . .”

  Aurora smiled. “Would you like to come inside?”

  Julia glanced from Alec’s friendly sister, to his more cautious mother—for the first time noticing a slight resemblance to her brother, Mr. Ramsay.

  “If you don’t think they’d mind,” Julia said.

  “Not at all.” Aurora opened the door, and Julia followed Mrs. Valcourt inside.

  “All right, Desmond. Let’s see you try it,” Alec said. He turned at the sound of the door closing.

  “Hello, Mother, I . . .” Mr. Valcourt’s mouth parted in surprise. “Oh . . . Miss Midwinter. Um . . . welcome.” He cleared his throat self-consciously and spread his arms. “Welcome to the Valcourt Dancing and Fencing Academy, soon to open.” He added dryly, “And likely soon to close as well.”

  “Good for you,” Julia said, all admiration.

  “But please do keep it under your bonnet for now. We are not quite ready to announce our grand opening.”

  “Of course.” She gestured toward the crossed swords. “I am sorry to interrupt. Don’t let me stop you.” She smiled at Alec, noticing how handsome he looked, his color high, his dark hair tousled. She ran her gaze over his white sleeves and close-fitting waistcoat. Without a coat, his broad shoulders angled to his narrow waist in a masculine V.

  Mr. Valcourt touched his own arm, as if only just realizing he stood in his shirtsleeves. He reached out and snagged his coat from a nearby chair. The man behind him set aside his instrument and helped him on with it like a skilled valet.

  Her gaze moved to the musician. She recognized him with a start. The stranger from the churchyard.

  “You’re not interrupting anything important,” Mr. Valcourt said. “We were just . . . fencing.”

  He must have noticed her looking at the other man. “Oh, forgive me,” he said. “Miss Midwinter, have you met Mr. Desmond? Mr. John Desmond, Miss Julia Midwinter.”

  “Mr. Desmond and I have met before,” Julia said. “In the Buckleigh churchyard. Though . . . we were not introduced.”

  “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Midwinter.” The man bowed.

  “Mr. Desmond has only recently returned to Beaworthy,” Mrs. Valcourt kindly explained. “He has come home to help his ailing father in his forge outside of town.”

  “Ah, I see.” The name Desmond sounded vaguely familiar. Had that not been the name of the elderly couple she had seen dancing in the High Street two years ago? Julia thought so but couldn’t be certain.

  “I am sorry to hea
r your father is not in good health,” Julia said. “And sorry you have had to return to Beaworthy. Had you been away long?”

  Alec stepped forward and abruptly changed the subject. “I must say I am surprised to see you, Miss Midwinter. What brings you into town this evening?”

  “Oh. I . . .” What could she say? She was too ashamed to confess she had been hoping to see him, especially at night. Not with wronged widow Valcourt looking at her so respectfully, not to mention innocent-eyed Aurora. How their looks would change if they knew!

  “Just . . . out to take some air,” she said.

  She felt Mr. Desmond studying her face and wondered why. Did he somehow know about her . . . her unsavory past?

  It was Julia’s turn to change the subject. “Don’t worry, Mr. Valcourt. I shan’t go rushing off to Lady Amelia to report your clandestine dancing.”

  Alec turned to Mr. Desmond. “Miss Midwinter has joined us at Medlands for a dance lesson or two, you see.” He drew himself up with a single clap of his hands. “Well, Desmond, I believe it is your turn.”

  The man held up his palm. “No thank you, Valcourt. My dancing days are over.”

  “Oh no,” Alec said. “You’ll not get out of it that easily. After all, you’re the one who laid down the challenge.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve been completely distracted by the arrival of the ladies.” Mr. Desmond hedged, “I doubt I’d recall a single step.” He picked up his pipe as though a baton to ward Alec off. “I’ll play again and you dance. You ought not miss an opportunity to perform for such a lovely audience.”

  With a sheepish glance at her, Alec ducked his head but relented. “Very well.”

  Alec positioned himself in the sword-cross. Mr. Desmond began to play, and Alec danced. If anything his steps were faster, his leaps and hops higher than they had been before. Julia watched, entranced. She had never seen such dancing.

  Finally both dancer and musician ended with a flourish.

  When Alec bowed, Julia joined Aurora and Mrs. Valcourt in hearty applause. His face flushed with exertion and pride.

  “And I thought keeping up with you in fencing would be difficult,” John Desmond said with a grin.