The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  On Thursday afternoon, Amelia entered the magistrate’s study and took the seat he offered.

  “Mr. Arscott, thank you for seeing me.”

  “A great pleasure, my lady,” the thin, silver-haired man said. “It has been too long. How are you keeping?”

  “I am well, thank you. And you, sir?”

  “Well enough. A little lonely, but that is what old age brings, I’m afraid. I have outlived too many of my friends, including your dear father. And how is that spirited young woman of yours?”

  “She is . . . ” Amelia began, nodding as she searched for honest words that would not reflect poorly on Julia, “growing up. But those years are not without their trials, as you may recall from your own youth. I know I certainly do.”

  His eyes glinted with understanding, and maybe his own memories. “Yes. As do I.”

  He folded his hands on his desk. “Well, I assume you are here to discuss the matter your Mr. Barlow brought to me a few weeks ago. He intimated you might wish to lodge charges against John Desmond, who, I understand, has returned to the parish.”

  “Yes, that is—that is the matter I am here to discuss. But as far as charges, I have not settled on what is best to be done. I must say I was quite shocked to learn charges had not been pressed at the time.”

  He nodded. “I spoke with your father about this on two separate occasions, after his first apoplexy, and again after he’d been laid low. Though he was in deep grief, of course, I do believe he was sound in mind and judgment.”

  “Then, why?” she asked. “What reason did he give for not bringing the man to justice? Did he not wish to besmirch Graham’s reputation?”

  “That may have been part of it. He saw no reason to cast any shadows on his son once he was gone. No good could come of it, he said.”

  “But certainly justice—”

  “Your father wasn’t convinced punishing John Desmond was just.”

  Amelia swallowed. “No?”

  Arscott shook his head. “He doubted the allegations against him.”

  “But there was no question he was the man my brother fought. The man who ended his life.” After all, Amelia had seen him leaning over her brother’s body, bloody sword in hand.

  Mr. Arscott nodded. “And that would have been enough to charge Mr. Desmond with manslaughter. And had Lord Buckleigh believed the young man guilty of . . . of the breach of honor your sister accused him of, I have no doubt he would have directed me to pursue the man to the full extent of the law.”

  Amelia stared. “He didn’t believe Anne?”

  The older man hesitated. “I have no wish to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Of course not. But . . . I am surprised. Father never said so to me.”

  “He had reason to doubt her story—that I will say. Even before . . .”

  “Even before what?” Amelia prompted.

  The man looked at her, then away, clearly pondering some weighty matter. Then he straightened his shoulders and looked at her again, a resolute expression firming his face. He unlocked his desk drawer, riffled through the files there, and pulled one forth.

  “Your father left this with me. He knew he wasn’t long for this world and didn’t want it found among his personal effects. I don’t think he intended for me to show it to anyone, unless Mr. Desmond’s fate depended on it. But I think, given the circumstances, I should show it to you. God forgive me if I am wrong to do so.”

  He extracted a letter, yellowed with age, the once-red seal darkened to nearly black.

  “What is it?”

  “A letter your sister wrote to your father, not long before he died.”

  Her gaze flew to his, then back down to the letter. Anne had written to their father? He had never mentioned it. She reached out shaky fingers to take the paper.

  “If you still want to press charges after you read it, come back and see me.”

  Amelia hesitated. “I may take it with me?”

  “Yes. I trust you. And it is something you may wish to read in private.”

  Good heavens, Amelia thought. What was in the letter?

  [Queen] Victoria had displayed no great disapprobation of the duel. Cardigan was a personal favourite of hers, and prior to his trial, she had hoped that he would “get off easily.”

  —Stephen Banks, The Duel and the English Gentleman

  Chapter 28

  Amelia made haste home and went directly to the library and shut the door. There she sat at her desk, opened the letter with trembling hands, and read.

  Dear Papa,

  I have committed a grievous sin and am deeply sorry for it. I know I cannot rectify the past, or bring my brother back, or restore your health to you, but I had to try, at least, to make peace with you, and with God, and with my own conscience. The apothecary advises me not to travel in my delicate condition, so this letter will have to suffice.

  I have not confessed the truth to Amelia, or to anyone else. I have no wish to cast more shame and scandal on the family name, or add to my sister’s heartache; she has suffered enough. And now that she is engaged to marry a man of your choosing, there seems no point.

  I saw it in your eyes, Papa. You never believed my claims of Lieutenant Tremelling’s innocence. Not completely. I think you knew or at least suspected I had lied about the father of my child.

  I never meant to name John Desmond. But he was the easy choice. The obvious choice. The dashing dancing master with whom I had flirted during lessons, though he never encouraged me. With whom I had spent a great deal of time—usually in the company of my brother and sister, or at least a servant, but not always. It was not out of the question.

  I never intended to name any man. But after you and Graham worked on me for days upon days, pushing and prodding and threatening . . . I grew weary and desperate.

  It was wrong of me. Very wrong. I knew how Mr. Desmond felt about Amelia. And how she felt about him. But I did it anyway. To protect the man I loved. I knew you would be furious, but I underestimated how murderously angry Graham would become—that he would challenge Mr. Desmond in a duel, not to first blood but rather to the death.

  So you see, in one sense I was right. To name Lieutenant Tremelling as my child’s father would have assured his death, or at least our poverty. For you had already forbidden me to marry him, and threatened to withhold my dowry if I did.

  But Tom Tremelling is not the sort of man to give up what he wants. He convinced me that if I were compromised, my family would have to allow us to marry. Yet I feared for his life. When I suspected I might be carrying a child, I made him leave, pretend to go to sea, so he could not be blamed.

  I planned that later, after no man could be produced and made to marry me, only then would Tom come home and say he still loved me and was prepared to forgive my indiscretion and marry me.

  I was so stunned when Mr. Desmond offered to wed me, though he and I both knew he was innocent. That was never part of the plan. Logically, you and Graham should have accepted on my behalf, though I was relieved you did not.

  After the duel . . . I could not believe what I had done. I am ashamed to think of it now. I was so focused on my selfish plan, I did not consider the potential consequences.

  By the time Tom returned, Mr. Desmond was nowhere to be found (What other choice did I leave him?), your only son was dead, Amelia had lost her will to live, and you had lost your health and the strength to object to our marriage. So Tom Tremelling came out the hero and Mr. Desmond, the villain.

  Tom is not a hero. He is far from perfect, as I have learned. But he is my husband, and I love him. And together we will love our child, soon to come into this world and make us a family.

  But I could not rest until I wrote this letter. I will leave it to you to decide if and when to share this confession with Amelia or anyone else.

  I don’t ask your forgiveness, I know I don’t deserve it. I know Desmond and Amelia will never forgive me either. But God has forgiven me, and that must be enough.

&nb
sp; Your repentant daughter,Lady Anne Tremelling

  Amelia stared, her mind struggling to come to terms with the words she had read. Words that tilted her world on its head. Had she not told Julia she doubted her sister’s story? That she thought Julia resembled Lieutenant Tremelling? John Desmond had been telling the truth all along.

  Amelia’s eyes filled. Anne is right, she thought. I have never forgiven her. But I should have. . . .

  At that moment Julia walked into the room, and instinctively, Amelia slid the letter into her lap, out of view.

  Julia narrowed her eyes as she walked forward. “What is it you don’t want me to see? More secrets, Mother? Really? Will there never be an end to them?”

  Amelia hesitated, seeing the challenge written on her daughter’s face.

  “What is it?” Julia repeated.

  Amelia pressed dry lips together. “A letter Lady Anne wrote to my father, not long before he died.”

  “Lady Anne?” Julia’s eyes brightened with interest. She held out her hand, palm up. “Show me.” Julia’s gaze held hers. “Trust me.”

  Heart pounding, Amelia slowly brought forth the letter and laid it in her daughter’s hand. It would give her some of the answers she desperately sought, but likely none of the answers she wanted. Oh, God, am I doing the right thing?

  Julia read the lines, and then read them again. Certain phrases leapt out at her, branding themselves on her mind and heart.

  “But he is my husband and I love him. And together we will love our child, soon to come into this world and make us a family. . . .”

  Tears filled Julia’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She would not cry over a few sweet words, not when floating in a sea of treachery. Her stomach soured. To be the offspring of such a mother and father, to be conceived in such a scheme, with such heartbreaking results! She wanted nothing to do with these people.

  But at the same time another sentence cut like a knife:

  “Tom Tremelling is not the sort of man to give up what he wants.”

  Yet he had given her up. His child. Had she not always known she was not wanted?

  “Why did you hesitate to show me this?” Julia asked, refolding the letter.

  Lady Amelia sketched a noncommittal shrug. “I had only just read it myself. And I didn’t want . . .” She winced, perhaps thinking the better of what she’d been about to say.

  “You didn’t want me to think poorly of my real parents?” she suggested. “Or were you afraid I might think too well of Mr. Desmond?”

  “I did not think you would like its contents.” Lady Amelia held out her hand for the letter, and Julia returned it, noticing her mother avoided her eyes.

  “Will you show it to anyone else? To Mr. Desmond?”

  Lady Amelia shook her head. “It’s all ancient history now.”

  “Is it?”

  “I am only glad it can answer a few questions for you. I have no interest in opening old wounds.”

  “But don’t you see? This could heal old wounds.”

  “I don’t know, Julia. Let me think about it, all right? Promise me you won’t go running off to report this to . . . anyone.”

  “But I—”

  “You asked me to trust you. And now I need you to trust me too.”

  Amelia took the letter—and her lingering questions—and returned to Mr. Arscott’s house the next day.

  When his housekeeper showed her into his study, the old magistrate pulled a face and set aside his newspaper.

  “My lady, I cannot say I am happy to see you. I had hoped that after our last meeting, you might have changed your mind about pressing charges against Mr. Desmond.”

  She reached into her large reticule and pulled forth the folded letter. “I can’t understand why my father did not show this to me.”

  “Can you not?” Mr. Arscott asked gently. Sadly.

  Confusion filled her.

  He said softly, “Your father did not wish you to marry Mr. Desmond, did he?”

  Amelia’s heart hammered within her. Could it be? Would her father have allowed her to believe Desmond guilty of all, to keep her from marrying the man? As if she ever would have married the man who killed her brother! But had she known he’d been falsely accused, that Graham had challenged an innocent man . . .

  “Now, my lady,” he said, watching her closely, “before you judge your father too harshly, remember he did not press charges against Mr. Desmond, though he had every right to do so. Letter or no, duels are illegal. And he could have seen to it that John Desmond was convicted of manslaughter.”

  “Then why didn’t he?” she whispered, though she suspected the answer.

  “Your father knew how you felt about the man. And wanted to spare him for your sake.” Mr. Arscott winced and added, “I think he also wished to avoid the additional unpleasantness and scandal were the matter to come to trial. I advised him that in prosecuting Mr. Desmond, the accusations leading to the duel would necessarily come to light. Witnesses who may have seen Lady Anne meeting a man alone, a man not yet her husband but not John Desmond either . . .”

  Amelia’s stomach cramped at the thought of seeing such accounts in the newspapers.

  Mr. Arscott sighed. “I was an old friend of your father’s, and I understood his wish to avoid further embarrassment and grief for the family, and for you, so I saw to it that the matter was quietly dropped.”

  Amelia whispered, “I see. . . .”

  Resolved, Amelia handed him the letter. “I wish you to keep Lady Anne’s confession in your records. After you and I are gone, I don’t wish anyone else to attempt to lodge charges against John Desmond.”

  He nodded gravely. “I understand.”

  Amelia took her leave, mind still whirling. The day’s knowledge was a double-edged sword. In her heart of hearts, Amelia had always been relieved that John Desmond had not been hanged or transported. But had she known all . . . Had her father confided his doubts, or shown her Anne’s confession, would Amelia still have given in to her father’s deathbed request that she marry Arthur Midwinter?

  She still recalled his plea, that he could die in peace if only he knew she was well settled and had a man’s protection before he died. Now Mr. Arscott had revealed that her father had known how she felt about John Desmond, though she had not admitted it to anyone, knowing their differences in station were a significant impediment. Still, she would not have married a man she knew full well did not love her, had there seemed any possible hope of a future with one who did. A man she had loved with every fragment of her broken heart.

  When Amelia returned to the house, she found Julia sitting idly in the drawing room, making a halfhearted attempt to work stitches in her sampler. A pastime she knew the girl despised.

  “Would you not rather go riding?” Amelia suggested. “It is a lovely day.”

  She expected Julia to retort with something like “I thought you meant to sell my horse” or to brighten at this sign that Amelia didn’t intend to follow through on her threat. But Julia only shrugged and said nothing.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Amelia said, trying again. “It has been too long since we have had the Allens to dine. You would like that, would you not? I know you enjoy James’s company, as well as seeing Patience, of course.”

  “If you like,” Julia said listlessly, which only increased Amelia’s concern for her. She nearly preferred outspoken, snappish Julia to this quiet melancholy girl who reminded her too much of her own depression of spirits after her long-ago heartbreak and the death of her brother.

  Amelia prayed again that Lieutenant Tremelling would come on the morrow, especially after the letter’s confirmation that he really was Julia’s father.

  A rainstorm pelted down all morning, and Amelia feared that even if Tremelling planned to come, the weather might delay him. Thankfully, the skies cleared after midday. Amelia found her gaze straying often to the library windows, which faced the drive. Just before three, she rose from the desk and went to stand near the wi
ndows. She saw no carriage or horse approach. As she turned away, however, movement caught her eye. She looked again. There to the side of the drive, near the garden wall, hovered a figure. A man in a dark blue uniform and cocked hat.

  Nerves jangling, she rang for Barlow, and he was at her side in less than a minute, loyal man.

  She nodded toward the figure, and he peered in the direction she indicated. Then he drew his shoulders back, turned on his heel, and marched from the room to do her unspoken bidding.

  Meanwhile, Amelia walked quickly to the windows in the drawing room, much closer to the drive, and open several inches to allow in the temperate spring breeze. From there she could see the man fairly well. She immediately noticed that his coat, with its double row of brass buttons, hung rather loosely over baggy breeches. His face was still handsome, though his features—especially his protruding brow and cheekbones—were accentuated in his current gaunt state.

  Barlow appeared and crossed the drive toward the man. Amelia hoped he didn’t spook like a flushed quail and take flight.

  Or did she?

  “Thank you for coming, Lieutenant,” Barlow said, his voice carrying through the open window. “You are welcome at the front door, if you like. Or I would be happy to show you inside through the garden door there.”

  The man looked trapped, uncomfortable. “I . . . don’t know.”

  Barlow said, “I know one young lady who will be happy to hear your name announced.”

  “It’s all so formal, isn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t have to be.” Barlow assured the edgy man as he might calm a frightened horse.

  “Might I not stay out here?” Tremelling asked. “Could you not mention to the girl that I am here, and she might come out and speak to me, if she likes?” He looked down and chuckled nervously. “Probably take one look at my old buss and run the other way.”