“I said, let her go.”
“Oh, come, miss,” Joe, the younger Wilcox urged. “It’s only two of them ranters. Just want to hear ’er sing and see ’er prance, as they are wont to do.”
“Leave her alone!” the captive young man shouted, struggling against Joe’s grip.
Joe Wilcox kneed him in the back.
“Benjamin!” the young woman shrieked.
Felton Wilcox silenced her with a viselike clamp to her cheeks. He squeezed so hard the young woman’s lips puckered like a gasping fish.
“Rant for me now, my pretty dissenter. Let’s hear it.”
“I sing to praise God,” she managed, “not amuse bigots.”
“Why you . . .” Felton frowned thunderously and reeled back his hand as though to strike her.
Julia slammed her riding crop across his wrist.
Felton jerked back, stunned by the whip’s bite and her audacity.
He turned on her, reeled back his hand again, but hesitated.
Julia stood her ground, unflinching, glaring at him, daring him. “Perhaps you think the constable won’t bother if he hears you’ve harassed these people. But I promise you, you will find yourself swinging by the neck if you dare lay a hand on me.”
He shook the stringy hair from his eyes and snarled, “Witch!”
In a flash of anger, Julia again lifted the riding crop and sent it slicing through the air. But Felton snatched it from her hand.
Snakelike eyes glinting, he lifted the crop menacingly. “Who says I’d lay a hand on you . . . ?”
From a distance came the sound of galloping horse hooves. Julia kept her eyes pinned on Felton Wilcox, but he glanced toward the west gate and frowned. He threw down the crop and turned to his brother. “Come on. This was supposed to be a private party, but our uninvited guests have spoilt it.”
With a nasty shove, Joe pushed the young man to the ground and ran with surprising speed for one so bulky, following his brother into the wood.
The slim young man scrambled to his feet and made as though to pursue them, but the girl grabbed his arm. “Benjamin, don’t. Let them go. I’m all right.”
He pulled his gaze from the retreating figures to scan the girl’s face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Perfectly.” She turned to Julia. “I know you meant well, miss. But you ought not have struck him. We are to turn the other cheek.”
Julia felt her brows rise. “You may turn the other cheek all you like. Felton Wilcox will only strike the harder next time.”
The girl gave her a pointed look. “As you did?”
Julia was incredulous. “I was trying to help you.”
The young man laid a hand on the girl’s arm and looked at Julia. “I am grateful, miss. Truly. Only ashamed I could not help Tess myself.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Julia consoled. “The Wilcoxes are local wrestling champions. You are not the first man to be laid low by them, and you won’t be the last.”
He picked up his fallen hat and bowed. “I’m Ben Thorne, and this is my sister, Tess. Again, we thank you, Miss Midwinter.”
They knew her name, Julia noticed, though she hadn’t known theirs. She had seen these two before in passing, she believed, but had never met them.
The riders finally reached them, reining in with a storm of thundering hooves and flying dirt.
“Are you all right?” James Allen asked as he gracefully dismounted, handsome face tense.
“Yes. Quite.”
Beside him, his brother, Walter, swung his leg across the saddle to dismount. He caught his boot in the stirrup, hopped to keep his balance, and finally loosed his boot with a desperate jerk, which sent his hat flying to the ground.
Miss Thorne stepped forward, bent to retrieve it, and held it out to him. “Are you all right?” she asked gently.
Walter’s face reddened. “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.”
James’s gaze remained on Julia. “Patience found us out riding and told us you were in trouble.”
Had she? Julia hadn’t even heard her ride away. “The Wilcox brothers,” she explained. “They were bothering these two. But they’ve gone now.”
Ben Thorne nodded. “Thankfully, Miss Midwinter and her riding crop convinced them to leave.”
James Allen’s fair brows rose. “Riding crop? Julia, that was not wise. Who knows what sort of revenge those two might resort to.”
“Well, thankfully you rode up when you did.”
Walter, she noticed, was still staring at the young woman called Tess. The girl was lovely, with a wild, wood-sprite look with long reddish-brown hair tumbling about her shoulders, and big brown eyes.
Poor Walter. The tall young man was ever awkward around females. But a pretty female his own age? Heaven help him. With his unremarkable light brown hair, sad eyes, and unfortunate ears, Walter possessed a sweet face, but not one a woman was likely to think handsome.
Before Julia could make introductions, Patience came galloping up. Her hair, even fairer than James’s golden locks, danced around her flushed cheeks. Poor Patience. The proper young lady was usually so sedate. Julia had never seen her ride so fast. Even so, she had apparently been unable to keep up with her brothers.
Winded, she called, “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, my dear,” Julia said. “Thanks to you. Thank you for calling in the cavalry.”
On Sunday, Julia Midwinter sat in her usual pew in St. Michael’s, her mother on one side of her, her friend Patience on the other. The rector, Mr. Bullmore, stood above them in the raised pulpit, droning on about something or other. Julia wasn’t really listening. The rector liked using lofty words, and many of them, apparently enamored with the sound of his own voice. Worse yet, the man reminded Julia of her father. Whenever he looked at her, his eyes were cold and disapproving. Like her father’s had always been.
Julia noticed the rector’s son was visiting again from Oxford. Cedric Bullmore planned to follow his father into the church. She wondered where he might secure a living—somewhere interesting, far away? She decided she would have to make more of an effort to flirt with the young man. In fact, she would begin that very afternoon.
Eligible son or no, Julia preferred when Mr. Bullmore left the sermon making to dear old Mr. Evans, the curate. On special holidays, Mr. Evans still led worship at the church on the Buckleigh estate for any who wished to attend—usually just her, Lady Amelia, the Allens, and a small clutch of servants and tenants. Everyone else, it seemed, preferred the newer village church.
Attention straying, Julia glanced over her shoulder across the aisle. There she noticed a man she had never seen before, sitting in Mr. Ramsay’s pew a few rows back. The young man had dark hair and a handsome profile, a good nose, firm chin, and strong cheekbones. But his most striking feature was his unfamiliarity—he was not from Beaworthy.
She leaned nearer Patience and whispered, “Who is he?”
Patience, who’d actually been listening to the sermon, roused herself from concentration long enough to follow Julia’s gaze. “I don’t know,” she whispered back.
Without removing her dutiful gaze from the Reverend Mr. Bullmore, Lady Amelia laid her gloved hand gently on Julia’s knee, signaling her to sit quietly.
A few minutes later, as the congregation rose to sing a hymn, Julia noticed a woman of perhaps forty-five, in somber black, standing beside the unfamiliar man. His mother, Julia assumed. And on the woman’s other side, a slender girl of seventeen or so. His sister, she guessed.
She hoped.
After the service finally concluded, Julia followed her mother down the aisle to thank the rector. Mr. Bullmore’s cold eyes slid past Julia to rest on Lady Amelia.
He smiled at her and said, “Your ladyship, might I introduce a few newcomers to the parish?” He gestured toward the trio standing nearby.
Her mother politely inclined her head and turned to face the woman in black.
“Lady Amelia Midwinter, may I present Mrs. Valcourt, Mr. R
amsay’s sister.”
The woman smiled wanly and dipped her head. Julia saw no resemblance to Mr. Ramsay, the prim, rotund solicitor who stood a few feet away.
“How do you do,” Lady Amelia said in a tone that did not invite reply.
The rector continued, “And this is her daughter, Miss Aurora Valcourt”—the pretty girl dipped a graceful curtsy—“and her son, Mr. Alec Valcourt.”
The well-dressed man bowed with impressive address. “A pleasure to meet you, your ladyship.”
Julia blurted, “Are you visiting Mr. Ramsay, or have you come to stay?”
Her mother stiffened at the forward question, yet turned to acknowledge her. “And this is my daughter, Miss Midwinter.”
Again Mr. Valcourt bowed and the ladies curtsied.
Julia smiled at the Valcourt family. “A pleasure to meet you all. Welcome.”
Mr. Valcourt’s mother was handsome, Julia decided. Though the sad downturn of her cheeks, and even her nose, kept her from being pretty. And black did not flatter her complexion. His sister, however, was lovely, with brown hair and bright blue eyes set in a sweet, fair face. Mr. Valcourt was perhaps an inch or two shy of six feet and athletically built—broad shoulders narrowing to a trim waist. His dark hair was wavy, where his sister’s was straight. From the front, his face was even more attractive than it had been in profile. Full lips, well-formed slightly belled nose, and blue-grey eyes. He was not only more handsome on closer inspection but older as well. Perhaps as old as five and twenty.
Julia gave him her most effective smile.
But instead of smiling in return, or blushing, or any of the responses she was accustomed to, he merely blinked and looked away.
“Um . . . and as to your question,” Mrs. Valcourt replied, sending a quick glance toward her brother, “Mr. Ramsay has kindly invited us to stay for as long as we like. Just how long, we have yet to decide.”
“Ah, I see.” Julia nodded, though she didn’t see. Not really. It was, after all, a vague answer, but she knew better than to press the matter. She guessed she was already in for a lecture on prying as soon as she and her mother were out of earshot.
Mrs. Valcourt went on to thank Mr. Bullmore for the sermon and his warm welcome.
While the woman spoke to the rector, Julia stepped nearer her mother and said quietly, “Patience has invited me to go riding this afternoon, and then perhaps to do some needlework for the ladies’ aid society. You don’t mind, do you?”
“On Sunday?”
“Yes, she is most insistent.” Julia turned to Patience, who was talking to a little red-haired girl nearby. “Are you not, Patience?”
Patience turned and blinked her pale blue eyes. “Pardon me?”
“I was just telling Mamma that you have asked me over for the afternoon. You have your heart set upon it, don’t you?”
Her friend’s lips parted. “I . . . I do, yes,” she faltered, then added more convincingly, “Nothing would please me more.”
“You see?” Julia beamed at her mother. “Girls our age enjoy talking and sharing secrets. Did you not do so when you were a girl?” It was something Julia could not imagine of the woman of three and forty years, but she was determined to win her way.
Her mother’s eyes clouded. “I had few friends of such an intimate nature.”
“But then, you had a sister, whereas Patience and I do not.”
“Yes, I did,” Lady Amelia said, her voice strangely clipped. “Very well, you may go. But have the groom escort you.”
“Mamma, that is hardly necessary. It’s less than half a mile from our stables to Medlands. It would take Tommy longer to saddle his horse than to ride there and back.”
“I insist.”
“Oh, all right. But don’t make him wait for me. One of the Allens can escort me home.”
“Very well.”
Triumph surged within her breast. As she turned away, Julia allowed herself a secret smirk of satisfaction—only to find Mr. Valcourt watching her.
She paused, and for a moment their eyes met. He held her gaze with a knowing look that told her he had overheard their conversation and was not fooled. She opened her mouth to say something, but he turned away without a word and escorted his mother and sister outside.
By 1706, even dour Philadelphia had a dancing and fencing school, despite protests by the Society of Friends.
—Lynn Matluck Brooks, York County Heritage Trust
Chapter 2
On his first full day in Devonshire, Alec Valcourt left the village church still seeing Miss Midwinter’s lovely face in his mind. She was beautiful, yes. And she knew it. She reminded him of too many spoiled young ladies he had met who enjoyed flirting—practicing both their seduction and dance skills with him, but only in hopes of snaring a more suitable gentleman in future.
Alec had overheard enough of Miss Midwinter’s conversation with her mother to know she was up to something. Her coy manipulation had brought to mind Miss Underhill, and Alec had turned away, determined to put both young women from his mind.
He had more important things to consider.
Already missing London, Alec walked through diminutive Beaworthy with his mother and sister, and an uncle he barely knew. As they passed the inn, he glanced at the upper windows, wondering if the inn had an assembly room. He would have to stop in sometime and meet the proprietor.
Uncle Ramsay lived outside the village in a two-story whitewashed cottage capped by a tile roof—with a small stable, paddock, and other outbuildings behind. As a young partner he had lived over the law practice on the High Street, he’d explained, but had bought the cottage when he bought the practice. Now his two clerks shared the rooms above his office, while he lived alone, with a cook-housekeeper and manservant to keep the place going.
Shortly after reaching the cottage, Alec joined his family in the dining parlor for a stiff early dinner at the bachelor’s meager table. It was not that his uncle was poor—he was after all the only solicitor in town and employed two clerks—but apparently he was exceedingly frugal and his cook-housekeeper had learned to stretch a sixpence into a pound.
Alec was careful not to eat too much of the plain roasted chicken and boiled potatoes so there would be enough to go around. Covert glances at his mother and sister revealed they did the same, slicing a small potato into tiny slices and eating them slowly and delicately, so that their plates did not empty ahead of Mr. Ramsay’s. If their uncle ate this way regularly, he should have been a thin, spindly man, but he was not. Rather, he possessed a well-rounded waistcoat that belied his parsimonious table.
The conversation was meager as well. His mother had explained the previous night why they had come, as well as her husband’s fate. At the time, Cornelius Ramsay had nodded gravely but said little.
Now, abruptly, he began, “Perhaps we needn’t share the particulars of how it happened, hmm? It is enough for people here to know your husband is gone and that is why you’ve come.”
Around the table Alec, his mother, and Aurora nodded in somber agreement.
After the meal, Alec retrieved his violin case. Knowing his music would fill the small house, and unsure whether his uncle would welcome it, he took his instrument outside. The February day was chilly, but he found a sunny bench—the breeze blocked by the garden wall—and felt quite comfortable. Sitting down, he removed his violin, positioned his bow, and began to fiddle. As he played, he reviewed his plans in his mind.
He had a small stack of pamphlets left over from London, describing the fencing and dancing classes he’d taught in private homes or the academy. If he cut off the bottom portion, which listed the Valcourt Academy’s address and weekly dance times, he could still use them. Armed with the pamphlets, he would introduce himself to local schools, as well as middle-class families and gentry. He thought he would teach private lessons in homes first. Then, when he had sufficient students and income, he would find and let a suitable place in Beaworthy to open a new academy.
He thought
again of the pretty Miss Midwinter he had met that morning at church. He supposed a young lady like her already counted dancing among her many accomplishments, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. . . .
Aurora came out, wool shawl around her shoulders, and sat on the bench beside him. She stared peacefully over the dormant garden and silent road beyond, listening as he played.
After a few minutes, she asked quietly, “That’s new, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. It’s a variation of Grandfather’s ‘L’Aimable Vainqueur.’”
“Ah.” She stood and began walking through the dance steps in a demure, understated fashion while Alec played.
A horse and cart rumbled by, and the man at the reins turned to stare at them. Self-conscious, Aurora stopped and waited until he had passed before resuming the steps. As Alec added spirit to the tune, Aurora raised her arms and twirled a pirouette, nearly losing her shawl as she did so.
“Stop! What are you doing?”
Aurora whirled again, this time to face a flushed Uncle Ramsay. Did he reprimand her because she had danced on Sunday? Alec had not taught lessons on the Sabbath, but their family had often spent a pleasant hour or two with music and dancing on Sunday afternoons.
Alec lowered his fiddle and stood. “I’m sorry, Uncle. Was the music too loud? We came outside, hoping not to disturb you.”
“You do disturb me.” Glancing toward the road, he gestured them forward. “Come inside, the both of you.”
Alec and Aurora exchanged uncertain glances and followed him through the door and into the sitting room, feeling like naughty children.
Inside, Mrs. Valcourt looked up from the book of sermons she was reading. Her gaze shifted from her children to her brother, worry lines creasing her brow.
Uncle Ramsay turned to face them. “Dancing is frowned upon here.”
“On the Sabbath, you mean?” Alec asked. “Aurora was only walking through the steps of a variation I’ve composed. My fault, I’m afraid, not hers.”
The Dancing Master Page 2