Since then Alec had attended church, prayed, read Scripture, and did his best to obey it, because he feared God’s judgment and was keenly aware he needed forgiveness. But the love of God felt very distant.
Seated in his uncle’s pew a short while later, Alec glanced across the nave and noticed that all five of the Allens were in attendance, though he did not recall having seen them the week before.
In the pew in front of them, he glimpsed Miss Midwinter, lovely in profile, with pert nose and full lips and a dangling coil of honey hair artfully escaping a lacy pink bonnet. Lady Amelia sat ramrod straight beside her, a small veiled hat atop a tight coil of dark auburn hair.
Throughout the service, Alec continued to observe Miss Midwinter, subtly he hoped, though he did catch his sister regarding him quizzically when he turned his head at last. He met Aurora’s raised-brow gaze with an innocent smile. He doubted he fooled her but had no intention of explaining why he watched Miss Midwinter. He barely understood it himself.
After the service, the curate exited down the center aisle, and the congregation began filing out after him. Alec lingered, making a show of looking for a lost glove. He watched as Lady Amelia greeted the Allens. Behind her, Julia Midwinter stopped to greet several young girls clustered around the schoolmistress like ducklings. Then Julia took Miss Allen’s arm and walked with her down the aisle.
Patience Allen’s face lit up when she saw him. “Mr. Valcourt! How good to see you again.”
He bowed. “Miss Allen. How do you do. And . . . ?” He looked at her companion expectantly. He knew very well who she was but had an illogical longing to give her a setdown.
Patience quickly responded, “Miss Midwinter, have you met Mr. Valcourt? Forgive me, I thought you had been introduced.”
“We have,” Miss Midwinter said dryly. “Evidently it was not a memorable occasion.”
“Of course. Now I remember.” Alec smiled. “Miss Midwinter, a pleasure to see you again.”
She coolly dipped her head.
Patience said, “I told Miss Midwinter how you came to Walter’s rescue last week. She was most impressed.”
Miss Midwinter did not look impressed. She asked, “Do you make it a habit to trespass in our woods?”
So she had seen him last Sunday. And she wasn’t happy about it.
Patience looked from him to her friend in confusion. “Surely you jest, Julia. It is not as though he is a poacher. And I thank God he did happen by, for poor Walter’s sake.”
Julia eyed him shrewdly. “And what is it you do when you are not prowling about the woods, Mr. Valcourt?”
“I . . .” He hesitated, uncertain he ought to mention his profession.
He was saved from answering by the hearty greetings of Sir Herbert and Lady Allen. They reiterated their gratitude and assurance of a future dinner invitation and then departed.
When the Allens had left, Alec found himself standing alone with Miss Midwinter, while her mother conversed with an elderly parishioner several yards away.
He suddenly felt tongue-tied.
She said, “Patience mentioned you are a Londoner.”
“That’s right.”
“How dreary and boring you must find Beaworthy.”
“It would be impolite to agree with you, miss.”
She gave him a wry glance. “And dishonest to disagree?”
He felt a grin quirk his lip, and she grinned in reply, eyes sparkling.
Alec’s chest tightened in attraction. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. Had he learned nothing?
“I would enjoy hearing about your life there,” she said. “All the social events and theatre and balls and routs. Shocking as it may seem, I have never been.”
“That is a shame, indeed.”
Emboldened by her mention of the word ball, he admitted, “I am afraid I was not at my leisure to enjoy all that London has to offer. Though balls, yes. Often. You see, I was a dancing master there.” He steeled himself for her reaction.
“A dancing master?” she echoed, fair brows rising.
“Yes. I know that is not—”
“In Beaworthy?” she interrupted.
“Well, we didn’t know about—”
Miss Midwinter tipped back her head of curls and laughed. The rippling peal of gleeful amazement boomed across the reverent nave. He might have found the sound charming, were it not so humiliating. Across the pews, parishioners still clustered in hushed conversation turned, mouths gaped. Lady Amelia, he saw, frowned darkly.
Unaware of the stir she had caused, or not caring, Miss Midwinter chuckled. “That is too rich. You do know where you’ve landed, don’t you?”
“My uncle has since told me about the unwritten law. And I’ve seen for myself the disapproval and even fear caused by the mere mention of dancing.”
She shook her head, eyes bright with mirth. “Poor Mr. Valcourt.”
Lady Amelia appeared at her daughter’s elbow, her smile tight. “Julia, it is past time we took our leave.”
As they departed, Alec glanced about for his family, but his mother and sister had preceded him out of the church while he had lingered. He picked up his hat and gloves and walked down the aisle. At the open doorway, he shook the curate’s hand and stepped outside.
The Allens were climbing into their chaise. Walter raised a hand in greeting before ducking his head to enter the carriage—but not low enough—and had to make a mad grab for his hat before it fell. With a sheepish grin, Walt disappeared inside, the whole carriage lurching under his weight. Alec was glad for a reason to smile.
A driving rain kept Alec home on Monday morning. He used the time to review his grandfather’s book on the positions of the German waltz, and then decided to compose an advertisement for the West of England Journal and General Advertiser, or the West Briton.
Mr. Alec Valcourt, professor of dancing and fencing,
has the honour to announce his arrival from London;
where he taught all the traditional and fashionable dances.
He therefore hopes to merit a portion of public patronage.
Quadrilles, minuets, and country dancing completely taught in
six private lessons for one guinea. Schools and families attended.
By midday, the rain had cleared and the sky brightened. Alec’s mood had not, however. He wondered—even began to doubt—whether an advertisement would do any good when personal calls had not. Perhaps he ought to wait until he found a place to let.
Alec and his mother and sister had just sat down to a sparse midday meal, when Uncle Ramsay unexpectedly entered the dining parlor. He had walked home to join them, though he usually remained in his office all day and had a bite at his desk.
His eyes shone and his thin mouth quirked in an eager smile. “I have just learnt of an opening at the clay works outside of town. Mr. Kellaway is a client of mine, and I am quite certain he’ll take you on if I ask him.”
Alec blinked, dread filling his gut. Tentatively, he asked, “In the office, you mean? As a clerk or . . . ?”
Uncle Ramsay shook his head. “Advancement may be possible eventually, perhaps even to assistant assayer. But first you’ll need to start in the yard as a cutter.” He regarded his well-groomed nephew. “Not afraid of getting your hands dirty, I hope.”
Alec noticed his sister bite her lip and send him an apologetic look.
“Afraid, no,” Alec replied. “But I make every effort to avoid doing so.” He winked at his sister. It was one of his foibles, he knew. But, dash it, gloves were expensive.
“Please, Alec,” his mother said softly. “At least try.”
“But a clay works, Mamma? Manual labor?” It would be a waste of his talents and skills. It wasn’t what he was good at. Made for.
“Good honest work, my boy. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Cornelius Ramsay sat down and tucked a table napkin into his waistcoat.
Alec was not afraid of hard work. He would gladly work tirelessly to build a business or to train others. An
d he loved nothing better than dancing or fencing until every muscle ached. Yet he had always considered himself a gentleman. A coattail gentleman, perhaps, but at least he had always looked the part. Like his grandfather and father before him, he was well educated, well spoken, and well dressed.
His uncle sat there looking at Alec, awaiting his reply.
Keenly aware of his mother’s pleading expression, Alec swallowed a hot retort and managed, “I shall think about it, Uncle.”
After the meal, his uncle left to return to his office, and Alec retreated to his small room beneath the eaves. He wanted quiet solitude to think, hoping to formulate some alternative plan to taking a job at the clay works. Or failing that, to lie down and sleep to forget his troubles for a while.
But he had only just removed his coat when Aurora knocked and announced they had visitors—Miss Midwinter and Miss Allen had come to call, bearing gifts. Suddenly Alec forgot his plans for a nap. He put his coat back on, checked his appearance in the small mirror above the washstand, and followed his sister downstairs.
His mother smiled up at him from the entry hall. “Miss Midwinter and Miss Allen have brought us jam and a lovely tin of China tea.”
“To welcome you.” Patience Allen smiled shyly.
Alec said, “That is very kind.”
Miss Midwinter added, “And we thought we would offer you and your sister a proper tour of Beaworthy, if you are interested. It is a lovely afternoon.”
Alec had thought knowledge of his former profession might repel Miss Midwinter. Apparently, it had worked the opposite effect. “Thank you. That sounds quite . . . edifying.”
“Will you join us as well, Mrs. Valcourt?” Miss Allen asked, all politeness.
“Thank you, no. You young people go ahead.”
Aurora gathered her bonnet and gloves. Alec his hat, gloves, and stick. Together they strolled from his uncle’s cottage, and up the Buckleigh Road into the village.
Alec had been through Beaworthy several times, but now he saw it with more interest. How different to walk at his leisure, in the company of two beautiful, accomplished young ladies—three, if he counted Aurora.
As they walked up the High Street, Miss Midwinter pointed out her favorite shops. Alec noted his uncle’s office and waved to Mr. Pugsworth, apparently returning from his midday meal at the inn. Outside the greengrocer’s, Alec saw Mr. Deane arranging bundled stalks of rhubarb in a raised crate. A woman’s shrill voice called from within, and Mr. Deane scurried inside.
Patience pointed out the market hall, which sat on a small green amid the cobbled High Street. The half-timbered structure was supported by columns like a house on stilts over an open-sided pavilion beneath. She explained that on market days, sheep were driven through, and stalls were set up where merchants and farmers sold wares and produce. The room above was used for village council meetings and other parish gatherings.
A young man in workman’s clothes plodded wearily up the street. His coat was worn, short at the sleeves, and dusted with white, as was his flat cap. Noticing their party, the man stepped onto the street to give them a wide berth as they passed.
Alec was surprised when Miss Midwinter turned and addressed the young man.
“Mr. Thorne, is it not?”
The workman turned, surprised and wary, but then his eyes lit with recognition.
“Miss Midwinter.” He smiled, swiped the cap from his head, and bowed. Alec saw that his black hair was speckled with white, like a serious case of dandruff.
“Thank you again, miss, for coming to our aid that day. You were a godsend.”
Miss Midwinter smiled and dipped her head. “I was happy to help.”
Self-conscious, the man said, “Please forgive my appearance. I’ve just come from the clay works.”
So that was what a man looked like after working there. Alec shuddered.
While Miss Midwinter spoke with the young man, Patience stepped nearer Alec and Aurora and quietly explained, “A couple of ruffians threatened him and his sister last week, and Julia intervened.”
Aurora breathed, “What did she do?”
Patience sighed. “I will just say, don’t anger her when she has her riding crop in hand.”
Alec felt his brows rise and made note to remember that.
He heard Miss Midwinter politely ask the man, “And how is your sister? Those two have not bothered you again, I trust. You both fare well?”
He momentarily hesitated, then said, “Yes, Tess is quite well, thank you. She will be much obliged when I tell her you asked.”
“Yes, please do greet her for me.”
The man bowed again and went on his way. At the wheelwright’s, he turned down a narrow side street.
Once he had disappeared from view, the tour continued. But Alec would not soon forget the young man’s appearance.
On the small patch of turf beside the market hall stood an unusual fountain. At least Alec assumed the statue was a fountain, though he saw no water.
Patience explained, “My father says water from an underground spring used to flow through it, but the spring has long since dried up. Now its only function is ornamental.”
“What is it, exactly?” Aurora asked, her brow puckered.
They all squinted up at the female figure, with arms reaching upward but head bowed. She stood barefooted on a sandstone base, into which links of a chain had been carved.
“Looks like a captive to me,” Miss Midwinter said. “See those chains at her feet? She’s a prisoner here.”
“But the chains are broken,” Aurora observed.
“And look at her bowed head and raised hands,” Patience said. “I think she’s praying.”
Alec murmured, “Looks like a dancer to me.”
He felt Miss Midwinter’s gaze on his profile. “Yes, you would see that,” she said in a quiet aside.
Apparently, she had not shared news of his profession with her friend Patience. He wondered if she had told Lady Amelia.
“Don’t tell my mother it looks like a dancer,” she said, as if reading his mind. “She’ll have the thing dismantled.”
She grinned slyly, and they walked on.
“See that large stone there?” She pointed to a massive stone between the church and the inn.
Alec nodded. “Yes, I’ve noticed it before.”
Miss Midwinter told them the legend of the stone falling from the devil’s pocket, the tradition of turning it every autumn until last year’s failure, and the predictions of doom to come.
Then she smiled at him. “Perhaps you are the devil come to visit us.”
“Julia!” Patience looked stricken at her friend’s words. “You ought not tease about such things.” She turned wide eyes to Alec. “She didn’t mean it, Mr. Valcourt.”
“I can think of one person in particular who would think him devilish,” Miss Midwinter insisted.
“Julia, stop,” Patience pleaded. “Besides, Mr. Valcourt cannot be the . . . em, you know. The prediction is about the return of . . . said being.”
“Have you ever been to Beaworthy before, Mr. Valcourt, to visit your uncle?” Miss Midwinter asked.
“No, I had never been here before in my life.”
“Hmm . . .” Miss Midwinter studied him through narrowed eyes. “Very well. Then I shall keep looking.”
William Turner, Lately arrived from LONDON, Begs Leave to acquaint the Gentlemen and Ladies of the Town and Country, that he continues to teach the polite Art of Dancing and Fencing in the newest and most approved Method.
—Boston Gazette & Country Journal, 1774
Chapter 5
At dinner that night, Uncle Ramsay again broached the topic of the clay works, urging Alec not to wait too long or the position would be snapped up by someone else. Alec thanked his uncle for his concern, even as he still inwardly chafed at the notion. Was there really no other way to support his mother and sister? He didn’t want to give up his profession, his dream, so easily. There had to be something he
could do.
Agitated by the prospect of working in the clay pits, Alec took himself out for another walk that night. He strode back through the village, determined to check every shop window for hiring notices, hoping to find a way of escape.
At that hour the High Street was quiet. Most of the shops had closed, and the rooms above rumbled with dinnertime conversation and the occasional clatter of pots or cutlery.
Remembering fondly his village tour with Miss Midwinter and Miss Allen, Alec again walked past the shops, reading the signs over their doors or in their windows—wheelwright, shoemaker, greengrocer, bakery—but finding no one advertising for help.
The next window drew his attention by the conspicuous absence of either sign or wares. The lower windowpanes were papered over, obscuring any clues to the shop’s identity. He had not noticed it before. He paused, stood on tiptoe, and peered inside. There was just enough twilight to see into the mostly empty room. A hodgepodge of crates stood stacked on wooden floorboards. A few mismatched chairs circled the perimeter, and a large dusty mirror hung on one wall.
His chest tightened. Exactly the kind of place he had hoped to find to start an academy, before he’d learned of the unwritten law against dancing.
Alec walked to the shop door, saw the padlock and above a small hand-lettered notice.
For let. Reasonable terms. Inquire at the inn.
Might it be possible? Would the innkeeper even rent to him? Alec had a little savings. Was it worth the risk? Anything would be better than working in the clay pits. . . .
As he stood there contemplating, he became aware of carriage wheels and the clip-clop of unhurried horses. He glanced over his shoulder at a fine barouche making its way up the High Street. Through its window, he saw Lady Amelia Midwinter, apparently on her way back to Buckleigh Manor. She looked from him to the deserted establishment behind him and back again. Her face appeared somber. Perhaps even disapproving. Was her expression due to whatever call she had just made, or from seeing him? Had she learned of his former profession? She did not smile or lift a hand in greeting. So neither did he.
The Dancing Master Page 6