From the half landing, Julia had a good view of the vestibule below. There she glimpsed Alec Valcourt disappearing into Mr. Barlow’s office.
“What is he doing here?” she asked in surprise.
“Mr. Valcourt is our new clerk. He shall be assisting Mr. Barlow.”
The news filled Julia with conflicting emotions. “Since when does Barlow need help?”
Continuing down the stairs, her mother said, “Perhaps it is not Mr. Barlow who needs the help.”
Julia felt comprehension dawn. “Oh, I see! You are trying to help Mr. Valcourt resist the temptation to return to his former wicked pursuits. Is that it?”
“Of course I would like to see any man gainfully employed.” Her mother gave her a curious look. “And how did you know about his former profession?”
“Oh . . .” Julia shrugged. “You know there are no secrets in a place like Beaworthy.”
“No, I don’t know that.”
Julia halted midstride, feeling her mouth fall open. “What do you mean, Mamma?” But Lady Amelia continued across the hall. “Mamma!” Julia hurried to catch up.
Lady Amelia sent her a sidelong glance. “Not a thing, my dear. Only that at your age, you cannot presume to know everything.” She changed the subject. “Is Patience coming over to knit stockings for the poor this afternoon?”
“Yes.” Though knitting wasn’t the only thing Julia had in mind. She had a secret or two of her own.
That afternoon, Patience came over as expected, needlework bag in hand. They settled in the drawing room with their knitting wool and needles, and one of the maids served tea.
For a few minutes the only sound in the room was the click-clack of knitting needles. But Julia soon set aside her work. She lit a candle lamp, picked up a folded lap rug, and gestured for Patience to follow her out of the room. With a quizzical look, Patience complied. Checking the hall and finding it quiet, Julia led the way up one flight of stairs, then another, her friend trailing reluctantly behind. They passed servants’ bedchambers, and the old schoolroom where she and Patience used to play school. At the end of the passage, Julia started up the dim stairway to the attic storeroom.
“Are you certain we should be up here?” Patience asked in a timid voice.
What a proper mouse her friend could be.
“Why not? It is my house, after all.”
“I thought you said your mother doesn’t want you up here.”
“Oh, she warns about the dust, and a certain trunk she doesn’t wish me to disturb, which is of course the one I most wish to investigate.”
“Julia. We mustn’t. Not if your mother said not to.”
“No, of course not.” Julia changed tack. “But I did think it would be amusing to look through her old gowns. From her coming-out days.”
Lap rug under one arm, and candle lamp in hand, Julia opened the attic door and led the way across the dim storeroom, head slightly bowed to avoid brushing the low ceiling, in case any cobwebs should lurk there, so far from the housemaids’ diligent campaign against them.
She paused before an ornate trunk of dark mahogany. “This trunk, I believe.”
“Is this the one your mother asked you not to touch?” Patience asked in alarm.
“No, Patience.” Julia sighed. She turned and nodded toward a smaller trunk in the corner. “That one.”
Patience looked at the plain, stout trunk. “I am surprised she mentioned it. She had to know it would make you want to look inside all the more.”
“You would think she’d realize. But my mother doesn’t know me as well as she thinks.”
Julia set her lamp on a discarded side table and laid the lap rug on the floor. The two young ladies knelt before the first trunk, lifted the lid, and began looking through the layers of gowns within.
Julia lifted out a pretty sprigged muslin and sighed again. “I shall never have a proper coming out. Never even attend a ball. Not trapped here so far from the London season.”
“I went to London once.” Patience shuddered. “I should never want to stray so far from home again.”
“I should,” Julia insisted. “London and farther afield. And had I money enough, I should never come home.”
“Never come home?” Patience looked at her, aghast. “What a horrid thought.”
“I suppose if I had your family, I should think it horrid as well.”
Her friend’s eyes took on a wistful glow by candlelight. “There is no place I should rather be than Medlands.”
“How self-sacrificing of you to come here, then,” Julia quipped.
“Oh, Julia. I didn’t mean anything by it,” Patience apologized. “You know I enjoy spending time with you.”
Julia nodded. “Too bad I wasn’t born into your family. Then I could live at Medlands too.”
“There are ways to join our family,” Patience teased. “And one of those ways is spelled J-a-m-e-s.”
“Why, Patience Allen,” Julia exclaimed. “That is almost improper of you to say. I’m quite proud of you.” She opened a brittle Chinese fan and waggled her eyebrows over the top of it.
Patience grinned.
Julia was well aware of the expectation, even hope, that she and James Allen would marry one day. As the Allens’ eldest son and heir, even Lady Amelia would approve, which was of course, a strike against him in Julia’s eyes. James was very handsome, she allowed. Nearly prettier than his sister, who shared his fair coloring and good looks. Poor Walter. Almost an ugly duckling among swans, though none of the Allens seemed aware of the discrepancy.
And Julia liked James. She did. She was fond of him, as she was fond of Walter and Patience. They were like cousins to her, nearly as close as brother and sister—or so she imagined, never having had siblings of her own.
For a moment there in the dim attic, Julia imagined herself married to James Allen, playing man and wife. . . .
They lived in Medlands with his parents, for only death would remove them from its premises. Since she had become family, Sir Herbert often embraced Julia and doted on her as her own father never had. James doted on her as well, like a fond friend or kissing cousin. She and Patience were closer than ever, and Patience, as the spinster aunt, managed the children and the house, leaving Julia free to read and travel at her leisure. . . .
There the imaginings faded. She could share a life with James, but a bed? Children? No. It was no good. At all events, Julia was far from ready to contemplate marriage, especially to a man permanently tied to Beaworthy and one her mother approved of.
She thought of Mr. Valcourt—a forbidden man installed under her very roof. My, my. Life at Buckleigh Manor had suddenly become more interesting.
Half an hour later, Julia and Patience had inspected and admired the best of the gowns, while chuckling over a few gone horribly out of fashion.
Near the bottom of the trunk, they came across a gown carefully folded in layers of tissue. She and Patience had played dress-up with some of her mother’s gowns as girls, but Julia had never seen this one. She stood, holding the ivory satin gown to herself, admiring its dainty pink-and-green embroidery. “A gown like this . . . It had to be a ball gown,” Julia said. “You know very well Lady Amelia danced when she was my age. It doesn’t seem fair that she forbids me to do what she no doubt did.”
“It might not be a ball gown,” Patience said tentatively. “Though it is pretty, to be sure.”
Julia rewrapped the gown and prepared to return it to the trunk. Looking inside, she noticed the paper lining the trunk’s bottom had become bunched at one end. Julia leaned in to spread the papers back evenly. As she did, a rectangle of yellowed newsprint caught her eye. She picked up the clipping and read the advertisement printed upon it.
Mr. J. D., professor of dancing and fencing,
has the honour to announce his return from London;
where he has acquired all the new and fashionable dances.
Reels, minuets, and Country Dancing taught in
private or
group lessons.
A select Evening Academy twice a week, by subscription.
26 High Street, Beaworthy
“Can you imagine?” Julia breathed. “A dancing master here in Beaworthy? Right there on the High Street?”
“It is difficult to imagine. It must be a very old advertisement.”
Julia turned the clipping over but saw no date.
“I wonder why she kept it,” Patience mused. “Or maybe she just forgot about it.”
“I wonder if she took lessons from him . . .” Julia said. “How can I ask her without letting on where I found it?”
“Julia! You said this trunk wasn’t forbidden.”
“It’s not . . . specifically. Though she has asked me not to go rummaging about up here making a mess.”
“Then let’s put everything back just as we found it,” Patience urged.
“Very well,” Julia agreed. She slipped the clipping up her sleeve. Everything but this . . .
After Patience left that afternoon, Julia strode into the library.
Her mother had taken it over after Arthur Midwinter had fallen ill and been confined to his bed. Julia didn’t like the ornate, formal room. It reminded her of her father, who had not wanted a young girl in his domain, who always winced in martyr-like pain whenever she skipped in to retrieve a nursery book or an errant ball, warning of the breakable vases, children being seen and not heard, and a library full of valuable books not being a place for sticky fingers.
Walking toward the desk, Julia held up the clipping. “Mamma, what is this?”
Lady Amelia glanced up distractedly. “Hmm? What is what?” Then her eyes focused on the faded print and her eyes widened. “Where did you find this?”
“In your trunk of old gowns. Don’t worry, that’s the only trunk we looked in, and we put everything back just so. Patience made sure of it.”
“I hope you haven’t dirtied your hems.” Her mother flicked a glance at her skirt. “You know I have asked you not to go up there. You might have at least changed your frock first.”
“Never mind about my frock. Where did this come from?”
Lady Amelia waved her hand dismissively. “Heavens, I don’t know. You know Doyle takes care of my gowns and packs my trunks. She always lines them with paper, does she not?”
“Tissue paper, yes, and sometimes old newsprint. But this has been cut out.”
Her mother held out her hand for the clipping. “Let me see it.” She accepted it and flipped it over. “Perhaps it was cut to preserve this article here on the reverse. This bit of parliamentary news.”
Julia shook her head in vexation. “I knew you would never admit to having any interest in dancing. I’d like to hear you explain away that carefully preserved ball gown as easily.”
Lady Amelia lifted an expressive hand. “Of course I had gowns of every description when I was young. My parents took us to London for several seasons. But all of that was before my brother died.”
“And how do you expect me to find a suitable husband, since you refuse to take me to London?”
“London society is no place for either of us, Julia. Not with all its airs and immorality. Besides, you need look no further than Medlands to find a suitable mate.”
That again. “But—you went to London to find an advantageous match.”
“Yes, I suppose that was the plan for Anne and me. And my brother did meet a very suitable young lady. They might have married, had he lived.” Sadness dulled her eyes.
Julia asked, “Is that where you met Father?”
Her mother hesitated. “No. Mr. Midwinter did not enjoy the social season. My father had long been acquainted with him—he lived in Torrington with his mother and older brother. Father invited him here to meet me.”
“Then did your sister meet her husband during the season?”
Lady Amelia scoffed. “Not likely.”
“What do you mean?”
“Julia, I am sorry, but my mind is full of plans for the charity event for the poor fund. Can we talk about this later?”
“Oh, all right,” Julia huffed. She was used to being dismissed, her questions ignored, and being less important than her mother’s many charitable organizations.
She flounced from the library, not realizing until later that her mother still had the clipping.
After her daughter had left the library, Lady Amelia Buckleigh Midwinter picked up the rectangle of yellowed newsprint and allowed her gaze to linger on the words. And to remember . . .
When Amelia saw the dancing master standing in the threshold of the salon, she felt her eyes widen and her lower lip droop. She closed her mouth quickly and did her best to hide her surprise—her jolt of feminine awareness and attraction. Good heavens, he was much more handsome than she recalled. His time studying under an experienced professor had clearly added polish as well as any new dances he may have learned while he was away.
He bowed smartly, and then straightened to his full height. He cut a dashing figure in his rich blue tailcoat, buff breeches, and buckled shoes. She forced her gaze away from the muscled calves so effectively displayed in snug white stockings. His shoulders seemed broader than she recalled. Perhaps he had gained a great deal of strength from a new fencing regimen since she had last seen him. Or it may have simply been the precise cut of the well-made coat, but she doubted it. His patterned waistcoat and cravat were fashionable, yet he managed to look not at all effeminate or foppish. No, he was decidedly masculine. . . .
He was staring back at her, she realized. Had he noticed her impolite survey of his person? Her neck heated, and she lowered her gaze yet still felt his intent scrutiny. Had she changed as well? She doubted her looks had improved as his had, at least not by any marked degree. She certainly hoped he did not find her much aged. Or perhaps there was something on her face. Her skin itched by suggestion, and she brushed self-conscious fingers across her cheek.
Amelia had told her father that she was perfectly comfortable meeting the dancing master alone. She would leave the door open and the lady’s maid might join them when she was able. Her siblings had awoken with colds, but it had been too late to send word to cancel the lesson. He was here now. It would be rude to send him away and rob him of his fee. Besides, though they were from different stations in life, she knew him well enough to feel no discomfort in his presence. No concern about inappropriate attention or impropriety.
She swallowed.
Perhaps she should have canceled the lesson.
She remembered him as a pleasant young man of average height, wiry and athletic, and a surprisingly skilled dancer for a person near her own age. But now . . . Was it only the heel of his dancing shoes? He certainly seemed taller. His face was less boyish and more defined, with strong cheekbones and dark eyes capped by thick brows.
Stop it, she told herself. Stop it this instant.
“Forgive me—come in.” She gestured him into the room, indicating the sideboard where he might leave his walking stick and instrument.
“Thank you,” he said. “It is good to see you again. You look beau— That is, you look to be enjoying good health.”
She glanced up quickly, studying his face. Had he almost said she looked beautiful, or had she imagined it? No other man had ever said so. Not even the wealthy older man her father wished her to marry. Good heavens, she was becoming as romantically fanciful as her sister, or some of the giggling debutants she had met during the London season.
She reminded herself he was a dancing master—known for flattery. Had she not heard highborn mothers warning their daughters against the charms of caper merchants? Surely that was all it was.
“I am afraid it is only me today,” she said, unaccountably nervous. “A slight malady making the rounds. Nothing of concern, but . . . Well, I hope you don’t mind.”
He set down his things and stepped closer. Again he seemed to be staring at her, and now at closer range she was struck by the intensity of his brown eyes, deep and warm and inviting.
He slowly shook his head. “Not at all.”
He held out his hand to her. No gloves? She had not thought to wear any either. This was not, after all, a ball or any sort of formal event. And he was only the dancing master. . . .
Only? She looked down at his hand—long fingers, smooth and strong. Her heart began beating a little harder than it should.
In a low voice he asked, “Shall we begin?”
Amelia felt flushed and light-headed and full of illogical hope. With one last shy glance into those deep, admiring eyes, she placed her hand in his.
Wrastling is full of manliness, for you shall hardly find an assembly of boys in Devon and Cornwall, where the most untowardly amongst them will not as readily give you a muster of this exercise as you are prone to require it.
—Richard Carew, 17th century historian
Chapter 7
On Thursday, Alec returned to Buckleigh Manor for his second day as clerk.
The estate manager’s office was not large yet boasted a high ceiling, as did the other ground-level rooms. High on one wall hung a clock. And on another, a large map of the estate, showing the manor, gardens, outbuildings, finely timbered park, and a thousand acres of surrounding farmland.
The office held bookshelves, cabinets for important papers, and two desks—Mr. Barlow’s large one at center, and a smaller clerk’s desk in the corner.
Alec hunched over the latter. There he summed figures in a ledger column, his concentration hindered by Mr. Barlow pacing behind his chair, now and again glancing over Alec’s shoulder. Then he cleared his throat.
“Yes, Mr. Barlow?” Alec asked testily.
“Are you not finished yet, Valcourt?”
I would be, were you not looking over my shoulder, Alec thought, but said only, “I am simply rechecking my work.”
The Dancing Master Page 8