“I shall do so.” Barlow held out his hand for the ledger.
“Then what shall I do, sir?”
Alec had already reorganized the files the day before. Today he had alphabetized the bookcases, worked through the bills, and taken a batch of letters to the inn for posting.
Barlow looked around the tidy office. “Um, let’s see. . . . What else needs doing. . . .”
Alec’s gaze was suddenly drawn to the window. He glimpsed Miss Midwinter walk past in a blue riding habit, on her way to the stable, no doubt.
Alec picked up a notice from his desk and said, “I have a question about this saddler’s invoice for a new sidesaddle. Do we know if Isaacs has received it and is satisfied?”
Barlow considered. “Good question, I shall go and ask him.”
“I’ll go, sir,” Alec said, rising eagerly.
The man looked about to refuse, so Alec hurried to add, “I thought you were expecting the thatcher any time now?”
Barlow glanced at the clock. “Oh, right. Very well. Go and ask.”
“Happily, sir.” Alec was happy indeed to escape the office with its heavy silence and constant scrutiny.
Taking the notice with him, Alec let himself out the side door, forgoing hat and gloves on the temperate late-February day. He crossed the back lawn toward the stable block. In the adjacent paddock, Miss Midwinter sat sidesaddle atop a glossy brown horse, the long skirt of her riding habit splayed over its rear and side like a royal sash. She began riding a course of modest rail jumps, the scarf around her hat brim sailing behind her as she did so. Her posture and graceful ease were beautiful to behold. Her confidence and skill admirable. He tried to imagine himself riding Apollo with that competence someday, and chuckled to himself at the thought.
Entering the stable, dim after the brightness of outdoors, Alec allowed his eyes to adjust, then found Mr. Isaacs’s small office beyond the tack room. He reviewed the bill with the man and then, assured all was as it should be, took himself back outside.
There Miss Midwinter came riding toward the stable. She noticed him and urged her horse toward the fence.
“Hello, Mr. Valcourt.”
“Good day, Miss Midwinter.” His hand lifted of his own accord to remove his hat, only to remember he wasn’t wearing one. Would he always make such a cake of himself with this woman? He made a show of brushing away an invisible fly, then glanced at the sleek mare. “Beautiful lady you’ve got there.”
She patted her mare’s neck. “Yes, she is.”
Yes, she is, Alec echoed to himself.
The groom came out and helped Miss Midwinter dismount.
Straightening her skirts, she asked Alec, “Do you ride?”
“No, not really.”
“I suppose you haven’t a horse . . . being from town.”
She’d added the last phrase with the tact of good breeding, he realized. She must assume he could not afford a horse. And she’d be right, but still he was proud to be able to correct her.
“I do, actually. And I’m keen to ride him.” He sighed, then added, “Unfortunately he’s not keen on the idea himself.”
She laughed—a lovely sound—and he smiled, glad he’d admitted the truth.
Eyes shining, she said, “We shall have to see what we can do about that.”
When Alec returned to the office, Mr. Barlow told him that Lady Amelia wished to see him before he left for the day.
Alec was instantly on his guard.
At four, he crossed the hall to the library, knocked, and entered when bid.
Lady Amelia looked up from her desk and gestured him nearer. She did not, however, offer him a chair. “May I have an accounting of how you spent your time today, Mr. Valcourt?”
Alec stiffened. It wasn’t his fault if Barlow was reluctant to delegate many duties to him, save the most elementary.
He cleared his throat, and began. “I reconciled the bills to the purchase orders, summed the quarter’s household accounts, purged the mail of trade advertisements, and took a batch of letters to the inn for posting.”
“The hallboy posts any letters that miss the morning pickup.”
“I know. But I needed to stretch my legs.”
“We are not paying you to stretch your legs.”
“I realize that, of course, but Mr. Barlow is busy and doesn’t always have time to delegate sufficient duties to me.”
He worded his explanation carefully, not wishing to criticize Barlow. But nor did he want to talk himself out of a job.
She arched an auburn eyebrow. “And did you also go to the stables today to ‘stretch your legs’?”
So she had seen him talking with her daughter. He’d wondered if she might have, when Mr. Barlow delivered her summons.
“I went to see Isaacs about an invoice for a new sidesaddle.”
She considered this. “I see.”
She dismissed him, and he left feeling, for the most part, relieved. He knew he had not impressed her with his day’s accomplishments, but he determined to do better on the morrow.
The next afternoon, he was ready for her. Before he left for the day, he stopped in the library and handed Lady Amelia a list of all he had worked on and accomplished.
She raised an eyebrow, scanned the list, then looked up at him. “Thank you, Mr. Valcourt. I see Barlow found more to delegate to you today.”
More accurately, Alec had wrested duties from the older man’s grasp. But he said only, “Yes, my lady. I believe he is finding me useful.”
“I should hope so. Well, good evening, Mr. Valcourt.”
“Good evening.” He bowed and departed.
He’d won that day’s bout. But Alec knew he had more battles ahead in winning both Barlow’s trust and hers.
Taking his leave, Alec met Walter Allen in the churchyard to fence together as Walter had requested. Alec began simply, reviewing the fundamentals, most of which Walter had clearly forgotten. Then they attached leather guards and practiced an easy pattern of advance, lunge, retreat—striking their blades on every pass. Walter was rangy and raw, but if he ever mastered those long limbs of his, Alec thought he would make a fearsome opponent. When he told him so, Walter flushed with pleasure.
Alec had been tempted to offer the young man formal lessons, but decided he would teach Walter gratis. He found himself growing fond of the young man and liked having someone to take exercise with and talk to—and true friendship was always impeded, he’d found, when money changed hands. If Walter’s father were to offer to pay him, that might be another matter . . . but Alec decided not to suggest it. He had his wages as clerk, and that was enough.
Alec had begun demonstrating a more advanced movement, when applause interrupted them. He looked over midlunge. There stood Miss Midwinter and Miss Allen, who must have come in through the churchyard’s rear door. He wondered how long they had been watching.
He straightened, feeling self-conscious. But both women were smiling at him with, if he was not mistaken, admiration in their eyes.
“My, my, what gallants,” Miss Midwinter teased.
“Indeed,” Patience agreed.
Walter rolled his eyes. “I think that is enough for today, Valcourt. I’m done in.”
He extended his family’s invitation to dinner Saturday evening, and Alec accepted.
Alec was only expected to work half a day on Saturday. It was one of the advantages of working at Buckleigh Manor. Glancing again at Miss Midwinter, he thought, But not the only advantage.
On Saturday evening, Alec dressed with care. At his mother’s insistence, he took the last bottle of the elder wine she had made last autumn as a gift for his hosts.
At Medlands, a footman took his hat and stick and showed him into the drawing room. The Allens had already gathered—Patience playing the pianoforte, the parents listening, the brothers bent over a game of draughts at an inlaid game table. The scene made Alec miss his home in London, his old life.
The Allens rose and welcomed Alec warmly. La
dy Allen accepted the elder wine with effusive gratitude, begging Alec to pass along her thanks to his mother.
Together they all strolled into the dining room without precedence or ceremony. The family took their customary seats, except for Walter, who insisted Alec take his seat in the middle of the table, where all could converse easily with him.
They ate family style, with Lady Allen ladling the soup from a silver tureen to begin the meal. “And how do you like Beaworthy so far?” she asked, passing him a bowl.
“Oh, it’s a charming place, and the people are friendly . . . for the most part.”
“But much smaller than London. I hope you are not disappointed with our society?”
“Not at all.”
James eyed him speculatively. “And how, if you don’t mind my asking, did you occupy yourself in London?”
His mother gently chided, “James, don’t pry.”
“I don’t mind,” Alec assured his hostess. “I hope you don’t mind when you hear my answer. In London, I was a dancing master, as was my father. We taught lessons in private homes, schools, and our own academy.”
The family members hesitated, spoons or glasses halfway to their mouths, exchanging glances with one another.
Alec continued, “I did not realize until we arrived that dancing was not . . . popular . . . here in Beaworthy.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Walter said.
“Oh good, you know.” Lady Allen breathed in relief. “Not good that you’ve been disappointed, but good that you’ve already learned of the . . . restrictions . . . here. I would hate to be the one to break the news and disappoint you.”
“Never fear, my lady. That has been done already.” He added, “I do hope you are not offended by my vocation.”
“Heavens no. Not offended in the least,” Sir Herbert assured. “Lady Allen and I took lessons from the old dancing master. Mr. Sharp, his name was. And Lady Allen and I danced at no few balls when we were younger. Did we not, my dear? In fact, I am not boasting if I tell you I won the heart of the belle of the ball. Many gentlemen went away disappointed when our engagement was announced. Now, I take no pleasure in delivering pain to anyone, still I cannot but thank God every day that she agreed to marry me.”
“I thank God as well, my love.” Lady Allen reached over and pressed Sir Herbert’s hand.
Seeing their affection caused a wistful pain in Alec’s breast.
“We hold no scruples against dancing personally,” Sir Herbert continued, “but have abstained these many years out of respect for Lady Amelia. And, well, because there have been no balls to decline, it has been relatively easy to do so, with little personal sacrifice.” Sir Herbert sighed. “But I have always regretted my children have never danced in the High Street on May Day, as we did when we were young.”
Lady Allen added, “And Patience never the belle of a Beaworthy ball.”
Patience blushed prettily and ducked her head. “I don’t mind, Mamma. I should not like everyone breaking their hearts over me.”
“Sure you would, Pet,” James said. “If we had a ball, Papa would have to beat back the hordes of eager gentlemen with a stick.”
Patience blushed again. “Oh, James. Don’t be ridiculous.”
James patted her hand, then said, “I did learn to dance at school. Well, a bit. Did you not as well, Walt?”
“Um, no. I can’t say that I ever learned.” Walter grinned. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t try to teach me.”
Sir Herbert looked across at Alec as he carved the roast. “What say you, Mr. Valcourt? Would you do us the honor of teaching James, Walter, and Patience here? We would make it worth your while, of course.”
Satisfaction and pleasure surged through Alec. He opened his mouth to accept wholeheartedly, when the image of Lady Amelia’s face flashed in his mind. A few private lessons would never replace the regular income he earned as clerk. He had to think about his mother and sister, and not only his own wishes.
“I would like nothing better, sir. Truly. But . . . as I am employed by Lady Amelia . . .” He let his words trail away.
Sir Herbert nodded. “I take your meaning.”
Lady Allen said, “You are kind to think of the feelings of others, Mr. Valcourt. We strive for that ourselves. I wonder though . . . Perhaps if I spoke to Lady Amelia, explained that we only want private lessons in our own home, not a public dance. Could she really object?”
Sir Herbert shook his head regretfully. “She could. But let us think on what is best to do. For now, we shall hold off on the idea. All right?”
Alec nodded. “Thank you for understanding.”
“You will continue our fencing lessons, I hope?” Walter asked eagerly.
“They’re not really lessons, Walter,” Alec demurred. “We have been two friends, practicing.”
“You can say that all you like, but it’s clear you’re the master and I’m the fumbling pupil.”
Remembering the admiring glances of Miss Midwinter and Miss Allen, Alec smiled. “Well, whatever we call it, I too hope we shall continue.”
On Monday morning, Alec stood before the postal log Barlow kept on a lectern near the tradesman’s entrance for convenience sake. The post had arrived, and Alec’s task was to record the letters that arrived postage due—which was most of them, actually, save for some franked pieces from London. He enjoyed this duty, for it allowed him to stand—a relief after sitting so long. Alone in the office, he found himself humming a tune, and before he knew it his feet began a little shuffle step.
“Must you, Mr. Valcourt?” Mr. Barlow’s voice caught him unaware, and Alec felt his neck heat. He’d not heard the man enter.
“Where is the rent from the Reddaways?” Barlow asked.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Reddaway didn’t have it.”
Barlow sighed in his long-suffering manner. “Must I do everything myself?” He turned and left the office.
Alec followed him out into the hall to explain, and hopefully save the man a trip. “Mr. Reddaway’s daughter has just had a child. They haven’t the money this quarter, what with buying things for the babe, but he promised to pay once Miss Tabitha is able to return to work.”
Barlow turned in stunned wonder. “Little Tabby’s had a child? Seems like only yesterday she was a wee imp in long plaits—”
Lady Amelia’s frosty voice interrupted them. “Tabitha Reddaway has always held too high an opinion of her own charms. She had every man in the village eating from the palm of her hand. And now she finds herself with child without benefit of marriage and we are to forgo a quarter’s rent?”
Mr. Barlow stared at his mistress, clearly taken aback by her bitter tone. “Shall I send Mr. Valcourt back then, my lady? And demand the rent now?”
She pressed her eyes closed, brow furrowed, her whole face tight. She looked away, out the hall window at the slowly falling drizzle, or perhaps some distant memory. “No,” she said on an exhale. “It isn’t the child’s fault.” She straightened and said briskly, “But next quarter. No excuses.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Alec breathed a sigh of relief.
Too soon.
She turned to him, her officious expression back in place. “I do hope this isn’t an indication of your ineffectiveness, Mr. Valcourt.”
He defended, “I did not realize rent collecting would be one of my duties as clerk.”
“I expect you to help Mr. Barlow in whatever duties he sees fit to assign you. I hope I make myself clear.”
“Perfectly,” he said, though inwardly he chafed. At Medlands he was treated as a guest. Here, as little higher than a servant on trial.
Alec looked up. A flash of movement and color had caught his attention. Glancing toward the stairs, he was chagrined to see Miss Midwinter there on the half landing. He felt indignant and embarrassed to have her witness the unfair reprimand. There she stood, expression inscrutable, looking down at him from on high.
She already looks down at you, he told hims
elf. So what does it matter?
But it did.
Alec’s feet drummed beneath him, his shoes tattooing on the old paving stones. Their report echoed against the gravestones of the ancient churchyard adjoining the manor grounds. Perspiration beaded and trickled down his back. His breathing became labored. He had not danced in far too long.
He danced the hornpipe. The solitary dance of flying feet and still upper body, arms at sides. The hornpipe had long been danced on naval ships to provide regular exercise for men living in cramped quarters. That was how he felt, living in his uncle’s small house, having to be on his best behavior at all hours. That was how he felt, working in Buckleigh Manor, at the small desk in Mr. Barlow’s office. Trying to be what they wanted him to be. No space of his own. No freedom.
His coat and sword lay on a bench nearby as he danced in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. He meant no disrespect to the old church or graveyard, though he doubted the dead would mind. It was only the living who would reprimand him if they knew.
This broad, even path, surrounded by concealing stone walls and with an audience of only headstones, was the best place he could think of to dance without censure. He wondered how far the sound of his shoes would carry—hopefully not to the manor, though it wasn’t far away, nor to Medlands opposite.
No one played the pipe for him that afternoon, nor the fiddle. But the music of years, engraved in his memory from countless rehearsals, surged through his muscles. The exertion exhilarated, released and relieved, even as it exhausted. His shoes pounded out his frustrations: his father, Miss Underhill, his uncle, Mr. Barlow, Lady Amelia, Miss Midwinter . . .
Suddenly Joe and Felton Wilcox came lurching through the churchyard gate. Thunder and turf. Could he get no peace? Alec stopped dancing, but it was too late. The Wilcox brothers had seen him.
“Well, well, and what have we here, Joe?” Felton smirked. “A fairy dance, was it? I thought a woodpecker had gone mad with all that pounding. And here it was only you.”
“Gone and joined the ranters, have ya?” Joe asked. “Though that lot don’t dance in public.”
“I didn’t realize I had an audience,” Alec said.
The Dancing Master Page 9