Walter blushed and looked at his large feet. “As if I could.”
Alec continued to intone instructions, hearing his grandfather’s voice, with its lingering French accent, echo through his mind.
“In the ballroom, steps should be performed in an easy graceful manner, with minute neatness, and in a rather small compass. . . .”
How many times he had heard his grandfather give these introductory comments to a new group of pupils. Alec and his father had not acquired his accent, which, considering the recent war and public opinion against foreign teachers, was fortuitous.
“Ladies, particularly, should rather seem to glide along with easy elegance, than strive to astonish by violent action. . . .”
“Come on, Valcourt,” Walter begged. “Enough with the pomp and airs. If we must dance, let us have a lively jig or reel. Not this foppish nonsense.”
“This is not foppish nonsense.”
James winced apologetically. “It is a bit boring.”
“Oh, very well.” Alec set aside his notes. “As there are only four of you, including Aurora, the Foursome Reel, it is.”
He and his sister demonstrated the opening steps. Then Alec instructed the women to stand back to back, facing their male partners.
They walked through the steps slowly, Alec tapping out the tempo with his grandfather’s walking stick—a tool first he, then Alec’s father had used to mark time. Oh, Papa, Alec thought, the bitter regret pinching his gut as it always did when he thought of his father’s fate.
James and Patience learned the steps and patterns quickly, while Walter was slower to master them, and even then was ungainly when performing them. Fortunately, Aurora was excellent at leading when need be, and in encouraging the most challenging of partners. But even for her, nudging and cajoling and gesturing Walter through the dance was no easy feat.
Finally Alec thought they had reached a point where words would do no more good. Only one thing would help: music.
There was something about music that transformed rote steps into natural, fluid movements, that clarified the timing and turning like instructions alone never could. When Alec felt the music inside, his body and feet began to move of their own accord, puppets to the strings of notes. But he had learned to dance so long ago, it was difficult to recall a time when he had to think about the steps. In fact, it was sometimes a challenge to teach something one did without conscious thought. This was good for him, he decided. He was out of practice.
He walked to his case and took out his fiddle. He hoped he wasn’t as rusty in playing as he’d become in teaching. He positioned the instrument—handed down from his grandfather, who had taught him to play—between jaw and shoulder, then lifted the bow. “Eight-count introduction, then begin. I will call out the steps the first time through to remind you. Watch Aurora if you forget what to do.”
Striking bow to strings, he launched into the jaunty introductory bars, then said, “Ready, and . . . set to your partner.”
Aurora and James began the coy little side-to-side step, which James performed remarkably well for a beginner. As they danced, Alec thought he noticed James Allen’s eyes lingering on Aurora once or twice. Or was he imagining it? A man like James Allen—eldest son and heir of Medlands—was not likely to take a respectable interest in a dancing master’s daughter. Aurora glanced over, and finding James looking at her, ducked her head self-consciously. Also strange, for Aurora was accustomed to partnering male pupils of every description.
Patience, craning her neck to watch Aurora, joined in a few seconds late but quickly recovered. Walter looked like an ox treading grain, but with a wild eye on his brother’s movements, shadowed them a few beats after the fact. The first intertwining pattern looked more like a knotted lace than a figure eight. The women were supposed to switch partners before returning to their original places, but Walter ignored Patience, likely not even seeing her, as he followed Aurora with dogged determination.
Alec stopped playing, reminded them of the pattern, which Aurora demonstrated again, and then he played once more. This time, with a little push and whispered reminder, Aurora managed to nudge Walter toward his sister at the appropriate interval.
Walter grinned, sheepish and self-conscious. “Thanks, Miss V.”
The simple pattern repeated itself and the dancers became more confident. Faces relaxed as the need to concentrate lessened and the enjoyment of the dance took over.
Alec began to remember why he enjoyed teaching. The pleasure of seeing the light of understanding spark in a pupil’s eyes—the thrill of learning a new dance, of mastering steps at first deemed too difficult. Alec thought he might challenge himself to learn a few new dances from one of his books by famed dancing masters in London or Edinburgh. Not that there would be any call for all the new and fashionable dances here in Beaworthy with all of three pupils.
At the thought, Alec sighed inwardly, then forced a smile. Things were looking up, he told himself. After all, he was teaching dance in Beaworthy, and the world had not come to an end.
The next day, Alec performed his duties gingerly, on edge, waiting for a summons to the library to meet with Lady Amelia, afraid she had somehow heard about the dancing lesson at Medlands and dreading the consequences. Patience might easily have mentioned it to Julia—the two young ladies were fast friends. And if Julia mentioned it to her mother in passing . . . Or perhaps a Medlands servant might have mentioned it to someone who worked in Buckleigh Manor, and word had got back to the mistress. . . .
The clock struck the hour and Alec started.
Barlow looked up from the letter he was signing. “Good heavens, Valcourt. You’re as jumpy as your horse. What’s got into you today?”
“Nothing, sir. Sorry. Too much coffee.”
Barlow hmphed at that excuse and bent back over his work.
“How is Apollo?” Alec asked.
“He’s coming around, I believe. Come out before you leave for the day and I’ll show you.”
After work that afternoon, Alec left the manor feeling relieved and hopeful the dance lessons could continue, undetected, his job as clerk secure—at least until Lady Amelia received a reply to her London letter. As he strolled toward the stable, the late-afternoon sun shone on him and cautious hope filled his chest.
Mr. Barlow, already standing in the paddock with Apollo, called Alec over. “All right, Mr. Valcourt, your turn.”
As Alec approached, Barlow patted the gelding’s neck, trying to keep the dun calm enough for Alec to mount.
Alec lifted his left foot into the stirrup, grasped the saddle leather, and pulled himself off the ground, swinging his right leg up and over. Apollo lurched in a violent sidestep worthy of the Highland Reel. Alec felt himself falling back as the horse slid out from beneath him. He landed on his backside in the paddock mire.
Alec was relieved Miss Midwinter was not on hand to witness his mortification.
Barlow sighed. “We shall try again next week.”
For some weeks past the town has been disturbed by frequent assemblies of Bryanites, in a room over the market-place. What with the ravings of the disciples within, and the laughter of the crowds without, the place has been a perfect Babel, disturbing the comfort and repose of the more rational inhabitants of the neighborhood.
—The West Briton, 1827
Chapter 10
Patience planned to spend Saturday afternoon with Miss Strickland, leaving Julia bored and lonely. So she arranged a diversion for herself—and hopefully Miss Valcourt as well. The early March day was cool but sunny. A lovely day for an excursion.
Soon Julia sat at the reins of the lightweight, speedy curricle pulled by a pair of horses. Their young groom sat on the back—her mother had insisted. With a lift of reins and an eager “Walk on,” Julia urged the horses across the grounds and up the Buckleigh Road.
She halted in front of Mr. Ramsay’s house. The groom hopped down and helped her alight.
“Hold them for me, will you? I won’t
be long.”
Aurora Valcourt must have seen her drive up, for she opened the front door before Julia reached it.
“My goodness, Miss Midwinter, you are quite the whip.”
“Thank you, Miss Valcourt. Come with me and I’ll show you just how well I handle the ribbons.”
“Oh? Where are you off to?”
“Shopping, I think. If you will accompany me.”
Mrs. Valcourt appeared at her daughter’s elbow.
Aurora turned and asked, “Mamma, Miss Midwinter has invited me to go shopping with her. May I?”
“Shopping? We don’t . . . That is, I don’t think you . . . need anything, my dear.”
“Only window-shopping, Mrs. Valcourt,” Julia clarified, guessing the Valcourts had little spending money. “The millinery has a new shipment of bonnets for spring.”
“Oh. Very well, then,” Mrs. Valcourt said. “But don’t be gone too long, Aurora. Mr. Bullmore plans to call at four.”
Aurora smiled with pleasure. “Yes, Mamma.” The girl disappeared inside and returned a few moments later with bonnet, gloves, and reticule.
The groom gave both ladies a hand up and then climbed back onto the rear box. Once he was settled, Julia lifted the reins and urged the horses up the road and into the village. But as they clattered along the High Street, Julia made no effort to slow down.
“I thought you said the millinery?” Aurora asked as they passed it by.
“I did. But not the Beaworthy millinery. The bonnets there are for spring all right—spring of 1801.”
Aurora chuckled.
They drove to the larger town of Holsworthy, some six or seven miles away. There they stopped at a livery, where Julia handed over the reins to a hostler, instructing him to make sure the horses had plenty of water while they rested. She gave the young man her name, a silver coin, and a warm smile. He blushed as red as his hair.
Julia gave their own groom a coin as well and told him to buy himself some refreshment at the inn and then wait for them at the livery.
Arm in arm, the two young ladies walked along the Holsworthy High Street and paused before the millinery window to take in its display of hats and Easter bonnets.
“Very nice,” Aurora murmured.
“Don’t be polite, Aurora. I can see you are not impressed. I’m sure no shop in Devonshire could compare to the London shops you are used to.”
“I don’t know. Some of these are lovely. Have you set your heart upon one in particular?”
“No . . .” Julia turned her head, her attention snagged by a flash of red. “Any of them will do.”
Aurora turned toward the sight that had captured Julia’s attention—not the assortment of hats, but the assortment of men clustered at the end of the street. Men in lobster-red uniforms.
“You see, Aurora,” Julia said. “Holsworthy has not only more bonnets than Beaworthy, but more men as well. A regiment of Devon militia is training nearby. And the officers are allowed a half day’s leisure once a week.”
“So I see,” Aurora said.
“There is something about a man in uniform.” Julia sighed. “Handsome, are they not?”
Aurora squinted. “It is hard to tell at this distance.”
“Good point.” Julia hooked Aurora’s arm and walked forward. “Come on.”
“Julia!” Aurora whispered, voice trembling in fear and excitement.
“Don’t worry. I promised we would only window-shop.” She winked at the younger girl.
As they approached, the men in red coats parted like the Red Sea to allow them to pass. Hats were swiped from heads, gallant bows were made, compliments given—a few wolfish whistles punctuating the more gentlemanly addresses.
After they had passed through the gauntlet, Julia smiled at her blushing, starry-eyed companion. “Now, was that not worth the trip?”
“Indeed. . . .” Aurora breathed, and Julia gave the girl’s arm an affectionate squeeze. She knew they would be fast friends.
Later, as the girls left Holsworthy, they were followed by two officers giving mischievous chase on horseback, hands to their hearts, vowing undying devotion. Julia soaked up the admiration and laughed at their antics, urging the carriage horses faster. When she finally tore her gaze from the young men long enough to glance at Aurora, she noticed the girl’s smile seemed stiff and determined, and her gloved hand gripped the wooden side rail.
When they left the town limits, the young men reined in, lifted their hats, and waved them overhead. Determined to impress both the officers and Aurora with her driving skill, she urged the horses into one final burst of speed as they drove from sight. Ahead, the road curved sharply.
“Miss!” the groom called a warning, hanging desperately to his rear perch.
With a thrill of pleasure, Julia rounded the corner on one wheel. Crack, thwing!—the wheel hit a rocky hole in the road, and careened to one side.
Beside her, Aurora cried out.
The vehicle lurched back down onto both wheels with shuddering force. Alarm for the first time gripped Julia’s stomach. She reined in the horses and guided the vehicle to the side of the road, sensing in the rattling vibration that something was wrong. She hoped they had not broken a wheel or axle.
She tied off the reins and hopped down without waiting for the groom to assist her. She didn’t see the young man on the rear . . . but spied him sprawled on the verge several yards back.
She called, “Are you all right?”
“I think so, miss.” He rose to his feet and wiped at his coat and trousers.
“Sorry about that, Tommy.”
Together they inspected the undergirdings and discovered one of the spring straps had snapped off, but thankfully the axle and wheels appeared sound. Still, it would be a slow, jarring ride home.
When they returned to Mr. Ramsay’s cottage late that afternoon, they were met by a white-faced Mrs. Valcourt.
“Aurora, there you are! I was becoming frantic. You’ve been gone for more than three hours. You have missed the rector’s visit, though he came expressly to become acquainted with our family. Your uncle has sent Abe to the milliner’s and Alec back to Buckleigh Manor, but no one had seen hide nor hair of you. You don’t know how I’ve been praying for you—certain you’d been set upon by highwaymen or were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
Inwardly, Julia groaned. Wonderful. Now Mamma shall scold me as well. . . .
“I am sorry for worrying you, Mrs. Valcourt,” Julia said. “It is my fault. There was nothing in Beaworthy to suit my fancy, so we drove into Holsworthy. On the way back, we lost a spring strap and had to slow down considerably, or we would have returned sooner.”
A horse came galloping up the road, and Julia recognized Barlow on Raven, his favored black horse. He did not look pleased.
“Miss, there you are. Your mother sent me to look for you. We were worried.”
“You all worry too much,” Julia said, forcing a chuckle to lighten her complaint. “I am well. Miss Valcourt is well. We were only window-shopping.”
Barlow hesitated. “Well, I shall ride on ahead and let her ladyship know you’re safe. Promise you’ll follow directly, miss.”
Julia stayed only long enough to thank Aurora for accompanying her, and to apologize yet again for returning her late, before lifting the reins and turning the curricle toward home. She dreaded the pending argument with her mother. That’s all they seemed to do these days—Lady Amelia reprimanding or lecturing. Julia sniping or defending.
It hadn’t always been that way between them. When she was young, Julia and her mother had enjoyed each other’s company—reading together or strolling through the gardens, visiting the students at the girls’ school, or occasionally driving into Holsworthy to shop or attend a concert. If the weather was pleasant they had sometimes taken a picnic into Dartmoor or some other lovely place. They had talked about everything. Though, thinking back, Julia had prattled on while her mother mostly listened. She rarely talked about herself, about her p
ast or her family or her marriage. Julia had not given it much thought at the time—the self-centeredness of youth, she supposed.
Her father, however, had not spent any time with her. And the harder Julia had tried to gain his attention, the more he seemed to withhold it. Her mother never acknowledged his disinterest, but she had tried to make up for it.
Whenever Mr. Midwinter had refused to play dominoes with her or to read her a story, her mother had said nothing would please her more. She remembered once asking her father if she looked pretty in a new dress, and he told her not to be so vain. Her mother had consoled her, saying, “Of course you look pretty, Julia. Your father simply wants you to remember not to put too much importance on outward beauty. Character and behavior are so much more important.” She’d turned to Mr. Midwinter. “Is that not what you meant, my dear?” And he had emphatically agreed.
But somewhere along the line, Julia had come to resent her mother’s cheerful interference and attention, and begun to push her away. Was it an urge to reject as she had been rejected? To hurt as she had been hurt? She wasn’t sure.
Whatever the case, Julia now sighed and steeled herself for the clash to come.
Reaching the house, Barlow and her mother came out to meet the carriage.
Barlow knelt to inspect the broken spring, then frowned up at her. “Those were brand-new spring straps, miss. How fast were you going?”
Julia shrugged. “Heavens, I don’t know. Don’t scold me, Barlow. No one was hurt.”
He scowled at the groom’s filthy trousers. “No? Then why is Tommy covered in mud?”
“I’m all right, sir,” the young man said sheepishly.
Her mother shook her head. “One of these days, Julia, your recklessness is going to end in more than mud and broken springs. Someone is going to get hurt.”
Julia swallowed a pinch of guilt. She hadn’t done anything so very wrong. She was tired of being chastised every time she came home. Perhaps it was time to try harder to encourage a marriage proposal from a man who lived somewhere else. Anywhere else.
The Dancing Master Page 13