The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  “Come on,” Alec shouted, pulling a stupefied Walter by the arm and rushing down the stairs. Walt’s heavy tread thudding behind him, they dashed through the main level, past men clustered at the front window.

  “The floor’s collapsed!” one of them shouted.

  Heart banging, Alec pushed through the door and ran across the lane to the market hall. He quickly assessed the scene before him. A beam under the meeting room had given way. A tumult of splintered beam, floorboards, and tangled bodies had fallen to the market floor below. Alec prayed a frantic, God help them!

  A cry from above drew his attention upward. A young woman hung from the edge of the gaping hole above, holding on by her hands, skirt torn and billowing, stockinged legs dangling.

  “It’s her!” Walt cried, face stricken.

  Alec recognized her at the same moment. Tess Thorne.

  The ceiling of the market hall was at least twelve feet high. He didn’t think anyone would die from such a fall, but injuries were likely. Alec thought they might be able to reach Miss Thorne, hanging by her hands as she was, and help her down. He leapt over the fallen beam and sidestepped to avoid a man groaning over an injured ankle and a woman cradling her arm. Reaching the spot, he stretched up, reaching to her ankles, but he could not get a good grip on her. “Walter, come quick!”

  Walter blinked awake from his shock-induced daze and bounded over.

  “You’re taller,” Alec said. “Help her down.”

  Walter extended his arms, his large hands reaching about midleg, though it was difficult to tell through her full skirts. He froze, his hands suspended near her skirt, just shy of touching her. He looked at Alec uncertainly.

  “Take hold of her,” Alec urged.

  “But, I . . .”

  “Go on, man.”

  Walter did so and was rewarded with a gasp from above.

  “Miss Thorne,” Alec called up, “we’ve got you.”

  A flash of pale face. Wide eyes. “I’m slipping!”

  “It’s not so far down. Mr. Allen and I will catch you.”

  He felt Walt’s panicked look but ignored it.

  “You’ll be all right,” Alec assured. “Let go now.”

  “Promise?” she cried.

  Alec looked at Walt pointedly.

  “Oh. Right.” Walter craned his neck. “Promise!”

  They looked at one another, tightened their grips, and hoped to God they could catch her.

  With a little squeal she fell. Alec gauged her fall and took a half step to the side. Walter lumbered to match his position and whoomp she landed. For a slight creature she weighed a surprisingly great deal when dropped from such a height. Alec, still tender from his injuries, nearly lost his hold on her, but Walter held tight.

  Together he and Walt held Tess Thorne in their arms. For some reason, she looked at Alec, and her eyes locked on his.

  “Thank God. And thank you!”

  For a moment Alec allowed himself to sink into those deep chocolate eyes, to relish the admiration and approval there. Around him, the other people and sounds faded away. She really was pretty. . . .

  Then he remembered Walt.

  “Um. Just glad you’re all right.” He nodded toward his friend. “Walt here is the real hero. He’s the one who bore the brunt of your weight—” He faltered and hurried to clarify, “Not that you are heavy, Miss Thorne. It’s only that, well, I could not have caught you without Mr. Allen here.”

  She turned her head to look at the silent Walter.

  “Thank you, Mr. Allen.”

  He stared. Managed a jerk of a nod.

  “I . . . think you can put me down now.”

  Still Walter stared. Then he blinked, startled. “Oh! Right. Sorry.”

  As she regained her feet, her brother and a middle-aged couple rushed down the outer stairs.

  “Tess! Are you all right?” Ben called. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m well. Thanks to these two gentlemen. They caught me as I fell.”

  “Well, praise God,” the man said, and pumped first Alec’s hand, then Walt’s. “Erasmus Thorne. Tess’s father. And this is Mrs. Thorne.”

  Walt said nothing, so Alec replied for both, “Alec Valcourt and Walter Allen. How do you do.”

  Around them the chaos—calls of panicked family members, groans of pain, and villagers arriving to help—returned to Alec’s awareness. “If you will excuse me, I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”

  Mr. Thorne nodded. “Good man.”

  Again he felt Tess Thorne’s admiring glance but looked away. He had not meant to sound gallant; he simply thought his help might be needed elsewhere.

  Alec soon discovered that three people had fallen without warning and had no chance to try to catch themselves or break their fall as Miss Thorne had been fortunate enough to do. The surgeon arrived and examined the victims. The woman’s arm was indeed broken, the man’s ankle only badly sprained. A young man had suffered a concussion, but Mr. Mounce thought he would be fine in a few days.

  Before taking his leave, Alec glanced over his shoulder and saw Walter still deep in conversation with the Thornes. As he had guessed, his friend did not at all mind having their sole attention.

  On Sunday last a congregation of Ranters assembled in a large loft over a stable. In the course of the service, the fervour of the devotees was so strongly excited, that they commenced jumping, in imitation of David’s dancing before the ark. The beams suddenly gave way, and the minister and his dancing congregation, were suddenly precipitated into the stable beneath them.

  —The West Briton, 1827

  Chapter 11

  Alec went to Buckleigh Manor on Monday as usual, and spent half an hour answering Barlow’s questions about the collapse. Miss Midwinter sought him out as well, eager for an eyewitness account. He was relieved, however, that Lady Amelia did not seek him out. More than a week had passed since she’d posted her London letter. She could receive a reply any day now.

  The next day, Uncle Ramsay told Alec that the village council had met—choosing the public house over the meeting room for obvious reasons—and appointed a carpenter to inspect the hall. The man had quickly reported that portions of the main beam—an old ship’s mast—were riddled with deathwatch beetle. Some disregarded his findings, blaming instead the bell ringers’ failure to turn the devil’s stone. Those less charitable, especially neighbors who had found the loud singing and foot stomping vexing, held to their own explanation of the cause of the collapse.

  On Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Barlow again hailed Alec from the paddock. “All right, Mr. Valcourt, let’s try again.”

  Alec was both pleased and uneasy to see Miss Midwinter standing at the fence, there to witness the proceedings. She would likely enjoy his humiliation. He hoped he wouldn’t be thrown again or injured. He had another dance lesson to teach at Medlands in an hour.

  As Alec let himself in through the gate, Barlow patted Apollo’s neck, again trying to keep the gelding calm enough for Alec to mount.

  Alec grasped the saddle leather and placed his left foot in the stirrup. Again Apollo lurched in a violent sidestep, but this time Alec managed to land on his feet.

  Barlow still held the bridle, though the horse’s back end had shifted far to his left. He gently chastised the horse and encouraged him to be kind to the poor, inexperienced sot.

  “He has to trust you, Mr. Valcourt,” Barlow said. “You must embody confidence and garner trust.”

  “I am not confident.”

  “As we are all aware—including Apollo. A horse is very sensitive to the moods and confidence of its rider.”

  The calming process repeated, Alec again made ready to mount.

  This time when he put his foot in the stirrup, Apollo reared up onto his back legs, tossing Alec to his seat. Barlow’s arm flew up to shield his face, and the gelding’s front hooves collided with his forearm in a nasty crack.

  “Botheration!” the man exclaimed, managing to keep hold of the reins wit
h his other hand.

  “Barlow!” Julia cried, swinging her leg over the paddock gate with the same ease she mounted a horse.

  Wincing, Barlow held his arm close to his chest. He gritted between clenched teeth, “Shuttle-headed, hog-grubbing sapskull . . .”

  Julia hurried over to him. “Are you all right?”

  Barlow’s whole body tensed in an effort to control himself. Jaw pulsing, lips tight, he said, “Unfortunately, I believe my arm is broken.”

  “Oh no.”

  Alec pushed himself to his feet. “I’m so sorry, Barlow.”

  “It’s my fault,” Julia said. “I should never have insisted.”

  Alec shook his head. “It’s my horse. I’m to blame.”

  “You two go on and quarrel,” Barlow said, brow perspiring. “But I take full responsibility. I knew better. I grew lax and wasn’t on my guard. Now this spoiled brute needs to learn fussing and fighting isn’t going to get him his way.”

  Again Barlow spoke to the horse, looked him in the eye, and told him he meant to ride and ride he would. He draped the rein over the saddle, gripped the leather with his good hand, and swung up and onto Apollo’s back with fluid grace.

  “Now then, my friend, shall we go?”

  At some invisible signal, the horse turned and walked on.

  “Barlow, you shouldn’t ride with that arm,” Julia called.

  “Shall I go for the surgeon?” Alec asked.

  “I think not. Arm hurts like the blazes, and I’d like it set directly. Apollo and I shall ride for Mr. Mounce ourselves.”

  Alec opened the gate, and he and Julia watched the man ride off, tall in the saddle, Apollo docilely heeding his every unspoken command.

  Alec shook his head in wonder. “He’s quite a man, your Mr. Barlow.”

  “Yes,” Julia breathed. “I used to wish, even pretend, he was my father.”

  Alec looked at her in surprise and noticed her faraway look. “Did you?”

  “Mr. Midwinter didn’t like that. Once when I was young, he caught me twirling and hopping about while Barlow played his fiddle. He scolded me and taunted Barlow, saying, “Like father, like daughter, ey?” Julia exhaled a humorless chuckle. “I wish.”

  Alec said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

  Her expression clouded. “Oh, well . . . I knew he wasn’t. I was just an imaginative girl. And my own father was not exactly . . .” She faltered, struggling to find the word.

  “Close? Affectionate? Loving?” Alec suggested.

  “Heavens, none of those. I was searching for . . . aware of my existence. I don’t think he even liked me.”

  Alec thought of his uncle’s revelation that Midwinter may not have been her father but said only, “I am certain he did. Probably just didn’t know how to express what he felt. Many men don’t.”

  “Is that so?”

  He nodded.

  She smiled coyly. “And you, Mr. Valcourt. Do you know how to express your feelings when you like a girl?”

  Alec did not take the bait, but instead cleared his throat and continued with the previous topic. “Did your father’s coldness extend to your mother as well?”

  She seemed disappointed that he did not return her flirting with flattery, but then she tilted her head to one side as the question struck her. “You know . . . he didn’t seem terribly fond of her either, come to think of it.”

  “Have you ever asked her about their marriage?”

  “Goodness no. What child wants to delve into that mire? Better left behind closed doors, I’d say.” She looked at him. “Were your parents fond of one another? Was their marriage one of affection . . . or convenience?”

  It was Alec’s turn to consider an uncomfortable question. “Had you asked me a year ago, I would have said they were quite fond of one another—that their marriage, while not perfect, was one of mutual respect and affection. But . . . things changed in the last year. And now . . . I don’t know what to think.”

  Julia inhaled deeply and looked into the distance, though Barlow had already ridden out of sight. “I don’t care if I ever marry. I don’t need to, you know. Buckleigh Manor will be mine one day. It is not entailed to a male heir.”

  He regarded her profile. “There are other reasons to marry, you know, beyond financial ones.”

  “For men, maybe.” She shrugged. “If I do marry, it will be for the adventure of it. If I meet a man who can sweep me off my feet and away from Beaworthy, then that’s the man for me.”

  He nodded toward the manor. “But what about your home, your inheritance?”

  “The old place will still be here, waiting for me. Like an anchor around my neck. A blessing and a curse.”

  “A curse, how?”

  She looked at him, eyes glinting. “You really have no idea, have you, what it’s like to be tied to a place from birth as lord or lady of a manor, with a duty to its tenants, servants, and villagers. Buckleigh Manor—and Medlands, to some degree—is the financial hub of the entire parish. They farm our land. We buy their produce and their meats, their goods and services. We hire their sons and daughters as servants and estate hands, sponsor the charity school, the poor fund, and the church. If we go, they go. If we die, the village dies with us—at least figuratively speaking.”

  “That seems dire and a bit dramatic,” Alec said. “Are you certain you are not overstating the case?”

  She slowly shook her head. “Not to hear my mother tell it. I only wish I were.”

  A door opened and closed nearby, and Alec turned.

  Lady Amelia had stepped out onto the back terrace, and looked none too pleased to see Alec and Julia standing close together in private conversation.

  “Speak of the devil,” Julia murmured on a sigh.

  Lady Amelia’s expression tightened. “Julia, come into the house, please.”

  Julia lifted a hand to acknowledge her mother’s request, then looked back at Alec. “Pray excuse me, Mr. Valcourt. Duty calls yet again.”

  The second dance lesson at Medlands had gone even better than the first, and Alec found himself humming a waltz melody as he walked to Buckleigh Manor the following day.

  Barlow did come into the office that morning, but he was later than usual. His arm was wrapped in a sling, and it was clear from his rigid, clammy countenance that he was in pain. He confessed that Mr. Mounce had remonstrated with him for riding so soon after his injury and insisted he travel only by foot or by carriage—with someone else at the reins—for the rest of the week, at least, and ideally a fortnight. The good news was that the break did not seem as bad as the swelling and bruising suggested, and the surgeon prognosticated that the arm would heal well given time and care not to reinjure it.

  Barlow pressed his lips together in thought, then said, “Valcourt, I must ask you to do something for me.”

  Alec straightened in his chair. “Anything, Mr. Barlow. I am at your command.” Was he going to delegate an important task at last?

  “I need you to travel down to Plymouth. I would go myself, but—”

  “No, of course you must not go. In fact, perhaps you ought to go home, where you can rest.”

  “I don’t need rest. I need this dashed pain to stop.” He winced and lowered his voice. “Sorry. Don’t mean to heap coals of guilt on you. I know you feel bad already.”

  “Don’t apologize.” Alec hated to see the man in this state. “Cannot Mr. Mounce give you something for the pain?”

  “He did, but it makes me devilish sleepy. I’ll take some tonight before I go to bed.” Barlow waved his good hand dismissively. “Enough about me. If you leave now, you can ride into Hatherleigh in time to catch the Plymouth coach. Stable the horse at the coaching inn there. Here’s my card. Just tell them I sent you. They know me there.”

  Alec’s mind raced to absorb the details, but one stuck him like a sharp pin. “Ride?”

  “Yes. It is only eight or nine miles. You may take Albina, a docile mare. She’ll give you no trouble. Not the fastest horse, I grant
you. But even at a trot, it should only take you an hour or so. If you leave now, you’ll reach Hatherleigh with time to spare. Do you still have your boots in the tack room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I shall send word to your mother not to expect you for dinner.”

  Alec swallowed. At least Barlow didn’t expect him to ride the horse that had just broken his arm.

  “What do you need me to do in Plymouth?” Alec asked. He had never been there, and hoped it would not prove difficult to find his way around.

  “I need you to deliver something for me. A letter.” He nodded toward the folded paper on his desk.

  Alec rose. “Very well, but . . . could not the Royal Mail do that? Or a messenger?”

  “I cannot risk the post for this. Nor a messenger I don’t know or trust.” He enclosed a bank note within the letter, sealing it carefully. He held it out, then retracted it. “Valcourt, I must ask for your utmost discretion in this matter. Her ladyship would not be pleased to know you are going in my stead, but I don’t think it wise to mention it, considering the reason I cannot go myself is out there helping himself to Buckleigh oats as we speak.”

  Alec nodded. “I understand, sir.”

  “I also must ask if I can trust you not to speak of this errand to anyone else, not even to your family.”

  Alec nodded, proud to be considered trustworthy by this man. “You have my word.”

  He looked at Alec from beneath bushy brows. “That includes Miss Midwinter.”

  Surprise flared through Alec that he should be taken into Barlow’s confidence when Julia was not. Good heavens, what was in that letter?

  “I understand.”

  Handing it over, Barlow explained, “I need you to deliver this into the hand of Lieutenant Tom Tremelling. He is on shore leave at present. You will find him at—” he consulted a scrawled note on his desk—“the Admiral MacBride, an inn near the old port.” He nodded toward the front of the letter. “He’s lodging in one of the rooms there. I’ve written down the direction.”

  Alec glanced at the letter. The direction—Number 1, the Barbican, was not familiar. But the name Tremelling triggered a memory. The postal log. The quarterly and sometimes monthly letters between Lady Amelia and a Lieutenant Tremelling. Why were posted letters good enough in the past but not now? Noticing the solemnity of Barlow’s manner, he did not ask.