The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

“I don’t expect Mr. Valcourt to understand my scruples,” her mother said. “But I did expect him not to lead my daughter astray—persuading you to attend a ball of all things.”

  Julia held up her hand. “Stop, Mamma. Mr. Valcourt didn’t lead me astray. I wanted to go.”

  “I hardly think you would have gone on your own, or that you plotted the covert outing yourself.”

  “Then you think wrong. It was my idea.”

  Lady Amelia gaped. “Then you lied to me. How could you?”

  “Quite easily. And why not? It was a public dance outside the Beaworthy village limits, and without a single unruly reveler. In fact, it was attended by a whole host of respectable people, like Mrs. Vanstone and the Stricklands and many officers.”

  “Officers?”

  Ignoring that, Julia asked, “Do your principles make you better than they?”

  “Not better, but where you’re concerned, more important, yes.” Her mother studied her face. “I hope you at least comported yourself with modesty and decorum?”

  Julia shook her head. “As a matter of fact, I did not. I had a blissful time.”

  “And James?”

  “He was the belle of the ball. All the mammas were eager for their daughters to dance with the heir of Medlands.”

  “Julia . . . if you are not careful, you are going to miss your chance with him.”

  “Perhaps.” Julia shrugged. She hoped she had not spoiled her chances with Mr. Valcourt as well.

  Her mother shook her head. “I am disappointed in you, Julia.”

  Julia held her gaze. “And I expected nothing less.”

  Amelia wished her final words back as soon as they left her mouth. She had promised herself long ago she would do everything in her power to fill the void left by Mr. Midwinter, who had made no secret of his disapproval of Julia, always expecting her to make some grave moral mistake. To fall. Like her mother had done.

  She remembered the time Mr. Midwinter had come upon fifteen-year-old Julia flirting with a young footman—and wearing rouge no less. He had rebuked her right there in the passage. Amelia had come out of her own room to see what the matter was, and heard him order Julia to go wash her face that instant and let the footman get about his work. Julia had stalked away, cheeks flaming.

  Then he’d noticed Amelia in the passage and boomed, “You had better tighten the reins on that wild child while you can. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know.”

  Amelia had hushed him, hoping Julia had not heard the crass comment, let alone all the servants. “She is only fifteen,” she’d defended. “Were you not a bit wild when you were young?”

  “No, I was not. I have always been sensible and responsible, which is why your father approved of me.”

  Amelia had bit back the hot retort on her lips, and turned away, going to Julia’s room to try to comfort her.

  Her daughter sat at her dressing table, and glanced up at her in the mirror. Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away. “I don’t care what he says. I don’t like him either.”

  Julia’s lip began to quiver, followed by her chin. Despite her best efforts to control them, tears spilled down her cheeks and rolled through the painstakingly applied circles of rouge. Julia snatched up a facecloth and began scrubbing at her cheeks.

  Amelia’s heart twisted at the sight. She walked up behind her and leaned down to put her arms around her.

  “Mamma . . . don’t.” Jerking away, Julia’s shoulder collided with Amelia’s chin. A mild impact, but it stung beyond proportion, tearing a little piece of Amelia’s heart. It was the first time Julia had physically rejected her—pushed her away.

  For a moment, Amelia stood frozen, staring at Julia as though a stranger. Then, she turned on her heel and strode from the room. She returned to her own bedchamber and closed the door. Her own chin trembled; her throat tightened and ached. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, but too late. Fat, hot tears fell onto her green bodice, staining it black.

  When had it happened? she’d wondered. When had her little girl become a cold, distant stranger?

  Looking back, Amelia realized that she had begun erecting her own brittle shell of protection after that. She began to stop herself from reaching out, from trying to embrace Julia, to touch her, knowing her daughter would recoil. But perhaps she should not have stopped, perhaps the ever-widening distance between them was her fault. Was it too late? Oh, God, please help me. I cannot bear to lose Julia too. . . .

  The next morning, Alec was sitting alone in the office writing rent receipts, when someone knocked at the open door. He looked up, surprised to see Julia Midwinter standing there.

  He set his quill into its holder and rose.

  “Mr. Valcourt,” she began, looking unusually nervous. “Might I have a word?”

  “If you like.”

  She remained in the threshold, as if unsure of her welcome. Hands clasped, she chewed her lip, and awkward silence stretched between them.

  Concerned, he crossed the room to her. “Is everything all right?”

  “Mamma found out where we went last night.”

  He nodded. “So I heard. My uncle told us she’d called while we were out, and was clearly not pleased to learn where we had gone and with whom.”

  Julia sighed. “She is vexed with me as well. But I am used to it.” She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “But I am not used to you being vexed with me. I wanted to say that I . . . I am sorry for my behavior last night. All the attention went to my head, I suppose.” She attempted a lame little chuckle, then swallowed. “I hope you will forgive me.”

  He took a step nearer, regarding her closely. She certainly appeared sincere.

  “Of course I forgive you. You don’t owe me anything, after all. Though I admit I was disappointed to have only the one dance with you.”

  She nodded, then tentatively asked, “Did I break every rule of ballroom etiquette, do you think?”

  He tilted his head as he considered. “No. . . .” He added, “You wore gloves.”

  Her mouth parted in surprise, but her eyes twinkled. “Surely I was not as bad as all that.”

  He shrugged easily. “Who am I to judge? I broke one of the rules as well.”

  “Oh? Which?”

  “I complimented your appearance.”

  “Why is that wrong?” she asked. “I rather liked it.”

  “As I understand it, one’s modiste and lady’s maid need not be praised for doing their jobs. But I couldn’t help myself—I could not take my eyes off you. Nor could half the regiment, apparently.”

  She blushed under his playful praise. She reached out and laid her fingers on his sleeve. “Well, I shan’t tell if you won’t.”

  He looked from her hand to her face but did not pull away. His foolish heart warmed under her touch.

  At that moment Lady Amelia appeared in the doorway behind Julia’s shoulder. Noticing his gaze stray and his smile fall away, Julia quickly removed her hand.

  As if guessing who stood behind her, Julia said formally, “Thank you, Mr. Valcourt. Do tell Barlow I am looking for him.” She turned on her heel. “Oh. Good morning, Mother.”

  Brow furrowed, Lady Amelia remained in the doorway but turned her head to watch Julia stride away.

  Then she looked at him and asked, “What did she want? I suppose the two of you were talking about how you deceived me last night. Probably a big joke for you both.”

  “Nothing of the kind, your ladyship. In fact, she was apologizing for the entire evening.”

  “Was she?”

  “Yes. Now, may I help you with something? If you are looking for Mr. Barlow, he is meeting with the housekeeper in her parlor.”

  Lady Amelia stood there a moment longer, eyes boring into his. Then she turned and walked away without another word.

  For the rest of the day, Alec waited on edge, sure he would be summoned into the library for a private reprimand . . . or worse. But the day passed, and the summons did not
come.

  At the end of the day, Alec walked through the churchyard on his way home. There he spied a figure leaning against the gate. He stiffened, until he recognized the dark-haired man from the forge, his horse tethered nearby. Alec raised a hand in greeting, and the man nodded in acknowledgement. He turned toward his horse and pulled a sword from his long saddlebag. His own sword, Alec assumed.

  As he neared, Alec asked, “You were able to mend it?”

  “Aye.” The man pulled it from its sheath. “With my father’s help.”

  He offered the hilt to Alec. Alec accepted it, looking at the sword closely, rotating it to view the blade from every angle.

  “Can’t even see where the break was,” Alec observed. He corrected his grip and gave a tentative thrust.

  The man removed a second sword from his long narrow saddlebag. He turned to Alec, eyes glinting with humor. “Care to test it out?”

  Music and fencing? The man was certainly full of surprises. Alec’s spirits lifted at the thought of a new opponent.

  “Is testing included in the repair fee?” Alec asked.

  The man grinned, spreading his hands in an expansive gesture. “All part of the service.”

  The two men attached leather guards and then faced off a few yards apart, each assuming a ready stance. Swords raised, they began fencing slowly, tentatively, each measuring his opponent and the reaction of the newly mended blade.

  Alec advanced on the path, while his opponent retreated. Then the man advanced and Alec retreated. They repeated this slow, stately dance several times, but then his opponent increased his speed, advancing more quickly, his blade picking up tempo with each strike. Alec retreated, struggling to parry as the man drove him backward. Aha! The man was better than he’d let on. Alec was pleased by the discovery. The man of perhaps forty years held himself well, displayed impressive grace and style, and a wickedly fast blade.

  After several minutes, the two men circled one another, catching their breaths.

  “How’s the blade?” the smith asked.

  “Good,” Alec said. “The play is a little different, perhaps a little less flexible, but excellent nonetheless.”

  The man gave a little bow. “We humble smiths aim to please.”

  He lifted his sword and the bout resumed. Advance, lunge, retreat, retreat. Feint, attack, parry-riposte . . .

  Knowing he was expected at home, Alec decided to try to score a hit and end the match. He advanced quickly, driving the man closer to the church wall with every lunge. But the man managed to parry his every strike. Finally Alec jumped forward and lunged in a balestra. The practice tip hit its mark at last, and his opponent touched his chest in acknowledgement.

  “Touché,” the older man panted, wiping a sleeve across his brow. “I see I am out of practice. And out of condition.”

  “Lucky for me, or I’d have been done for. You are a worthy opponent, sir.”

  “As are you.” The man straightened. “I suppose it’s time I introduced myself.” He offered a strong hand. “John Desmond. Though most folks call me Desmond.”

  Alec gripped his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Desmond. And to fence with you.” He grinned. “Any chance we could make this a regular occurrence?”

  The man grinned in return. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  As the Quakers have thought it right to prohibit music, and stage-entertainments, to the society, so they have thought it proper to prohibit dancing, none of their children being allowed any instruction in the latter art.

  —Thomas Clarkson, A Portraiture of Quakerism, 1806

  Chapter 14

  On Sunday afternoon, after church and dinner, Julia went out to spend time with Liberty. Half of the indoor servants, and nearly all of the outdoor staff, had Sunday afternoons off, leaving the grounds quiet as she walked from the house and into the stable block. The interior was quiet as well. The coachman and grooms had quarters nearby, but no one was in the stables themselves to disturb her peace.

  Just as she liked it.

  She groomed Liberty, pouring out her heart to the beloved animal as she did so—her discontent with life in Beaworthy, her frustration with her mother, her growing feelings for Mr. Valcourt. As she worked a snarl from Liberty’s mane, she imagined herself married to Alec Valcourt. . . .

  They lived in a fashionable square in London. Whatever problem had necessitated his family’s departure had been cleared up. Alec was renowned and respected. Successful and wealthy. Called on by the nobility to teach their sons and daughters and invited to every ball of the season. Together, she and Alec traveled a great deal but only visited Buckleigh Manor at Christmas and Easter. Alec was as dashing and handsome as ever—and how he loved her. They danced together every night before falling asleep in each another’s arms. Their children were beautiful and graceful. She and Aurora were the best of friends, raising their children as close cousins, in one happy, affectionate family. . . .

  As the daydream faded, Julia inhaled deeply. Now, that would be a charmed life indeed.

  Finally, she put away the brush and currycomb, stroked Liberty’s forelock once more, and left the stable.

  As she walked past the paddock toward the house, she saw Alec striding in her direction, head down. Her heart raced. Had he read her mind?

  He looked up in surprise. “Miss Midwinter.”

  “Hello, Mr. Valcourt. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Oh? Thinking what?”

  Julia’s cheeks heated. Instead of answering she asked, “Come to visit Apollo?”

  “Yes. I thought I might take him for another—hopefully longer—ride.” He squinted up at the grey clouds above. “If the rain holds off, that is.”

  Julia nodded. “I just gave Liberty a good grooming myself. There was no one else inside, and I find she is the best listener.” She tried to smile but felt it waver.

  He looked at her in concern. “Is something the matter?”

  “Oh, no more than usual. Another London season is soon to begin, but Mother has again refused to take me.” She tilted her head and studied his face. “And you? Are you well?”

  “Not bad. Waiting for the axe to fall, but otherwise fine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He grimaced. “Never mind.”

  Suddenly the hovering clouds above parted, and rain fell in torrents. Julia looked up and squealed. “Come on!” She grabbed Alec’s hand and ran toward the stable, pulling him along behind her.

  They dashed inside through the double door. Her wet shoes slipped on the hay-strewn floor, and his arm quickly came around her, catching her before she fell.

  Even after he steadied her, his arm remained.

  Julia smiled up at him. She liked the way his arm felt around her. Yes, Alec Valcourt was attracted to her. But would he resist her once again?

  Looking at her, his eyes darkened, and he reached up and brushed a damp curl from her face.

  She shivered.

  “You’re cold,” he murmured. He tugged off his coat and settled it over her shoulders.

  She was warm, actually, but did not correct him.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. The aroma of spicy, masculine bay rum enveloped her, and she breathed it in. Around her, the smells of leather, horse, and hay faded.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Mr. Valcourt looked around the quiet stable and then through the open doorway, at the rain falling in sheets. “So much for my ride.”

  Julia slipped her arms into the sleeves. The coat was too large for her, and she felt small and feminine inside it.

  He looked back at her, his gaze slowly roaming her face. The air between them thickened and coiled. From somewhere behind them, Apollo whickered.

  “Apollo wants you,” she whispered.

  “Apollo can wait.”

  Self-conscious under his scrutiny, she teased, “Does it suit me, do you think?” She gave a roguish yank on the coat’s lapels.

  She expected
a laugh or at least a smile, but his expression was unreadable—his mouth a firm line, his eyes intense.

  He leaned near, and Julia’s breath caught. His hand reached up and stroked her cheek.

  “A raindrop,” he murmured by way of explanation.

  His face was so close that Julia felt his sweet breath on her temple. Her skin prickled into gooseflesh. She found her gaze lowering from his eyes to his well-shaped lips.

  Was he going to kiss her? Julia’s eyes began to drift closed.

  But then he abruptly released her and turned toward the tack room.

  Julia swallowed her disappointment and said brightly, “I shall help you groom Apollo.”

  He made no reply as he came out with a brush and let himself into Apollo’s stall. Julia retrieved her own favorite grooming tools and joined him there, watching as he ran the brush over Apollo’s back and side.

  She said, “Barlow taught me to use the currycomb first to loosen dirt and hair, then follow with the brush to remove it. Here, let me show you.”

  Julia stood beside him, just behind his right arm. She handed him the rough-toothed comb, then laid her hand over his, demonstrating the circular motion. “That’s it.”

  Liberty gave a jealous snort from her stall.

  As Julia removed her hand, her shoulder brushed his arm.

  Alec stilled and whispered, “You’re killing me. You know that, don’t you?”

  She looked up at his tense profile. So close. Her breath came fast. “Am I?”

  He turned toward her, circling her waist with one arm, and pulled her close.

  Julia’s heart hammered.

  Dropping the brush to the floor, he raised his free hand to cradle the side of her face. His head lowered. Nearer. And then his lips touched hers. His mouth pressed hard. Fervent. Not the soft, tentative kiss she might have expected from a proper “dandy.” This kiss was passionate and overwhelming. He angled his head the other way, his kiss deepening, his thumb caressing her cheek, his lips caressing hers.

  Julia kissed him back, her mind swimming and languorous, her body growing breathless and full of longing.

  Abruptly, he broke away with a strangled cry, lifting a hand high in a claw of frustration.