The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  What did the woman expect her to do about it? Rehire her son? Instead she stiffly thanked Mrs. Valcourt for coming and for telling her the truth.

  She did not promise to keep the news to herself, nor did Mrs. Valcourt attempt to extract any such promise. As Beaworthy’s leading citizen, perhaps she ought to tell everyone the truth about their new neighbors. Perhaps it was her duty. But the thought sickened Amelia, and she knew she would not do so.

  She supposed it was a credit to the son that he did not wish to expose his mother to such mortification, that he was willing to accept the blame. Should she tell Barlow? Julia? Admit her source had been wrong in one important detail? She was loath to do so. The Valcourt family had not risen in her esteem because of this information. She still did not want Julia spending time in the handsome young man’s company, nor forming an ill-advised attachment.

  After Mrs. Valcourt took her leave, Amelia sat in the library for a long time, not bothering to light a lamp when the sunlight faded and the room dimmed. Her mind was otherwise occupied, revising her former conclusions. The senior Mr. Valcourt had seduced a young lady, had ruined her and left town to avoid her father’s wrath and worse. In the process, he broke his wife’s heart, bankrupted his family’s academy, and destroyed his son’s future prospects.

  Had the man deserted them for good? By the looks of things, yes.

  Her friend’s letter had not gone into great detail about the legal recourses the injured father was pursuing in the case of his compromised daughter, but they must be grievous indeed if Valcourt felt he had to disappear. In the meantime, his wife of many years was left carrying his shame but none of his protection. Amelia shivered. Oh yes. Even if she could not approve, she could understand why Mrs. Valcourt wore black. Why she allowed them all to believe a less-humiliating lie.

  As Amelia sat there, raindrops of memory began to fall. She felt as though she were gazing up into a night sky, while icy pellets spun toward earth and hit her face, melting against her one by one. Another compromised young woman. Another angry father. Another man protesting his innocence and disappearing. She heard again his desperate “You must believe me.” Felt again the confusion. The shame. The pain of a heart breaking into jagged pieces.

  No. She pressed her eyes closed, tight. Wincing away the images, the memories, refusing to allow the rain to fall on her ever again.

  After dinner that night, Mrs. Valcourt summoned Alec and Aurora into the sitting room for a family meeting behind closed doors. Alec had noticed her strained silence and forced smiles during the meal and wondered what was wrong. Or rather, what more was wrong, considering they had lost his income on top of everything else. Grimly, his mother told them she had paid a call on Lady Amelia Midwinter that day and confessed everything to the woman.

  “But, Mamma—” Alec began.

  She held up her hand. “I know, I know. But I could not sit silent and allow that woman to think so ill of you.” She pressed her lips together. “I suppose I hoped she might reinstate you. But she made no indication that what I told her had any bearing on that decision. So”—her hands fluttered like dying birds—“I have told our secret for nothing, apparently. I’ve brought shame on you, on your uncle . . .”

  Alec grasped his mother’s cold fingers. “No, Mamma. That shame is not yours to claim. Father did this, and it is our duty to make the best of our new lives. Perhaps we ought to have told all from the outset—I don’t know. But we will face this together, whatever comes.”

  After reassuring his mother and sister as best he could, Alec left the house and trudged back up the Sheepwash Road to the Desmond smithy. Although he still had questions about the duel, something told him Desmond was a good man, even if he had made a horrid mistake in the past. And Alec needed a friend at present. A friend who just might understand.

  As the Desmond property came into view, the front door of the house opened and John Desmond stepped out onto the stoop with a lantern, as though he’d been watching for him.

  “Hello, Valcourt. I was beginning to wonder if I’d see you tonight.” He walked across the narrow yard to the forge.

  Alec followed, stepping into the porch behind him, wondering where to start.

  His back to Alec, Desmond hung up the lantern, then picked up something from the workbench. When he turned, he held an old key hanging on a loop of thick string. “I talked with my father, and we are in agreement, assuming—”

  Alec held up his hand to stay him. “I need to tell you something first.”

  Desmond tucked his chin, brow furrowed. “Oh?”

  Alec doubted the Desmonds would want to rent property to the Valcourt family after he told all. But he knew it would be better coming from him.

  Alec hesitated, struggling to find the words. His gaze landed on a miniature violin lying across the wooden bench. He’d not seen it the other times he’d been there.

  “Do you play the pochette as well as the pipe?”

  Desmond glanced at it. “I used to.”

  The small violins allowed dancing masters to carry an instrument in a large coat pocket while instructing, and then bring it out to play while his pupils danced.

  Desmond positioned the instrument against his ribs—it was too small to hold in the standard way—and picked up the bow. He struck a few experimental notes, then launched into a jaunty tune.

  The door to the nearby house opened, and an elderly man stepped out, dressed in a tweed coat over a simple shirt and trousers.

  Desmond stopped playing. “Papa! You’re to be in bed.”

  “And miss hearing ye play? Does ma’old heart good to hear ye, Johnny. It does indeed. Now if I cahn but see ye dance again, then all will be well. Perhaps a Highland Fling for yer old paw?”

  Alec noted that Mr. Desmond’s Scottish brogue was more marked than his son’s.

  “Papa, go on back inside. It’s chilly tonight. I don’t even remember those old dances.”

  An elderly woman stepped onto the stoop, pushing a wool cap atop her husband’s snowy head. “Yes you do, Johnny,” she said.

  The woman had black hair streaked with silver, and dark eyes, her skin more golden than the typical English or Scottish rose. Spanish, perhaps? Or Italian? Alec realized then where Desmond got his coloring.

  “Not tonight, Mamma.” Desmond turned. “Besides, tonight we have a visitor.”

  Alec stepped out from the shadows of the forge porch, sheepish to disrupt the family moment.

  “Allow me to introduce my parents,” Desmond said. “Fergus and Maria Desmond. And this is Alec Valcourt. It’s his sword you helped me to mend, Papa.”

  “Ah yes, a fine blade.” The man stuck out a thick gnarled hand. “How do ye do, lad?”

  “Well, thank you, sir. A pleasure to meet you both.”

  “Mr. Valcourt here is also the man I mentioned who is interested in letting the old academy.”

  The man’s bushy white brows rose. “Is he indeed?”

  “Yes, a genuine London dancing master, transplanted here to Beaworthy of all places.”

  “Good heavens, lad,” Fergus Desmond said. “I’d na’wish that on m’worst enemy.” The man’s eyes glinted with humor.

  “I was not aware of the, um, local views on dancing when we decided to come here.”

  Father and son shared a knowing look.

  “There must be a better place for ye to set out yer shingle, lad. Not that I’m keen to get rid of ye. Just thinking of yer future. . . .”

  “My uncle resides here, sir. Cornelius Ramsay. My mother, sister, and I have come to live with him.”

  “Oh. I see. Your father’s gone, is he?”

  Alec exhaled, then began, “He is gone. Gone nearly six months. My poor mother wears mourning, for her heart is broken, and people here assume he died. And . . . we have allowed them to believe that.” Alec admitted, “It was easier to explain—why we had to sell our home and academy, why we had to leave town. But it isn’t the truth.”

  Three pairs of solemn eyes reg
arded him.

  “What is the truth?” Mrs. Desmond quietly asked.

  Alec swallowed. “The truth is, my father is not dead. At least as far as we know. He has left the country to avoid the suit brought against him by a girl’s father. A former pupil of ours, who has named my father as her seducer.”

  Fergus and Maria Desmond’s faces drooped in identical fashion. They looked at one another and exchanged a look of shared sadness. Beside him, Desmond gripped his shoulder.

  “Is the gir-el tellin’ the truth?” Fergus asked in a low voice.

  Alec hung his head, ears burning with shame and guilt. “I’m afraid so. Though the girl was not completely innocent. She was an incorrigible flirt, but that does not justify his actions. She was young and foolish and vain. He should have known better. He did know better!”

  “All we like sheep have gone astray . . .” Desmond murmured, shaking his head.

  Alec inhaled. “At all events, Lady Amelia wrote to an acquaintance in London to inquire into my reputation, and learned of the scandal. She assumed I was the Mr. Valcourt implicated, and I was prepared to let her believe it. My mother, however, was not, and told her everything today. I imagine it will only be a matter of time before the entire village knows of the scandal, not to mention our deception regarding my father’s fate.”

  Alec drew himself up. “I wanted you to hear it from me directly.”

  “Well, lad, thaht is quite a sad tale.” The old smith nodded. “And I’m sorry for ya. Yer maw most of all.”

  “Thank you for telling us,” Desmond added.

  Alec stiffened his spine. “All this to say—I will understand perfectly if you don’t wish to let your property to me.”

  He waited, the silence lengthening while the three Desmonds exchanged looks.

  A crack of a smile lifted Fergus Desmond’s thin mouth. “Poor lad. Frettin’ over our reputations—as though they might be spoilt by associatin’ with him. Can’e imagine?”

  “Don’t tease the boy, love,” Mrs. Desmond gently chided.

  Desmond said to his parents, “I haven’t told Alec the whole sordid tale yet. Though he knows the worst of it.” He turned to Alec. “Suffice it to say, we don’t hold what you told us against you. In fact, we understand.”

  Mrs. Desmond nodded sadly. “All too well.”

  Alec’s pulse thrummed as he walked back to his uncle’s. He had done it. The key even now hung heavy in his pocket. He had agreed in principle to let the former dancing academy for two months at very reasonable terms. Desmond had insisted, however, that Alec meet him at the empty shop the next evening to thoroughly inspect the place and make sure he knew what he was getting into before any money changed hands. Desmond would meet him there at eight. Alec felt satisfied—exonerated—to be counted as trustworthy, after Lady Amelia’s accusations and dismissal. He would do everything in his power to prove himself worthy of John Desmond’s trust.

  A little voice whispered, Is Desmond trustworthy? But Alec found he both trusted and liked the man—and his parents.

  Alec hoped he had done the right thing. How would his mother react? His uncle? Beaworthy’s residents? He hoped they would not all be sorely vexed.

  And Lady Amelia? He shuddered to think.

  For better or worse, he would be a dancing master again. Not a clay pit drudge, not a deskbound clerk under Lady Amelia’s thumb, but his own man. He dared not count on many pupils, though he prayed that eventually he could make a go of the place. Thankfully, he knew his mother and sister would not mind doing without an allowance for the time being.

  Along with his worries, a low hum of eagerness, of excitement began to pulse through his body. He had done it—taken the first step toward opening his own academy. What should he call it? Valcourt Dancing and Fencing Academy, as before? Or have a new sign engraved with his name: Alec Valcourt, Dancing & Fencing Master.

  He quite liked the sound of that. It had been too long since he’d heard it. Or even dared think of himself by that moniker.

  Alec tossed his topper in the air, spun in place, and caught his hat before replacing it once more.

  A giggle reached his ears—ears which quickly heated when he realized how foolish he must have looked. He glanced up and saw a ginger-haired girl of five or six walking hand-in-hand with her father. Eyes twinkling, she gave him a gap-toothed grin as she passed.

  Alec doffed his hat to her and continued on his way.

  The next morning, Julia knocked on Mr. Ramsay’s door, trying to squelch a flutter of nerves. When she had not seen Mr. Valcourt the day before, she’d asked Barlow if he was ill, only to be told he’d been given the sack.

  True—Lady Amelia had told Julia about the letter from her London acquaintance and warned Julia to stay away from Mr. Valcourt, but she had not said she planned to dismiss him. Julia didn’t know why she was surprised. And now she felt duty bound to apologize on her mother’s behalf. In her heart of hearts, she believed there must be some mistake about the story. She hoped Mr. Valcourt might confide in her the truth, and affirm her faith in him.

  When the housekeeper answered the door, self-consciousness flooded Julia. She could not very well ask to see Mr. Valcourt privately. That was too forward even for her. Instead she asked to see Miss Valcourt.

  The housekeeper told her to wait while she went to see if Miss Valcourt was at home to callers. What airs the woman put on. Julia hoped the girl wouldn’t refuse to see her on her brother’s behalf.

  But a moment later, Aurora came out of the sitting room, surprise and concern on her sweet face. “Miss Midwinter. Are you all right?”

  Did she look as ill as she felt? “I am well, thank you. I . . . simply wished to pay a call.”

  Aurora looked at her with forthright blue eyes, which were somehow innocent and knowing all at once. She took a step nearer and lowered her voice. “My brother is not here, Miss Midwinter. He has gone out.”

  The girl had seen right through her ruse, Julia realized. Yet she saw no condemnation in Aurora’s eyes, though she must know her mother had dismissed Alec.

  “I see.” Julia faltered, “I . . . I only wanted to tell him, that I am terribly sorry about . . .” Had he confided the news of his dismissal to his family? She hated to be the one to do so if he had not.

  Aurora said kindly, “It is not your fault, Miss Midwinter.”

  “No,” she said bitterly. “It is my mother’s.” Guilt pinched her. She knew that the fault was partially hers. Had she not shown any interest in Mr. Valcourt and not insisted on spending time with him, her mother might never have inquired into his past.

  Several thoughts flickered across Aurora Valcourt’s face. A look of uncertainty was replaced with a snap of decision, like the throwing of a bolt.

  “Miss Midwinter,” she said. “Would you care to take a turn about my uncle’s gardens? His bluebells are exceptional this year.”

  Julia recognized the glint in the younger woman’s eyes. “Yes. I should like that very much.”

  “Just let me retrieve my bonnet and gloves.”

  A few minutes later, the two young women strolled around the gardens, one freshly plowed and a second, smaller kitchen garden with a few lettuces sprouting up and a border of bluebells for color.

  Aurora began, “Alec would not like me discussing this with . . .”

  “With me?”

  “With anyone. But I don’t agree with him. I told Alec not to be a martyr, but he would not listen to me.” Aurora took a deep breath. “What has your mother told you?”

  Julia hesitated, unsure how much Aurora knew, and cringing to say the words aloud. “She told me she learned that Mr. Valcourt had seduced a young lady—one of his pupils. I don’t want to believe it, but my mother has a London acquaintance who wrote to her about it.” She held her breath. Hoping the girl would not be shocked. Hoping she would vehemently deny the story.

  Instead the girl nodded. “It is true. A Mr. Valcourt did seduce one of his pupils—a well-connected and vocal young woman
, as it turned out. But it was not Alec.”

  “But,” Julia blurted, “he did not deny it.”

  “No. Out of a misplaced sense of family duty.” Aurora sighed. “Alec wasn’t the Mr. Valcourt who had an affair with one of his pupils. That dubious honor belongs to Mr. Colin Valcourt. My father.”

  Julia stared. Shocked.

  “Yes, you see—though an awful scandal either way—how much less mortifying for us all, but especially my mother, if a young, single man were to become involved with a pupil. But it was my father—married, his wife and daughter right upstairs in their apartment.” Aurora shuddered. “And no recourse available to the girl’s angry father—no man to work on, to convince to marry his daughter and save her reputation.” Aurora exhaled deeply. “I will say this for Miss Underhill. She did not claim to be perfectly innocent in the affair. There were no charges of . . .” She could not bring herself to say the horrid word, but Julia could guess.

  “What did your father say in his defense?” Julia asked.

  “Not much. He left the country to avoid the civil suit and damages.” Aurora added, “Can you see why we were not eager to make the circumstances of our coming known to our new neighbors?”

  Aurora shook her head in regret. “How quickly word spread in London. How rapidly and thoroughly the damage was done. You don’t understand, Miss Midwinter, how well known the Valcourts were. My grandfather had been dancing master to two dukes. He published books of music and dance. He spent his life building a reputation for honor and excellence. One is not invited into the homes of nobility without the highest personal recommendations.

  “My grandfather passed on his academy to our father, but he was not the best manager. Money flowed through his hands like water. Under Alec’s leadership the academy would have flourished. He would have been a very successful man, wealthy even, and able to marry well. Instead, with one sin, my father ruined everything. It’s all gone now. The academy, the private lessons, the reputation . . . Gone forever.”

  Julia nodded, feeling ill. “How long ago was this?”