Behind them, someone knocked on the door. They all froze, then looked from one to the other. Mr. Desmond, she noticed, stepped into the shadowy threshold of the back room.
Squaring his shoulders, Mr. Valcourt strode to the door.
Julia’s stomach clenched. If she had heard the music, it was likely others in the High Street had as well. She hoped it was not someone who would report her whereabouts to her mother.
But when Alec opened the door, there stood the disapproving lady herself.
She looked from Mr. Valcourt, to the swords, to his mother and sister, to her. “Pardon me, Mr. Valcourt, but I have come for my daughter. Julia, let us go.”
“Why have you come?” Julia asked.
“Why? Because I could not find you at home. I grew worried and came out looking for you.”
“I am perfectly well, as you see.” Embarrassment singed Julia’s neck and ears. She detested being treated like a wayward child. Especially in front of Alec Valcourt.
Suddenly her mother’s gaze flicked from Julia’s face to the backroom doorway, to the tall man standing partially hidden by the shadows.
She gasped, paled, and seemed to sway.
Surprised, Julia looked from her to Mr. Desmond, noticing his stricken expression as well.
Her mother’s face reddened at an alarming rate. “How dare you . . .” she breathed, nostrils flared.
Mr. Desmond said only, “My lady.”
“Julia, we’re leaving.” Eyes flashing, she took two long steps, hooked Julia’s arm with a claw-like hand, and all but dragged her from the room.
“Mother!” Julia hissed in mortification. “How dare he? How dare you!”
But Lady Amelia had already pulled her through the door and out into the street, where the Buckleigh carriage awaited.
The footman helped them inside. When they were seated and the door shut, Julia demanded, “Why did you do that?”
Her mother asked almost fearfully, “Did he seek you out? Ask to meet you?”
“What are you talking about? Mr. Desmond? I don’t even know him. I only learnt his name five minutes ago. Neither he nor Mr. Valcourt had any idea I would show up there tonight.”
“Then why are you here? What possessed you to leave the house at night?”
As the carriage started to move, Julia said, “I . . . happened to meet Miss Valcourt and her mother. They were on their way to see Mr. Valcourt, and they showed me the . . . shop.” She was sorely tempted to tell her mother what he planned to do with it but remembered his plea to keep it quiet for now. Though, knowing how clever—and connected—her mother was, she probably already knew.
“What did he say to you?” Lady Amelia asked.
“Mr. Desmond? I don’t recall him saying much of anything.”
“No? Well . . . good.”
“Why good?”
“Because I don’t want you associating with him—with any of them. Mr. Desmond is not to be trusted.”
“Do you know him?”
She turned a hard face toward Julia. “Of course I know him,” she snapped. “He’s the man who killed my brother.”
Julia gaped. “That man? Why? Why would he? You told me it was a duel, right?”
She gave the barest begrudging nod.
“What, or shall I say whom, did they fight about . . . ? You?”
“No.” Her mother gave a bitter little snort, very unlike her normal ladylike reserve.
Julia narrowed her eyes. “What are you not telling me?”
Her mother said carefully, “I mentioned there were . . . rumors . . . before Anne married, but—”
Julia interrupted, “Are you referring to the rumor that Lady Anne may have been with child before she married? What has that to do with Mr. Desmond?”
Her mother’s mouth tightened into stern lines. “I have said more than enough. No good can come from discussing this further.” She turned and stared out the window the rest of the way home, refusing to say another word on the subject.
The next afternoon, Julia sought out Doyle. She found the lady’s maid tucked up in her mother’s dressing room, sewing a tippet around the collar of a walking dress. As she sewed, she sipped a glass of sherry from the bottle Julia had given her earlier.
Startled, the woman made to slide the glass behind a powder box, but seeing it was only Julia, relaxed. “Miss.”
“Hello, Doyle.” She handed the woman a small box of sweets. She’d bought them for Patience’s upcoming birthday but could always buy more.
“Thank you, miss.” Doyle set aside her sewing before opening the box of sticky sweets.
Julia sat on the stool of her mother’s dressing table and watched the servant nibble on the candy with evident relish. Then she began, “Doyle, you’ve been here for a long time. So you knew Lady Anne well, did you not?”
“Oh yes. I was lady’s maid to both Lady Anne and Lady Amelia. And to their mother before them.”
“I found that letter in the trunk,” Julia said conspiratorially, but she didn’t come out and accuse the woman of leaving the drawer open. “After that, Lady Amelia told me . . . you know . . . about Lady Anne and me.”
Doyle’s eyes widened and she set down the box of sweets. “Did she now?”
“Yes. You knew, I assume. I imagine a lot of people knew. At least among the servants.”
“Yes. Servants usually know more than their masters realize about the goings-on in a house.”
“Why did no one ever tell me?”
“And why would we do that? Eager to lose our posts, were we? No. Wasn’t our place. Besides, people don’t talk about such things. Not to the child herself, at any rate. It’s private-like. In the family. And we are loyal, most of us, even if we don’t always agree with what goes on.”
“You didn’t agree?”
“I didn’t say that, miss. I don’t always see eye to eye with her ladyship—that’s no secret—but I did think it were right decent of her, considering.”
“Considering . . . what? Lady Anne’s putting the cart before the horse?”
“I wouldn’t say it in so many words. Not to you, miss. But yes.”
“How did my . . . Mr. Midwinter react? Did he resist the arrangement?”
Doyle hesitated, head tilted to one side. “What did she tell you about that?”
Julia hesitated. If she admitted Lady Amelia had said nothing beyond “He left the decision to me,” would the servant seal her lips as well? Julia poured herself a glass of water from the carafe on the dressing table and proceeded with what she knew from personal experience. “Mr. Midwinter was not keen on the arrangement but made no objection.” Apparently, she added to herself.
“Oh, he had objections, all right,” Doyle said. “But he washed his hands of the whole matter and said she could do as she pleased, because he knew she would regardless.”
Her throat suddenly dry, Julia sipped her water and nodded encouragingly toward Doyle’s glass.
Doyle picked it up. “Besides, Lady Amelia had been in a deep depression of spirits for months. Kept to her room for the most part.” She sipped the sherry. “Having a child to care for was the one thing that seemed to help her over her grief. And though I don’t say it was a love match, Mr. Midwinter was not a cruel man and no doubt preferred a content companion to a melancholy one.”
Julia felt certain that, if she revealed her ignorance, the conversation would quickly end. She needed to tread carefully—pretending to know all, while subtly seeking more information.
“Of course she was grieving,” Julia said. “Her father and brother dead, her sister . . . lost.”
“Oh, but it was more than that.” Doyle pulled a face. “What a hullabaloo. Mr. Midwinter was tempted to refuse the match with Lady Amelia altogether to keep out of the family scandal.”
“My grandfather did not approve of Lieutenant Tremelling,” Julia suggested.
“No. Nor did Master Graham. At first they forbade Anne to marry the man, threatening to cut her off from the
family without a farthing or even a dowry. So, she broke things off with Tremelling, or so she claimed.”
So she claimed? Julia wondered, but did not ask.
“Then a few months later, she comes cryin’ to Lord Buckleigh, confessing she was with child. But insistin’ the child was not Lieutenant Tremelling’s doin’. Said it couldn’t be—he’d been away at sea.”
Julia felt her mouth slacken. “Did my grandfather verify her story?”
“That I don’t know. I do know he and Master Graham put a lot of pressure on Lady Anne to reveal her lover.”
Julia wanted to ask what Anne said but made do with a nod of sage understanding.
“And when she finally did,” Doyle continued, “her brother was quick to believe her. But I didn’t. Not at first.” She slowly shook her head, eyes distant.
“Who?” Julia asked, unable to restrain herself. “Who was it?”
Doyle shrewdly narrowed her eyes at her, and Julia knew she’d tipped her hand.
In her mind’s eye, Julia again saw Lady Amelia’s stricken face, her shock at seeing Mr. Desmond, her refusal to talk about the duel. The duel—of course! Aloud she ventured, “John Desmond?”
The maid’s wiry brows rose. “Ah! So you have heard of our infamous dancing master, ey?”
Dancing master? she thought, but merely said, “Only recently.” For some reason Julia hesitated to mention she’d met him.
Doyle continued. “He denied it flat. But Master Graham didn’t believe him. How could he, when his little sister had named the man?”
Julia’s heart thudded. Could it be? Was John Desmond her father?
“But I wanted to believe him innocent,” Doyle said. “He always seemed so respectful and gentlemanlike. He treated Lady Anne more like a silly girl than a lover. I sometimes chaperoned their dancing lessons, you see. And between you and me, I thought he was more interested in Lady Amelia than in Anne. And Lady Amelia was certainly smitten with him—that I can tell you. Though I probably should not. I doubt she told you that, ey, my girl?” She drained her glass.
Julia gave a noncommittal shrug.
The servant shook her head. “Poor Mr. and Mrs. Desmond. They made a great show of defending their son, but that’s what parents do, I suppose. Against all reason. Lost most of their Beaworthy customers over it too. Most of their business comes from Shebbear or Bradford these days, I gather.”
“Why do you say they defended him against all reason?” Julia asked. “I thought you didn’t believe him guilty?”
“Not at first. But then there was that awful duel, and your uncle’s death, and the earl’s apoplexy. Dark days indeed for Buckleigh Manor.” She shuddered. “Johnny Desmond left the village soon after, and that seemed to confirm his guilt. And as the gossips said, he was the dancing master, after all—and everyone knows better than to trust their daughters with that lascivious lot.”
Julia frowned, trying to tie all the knotted threads into a comprehensible pattern. Footsteps sounded in the passage, though Julia barely heard them. “So Lieutenant Tremelling is not my father, but the former dancing master is?”
The door latch clicked, and Doyle jumped, her gaze darting toward the dressing room door and back to Julia. She hissed, “I didn’t say that. And if you heard it, you didn’t hear it from me.”
Lady Amelia stalked into the dressing room, her troubled eyes shifting from Julia’s face, to Doyle’s flushed face, and back again. “What has she been telling you?”
How much did she overhear? Julia wondered. “It isn’t her fault,” she said. “You would not tell me everything, so I asked Doyle to fill in the blanks of what I already knew—or guessed.”
For a moment her mother hesitated, then said flatly, “Leave us, Doyle. My daughter and I must talk.”
The sheepish lady’s maid rose a little unsteadily. “Very good, my lady. Sorry, my lady.”
“And take your sherry with you,” she called after the woman.
Head lowered, Doyle returned, snatched up the glass, and scurried from the room. Lady Amelia closed the door behind her and locked it.
She sighed. “I would rather you had let it lie, as I asked, Julia. Or if you could not do that, that you would have come to me with your questions.”
“I tried.”
Her mother inhaled, pressed her hands together, then exhaled. “I know you have.” She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, then asked, “What more do you want to know?”
Julia took a deep breath. “Was John Desmond Lady Anne’s lover, and my . . . father?” How strange to say the words aloud, especially to the woman she had always known as her mother.
“So they said.”
“Who said?”
“My father and brother. They put a lot of pressure on Anne to reveal her lover, so they might work on the man.” Her complexion took on an ashy hue. “I have sometimes wondered if that’s why she finally named him.” She slowly shook her head, her eyes hollow and distant, as though reliving the scene.
“Mr. Desmond denied her claim. But I don’t think anyone believed him. Even those who desperately wanted to.”
“Who do you mean?” Julia frowned.
Her mother blinked, as though returning to the present. “I . . .” She swallowed. “I mean his parents, of course.”
She twisted her hands. “Graham was incensed. He’d trusted the man and felt betrayed for his sister’s sake as well as his own. He challenged Mr. Desmond, but it was no fair fight, not when one party was a fencing master. Graham was killed. And then Mr. Desmond left the village soon after, sealing his guilt.”
Julia had never seen such emotion on her mother’s face. It unsettled her. She asked in a timid voice, “So . . . who is my father?”
Lady Amelia winced as though in pain. “I don’t know!” she cried, her voice high and plaintive. Then she exhaled to regain control of her emotions. “My sister named John Desmond. But I’ve never been absolutely certain she told the truth. I was not well acquainted with Lieutenant Tremelling, yet there are times I look at you, and I think I see a resemblance, some of his features. . . .”
Julia found herself hungry for answers, for connection. “Which features?”
“Your smile. Your fair hair and eyes.”
“But,” Julia protested, “people have always said I have your eyes. . . .”
“Well, I am your aunt, after all, so some resemblance is not surprising. A blessing, really.”
“And Lady Anne?” Julia asked. “How do I resemble her?”
Lady Amelia barely contained a grimace. “In personality—you seem to share her reckless ways.”
Later, on her way across the hall, Julia paused before Lady Anne’s half-length portrait, which she so often glanced at in passing. The background was black oil paint, setting off the woman’s fair skin and golden brown hair in high relief.
Her hair was arranged in a high mound atop her head in the style of decades past. She wore a rich overdress of coral satin with puffed elbow-length sleeves over a belted gown of ivory. She did not smile, yet the pose seemed coy, now that Julia looked at it again. Lady Anne sat sideways but looked toward the painter, chin resting on her hand. Her large eyes were framed by well-defined brows far darker than Julia’s. Julia leaned nearer. Her eye color was not terribly distinct—a dark blue, perhaps.
Julia stepped back once more to regard the whole. Was there a resemblance? Yes, in the shape of her nose and her lips, perhaps.
And that gold locket around her neck . . . It was her locket, the one she received for her thirteenth birthday. Lady Amelia told her it had been Lady Anne’s when she gave it to her, but now it was truly significant. Julia had possessed her mother’s locket all these years without knowing it.
The locket was empty—no miniature graced it, no lock of loved one’s hair. How apropos, Julia thought, that this token from her former family was a hollow shell. As empty as she felt.
Those Gentlemen and Ladies who propose sending their Children to be instructed may depend the best care
will be taken as to their Behavior.
—dancing master advertisement, Boston Gazette & Country Journal
Chapter 20
Amelia felt adrift. Awash in a murky mire of fears and regrets. How stunned she’d been to see John Desmond standing in his old academy, only a few yards from her precious Julia. For years, she’d wondered if he would return, but as time went by she began to assume he would stay away forever, to avoid prosecution for the illegal duel, to avoid her, to avoid the stigma of it all.
She still remembered the awful scene, the day before May Day, though she’d done her best to forget it.
Desmond had come to teach a dancing lesson as previously arranged, only to be met by Amelia, stunned and undone.
“There will be no more lessons,” she’d said stiffly, desperate to control her emotions.
His dark brows rose. “Oh? What’s happened? What’s wrong? You’re clearly upset.”
“How can I not be”—she struggled to get the words past her tight, scorching throat—“when this very day my sister has named you the father of her child.”
“What?” He frowned, thunderstruck. “Lady Anne is . . . with child?” His incredulity seemed so authentic, so believable.
Her chin trembled. She stood there, nostrils pinched, eyes stinging, but determined not to cry. Not trusting her voice, she managed a nod.
“Dear Lord,” he breathed. “And she names me?”
“As I said.” She pointed toward the library door. “Anne is in there with Father and Graham, confessing all as we speak.”
She risked a glance at his face—jaw clenched, eyes troubled—and saw a storm of emotions. But guilt? She was not certain.
Heartsick, Amelia followed behind as John Desmond strode into the library to confront the accusation head on. Graham and their father whirled on him furiously, but Anne remained sitting, face averted.
“I don’t understand this, Lady Anne,” Mr. Desmond said, mouth tight. “You know I am not the man.”
But she had only ducked her head.
Instead he appealed to her father. “I have never been intimate with your daughter, my lord. I give you my word.” He sent a pleading glance to Amelia, but she looked away, blinking back tears.
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