The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  “Then why does she name you, Mr. Desmond?” Lord Buckleigh challenged.

  “I can only suppose she is frightened out of her wits, and the man responsible is unable or unwilling to do his duty.”

  Lady Anne began to cry aloud. And Amelia felt nauseous. She knew John Desmond, knew what he would do.

  He took a step nearer the youngest Buckleigh. “Anne, are you certain nothing can be done to bring the man around?”

  “I . . . What? No, you are the man. You know you are!”

  He stared at the desperate, tear-streaked face as if she were a creature from another world.

  “I know no such thing,” he repeated evenly. Again he looked at Amelia, his dark eyes begging hers for understanding. He said quietly, “But as a man of honor, I offer to marry her.”

  The words were a blow to Amelia’s chest. She could hardly breathe. Her mind railed against it. No, it was not fair. No!

  “I don’t want to marry him,” Anne screeched. “Don’t make me, Papa. Don’t make me.”

  Confusion swamped Amelia. Why accuse Mr. Desmond, then refuse to marry him? She was both relieved and stricken, for if Anne did not marry soon, she would be beyond hope. Please, God, let her marry anyone but this man.

  Graham narrowed his eyes at his teacher and former friend. “Why is my sister afraid of you? And if you claim innocence, why offer for her? Why would you want her if another man has ruined her?”

  Again Anne wailed.

  Their father added, “It hardly helps your case.”

  Desmond drew back his shoulders, clearly steeling himself. “I realize that by being alone with Lady Anne during our lessons, only irregularly chaperoned, I may have contributed to such rumors. That being the case, I am willing, as a gentleman, to rescue her reputation.”

  Graham’s eyes flashed. “You mistake yourself, Desmond. You are no gentleman. I will not give you my sister, but I give you this.” He yanked off a glove and threw it to the floor in flagrant challenge.

  “Graham, no!” Amelia cried, terrified of what would come next.

  But John Desmond ignored the thrown glove, not picking it up to accept the challenge. Instead, he turned and left without another word. Amelia had been tempted to hope, but she should have known John’s calm denial would only inflame her brother all the more.

  The next day, the first of May, Amelia emerged from her bedchamber with bloodshot eyes and a battered heart, and went through her morning routine in a haze. Just before midday, she realized she had not seen Graham all morning and began to worry. She stopped in his room but did not find him, nor his valet.

  None of the family planned to attend the May Day dance or surrounding festivities—not after the wretched scene of the day before. She supposed John Desmond would attend. As dancing master, he was probably obliged to be there, to support his pupils.

  Amelia found her father in the library and asked if he had seen Graham.

  Her father straightened, instantly alert. “Is he not in the house?”

  “Not that I can find. I cannot find his valet either.”

  “Devil take it,” he muttered. “I told him not to go.”

  Amelia tensed. “Do you think he went after Mr. Desmond?”

  “I hope to God not.” He rose and yanked the bell cord. When the footman entered he barked, “Have my horse saddled immediately.”

  But Amelia was already running. Out of the house, across the grounds, past the church, and up the Buckleigh Road. Side stitching, lungs burning, she ran into the village. She heard the music, saw the crowd, the people dancing around the green. There were Mr. and Mrs. Desmond. Where was their son? Amelia looked this way and that but saw no sign of John or her brother. That was a good sign, was it not? Then again, if they meant to duel, they wouldn’t do so in front of all these witnesses. . . .

  Suddenly from down the market hall stairs, thundered Perry, Graham’s valet.

  “Perry!” she called. “Where is my brother?”

  The man’s face was pasty white, nearly green. He blinked and stammered, “He . . . I . . .” He swallowed, then made do with pointing up the stairs. “I’m to get the surgeon.”

  Her heart pounded. “Then go, man. Make haste!”

  Amelia ran up the stairs. She burst through the door and saw John Desmond on his knees, leaning over Graham’s body.

  Her brother’s eyes were glassy and lifeless. Blood seeped through his waistcoat and onto the floor.

  John Desmond looked up at her and froze, his expression cracking like shattered glass. “Amy . . .”

  Her stomach seized, turned to ice. She whispered, “Is he . . . dead?”

  John winced and nodded. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he would not listen. . . .”

  She shook her head, throat burning. “You were the master. He was your pupil. And so was she. . . .” Amelia sucked in a ragged breath. “How could you?”

  John rose and started toward her, but she held up her hand and backed toward the door. “Stay away from me.”

  Stricken, he protested, “Amy, you can’t believe I would hurt you—”

  “Ha!” She half laughed, half cried. “You have killed us all.”

  She stumbled back down the stairs, fearing she was about to retch. Glancing around in a nauseous daze, she saw all the people still blithely dancing, unaware. The musicians were still playing. The world continued on, as if life had not just ended.

  The cheerful music hurt her ears. Her vision tilted—puffing musicians, clapping crowd, and happy dancers with skirts whirling, spun like a dizzying carousel before her eyes. Amelia’s emotions tightened like a fiddle string and then snapped.

  “Stop,” she shouted. “Stop dancing! My brother is dead, and John Desmond has blood on his hands. How can you dance?” Tears clogged her throat and flowed down her cheeks.

  Nearby, Maria Desmond gaped in shock and grasped her husband’s arm. The musicians squeaked to a halt, and people stopped and stared.

  Amelia was beyond caring what they thought of her. Body trembling, she cried, “Dancing masters can’t be trusted—isn’t that what people say? But I never listened. Why did I not listen? They smile and charm, and all the while they are seducing your sister and killing your brother.”

  She shook her head, blinded by tears and grief. “No more dancing masters, and no more dancing. Not here. Not ever. Not as long as I live.”

  Her father rode up, and dismounted in ungainly fashion. He took one look at her and his knees buckled. “Where is he?”

  “Above the market hall.”

  Her father’s face and body spasmed. He clutched his chest and lurched for the stairs. Mr. Hopkins, the constable, ran after him. From out of the crowd, the surgeon, followed by Graham’s valet, hurried up the stairs as well.

  Later, much later, the constable, surgeon, and valet carried down two bodies. The dead body of her brother, and the crippled body of her father, who’d suffered his first apoplexy there in the market hall, while weeping over his one and only son.

  Lord Buckleigh suffered a second attack after the funeral, one that laid him low indeed. Though bedridden, he went on to live for several months. Long enough to confirm Amelia’s edict that dancing and dancing masters were no longer welcome in Beaworthy. Long enough to see her safely married to an influential, responsible man. And to see Anne married to a man he didn’t approve of but could no longer refuse.

  He had two closed-door meetings with the magistrate, and Amelia assumed they were drafting formal charges against John Desmond. Yet before the constable could act, John Desmond had quietly closed his dancing academy and left Beaworthy without telling anyone where he was going. He stayed away for many years, until most everyone thought he would never return.

  But now, he had. . . .

  Amelia blinked back to the present. Why had John Desmond returned now of all times? She had heard his father was ailing. Was that the reason? Or had fate arranged to bring the man here at this critical time when Julia learned the truth about her mother, and was
asking questions about her father? If so, she did not appreciate God’s interference.

  What was so important that he would risk returning now? Were there not charges still pending against him? She deeply hoped his return had nothing to do with her daughter.

  Setting aside useless conjecture for action, Amelia sent for her estate manager.

  When Barlow entered, she began, “I would like you to call on Mr. Arscott.”

  “The magistrate, my lady? And what business have I with him?”

  She swallowed. “I have discovered that Mr. John Desmond has recently returned to Beaworthy.” She slanted him a look. “I suppose you knew already and I am the last to learn of it?”

  He pursed his lips and blustered, “Oh, well, I . . . may have heard a rumor. . . .”

  “Never mind. I assume he was charged with the crime of my brother’s death. I wish to know the status and specifics of those charges.”

  Barlow looked at her askance. “After twenty years?”

  She sent him a frosty look, and he hesitated, then offered obsequiously, “I shall see what he says.”

  She nodded and waved her hand in dismissal, yet Barlow remained where he was.

  Clasping his hands, he grimaced in thought and said, “But in asking, my lady, might I not inadvertently bring the fact of Mr. Desmond’s return to the magistrate’s attention?”

  “What of it?”

  “Are you . . . certain . . . that is what you wish to do?”

  Barlow looked at her with sad, knowing eyes. He had been with her family for more than thirty years. He was there when it all happened. He knew the horrid, mortifying tale all too well.

  When Barlow returned late that afternoon, his expression was that of a messenger who knew he came bearing unwelcome news.

  “Well?” Amelia asked, steeling herself.

  “Mr. Arscott says there are no charges against John Desmond that he is aware of.”

  “Why not?” she snapped. “There is no statute of limitations on murder.”

  Barlow was clearly taken aback by her outburst and looked to the floor.

  Amelia was embarrassed to have lost her composure and took a deep breath to calm herself.

  Apprehensive, Barlow continued, “Moreover, Mr. Arscott tells me that formal charges were never lodged against John Desmond.”

  She stared, angry and confused. “I don’t understand. Duels were illegal then and they’re illegal now. Nothing has changed. My brother is still dead. I know my father spoke to the magistrate. He would not have let his son’s death go unpunished. We had a different constable then, but Mr. Arscott was magistrate then as he is now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say why charges were never pressed? Was Father afraid Graham’s reputation would be tainted if people knew he’d taken part in an illegal duel?”

  “That might have been part of it, I suppose. Though Mr. Arscott hinted there might be more to the story.”

  “What more? What did he say?”

  “He said he would prefer to speak with you privately, should you wish to pursue the matter, or press charges yourself. Unfortunately, he is occupied with the Easter quarter sessions, and then departs for London for a few weeks. But he said he could see you when he returns, if you’d like to call.”

  Botheration. She didn’t want to call on old Edward Arscott. To dredge up and rehearse the awful day, and answer questions about why she still cared after all this time. . . . She was almost relieved she could not see him straightaway.

  But did her brother not deserve justice?

  The thought of demanding that John Desmond be punished made her feel nauseous. She knew it was her duty, and she would do so. But it would not be easy. She feared that if she started stirring those old embers, she might rekindle a flame. One that would burn them both.

  Julia sat waiting atop Liberty when Desmond stepped out of his parents’ house the next afternoon. He seemed surprised to see her but not unhappily so. A good beginning, she hoped.

  “Hello, Miss Midwinter.” He looked at her, then shook his head. “My goodness, staring me down like that, you remind me very much of your mother.”

  She frowned. “You needn’t say such things, Mr. Desmond. I know now that I am not Lady Amelia’s natural daughter. I am Lady Anne’s daughter, as I believe you already know.”

  His brows rose. “Are you indeed?” He stood stock-still a moment, then strode toward her. “May I help you down?”

  He helped her dismount from the sidesaddle. Then she looped Liberty’s rein around a nearby tree limb with plenty of slack for the horse to nibble grass.

  “Come now,” she said. “You knew Lady Anne was with child before you left Beaworthy, and that she named you as the father. Do you deny it—when you killed my uncle in a duel over it?”

  “I . . . don’t deny knowing the charges against me, but—”

  “But you deny me?” A stew of anger and rejection simmered to a boil until she thought she would explode. “Even though Lady Anne said—”

  “I know what she said,” he interrupted firmly. “But it wasn’t true.”

  “You claim innocence? Or are you too ashamed to admit the truth?”

  “I don’t claim to be innocent, Miss Midwinter. I am guilty of many things.” He stepped into the forge and calmly began stoking the fire. She followed him inside, stomach churning.

  He said, “To this day, I wish I had managed to meet Graham’s challenge without killing him. I know what shame is. I have carried it with me these twenty years. But I have no reason to be ashamed where you’re concerned.”

  She lifted her chin. “That is my shame to carry alone. Is that it?”

  “That is not what I—”

  “Well, you lost no time in disabusing me, did you? In making sure I don’t try to claim you. Why should I be surprised? The man I thought my whole life was my father didn’t want me. Lady Anne’s husband apparently doesn’t want me, and now you don’t want me either. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  She turned away in a swirl of skirts and hurts, but he gently caught her arm.

  “Wait, Miss Midwinter. You have not wasted my time. Come and sit here. I want to talk with you.”

  She allowed him to lead her to the bench and meekly sat.

  “I’ll make tea, shall I?” He began pottering about with kettle and cups. “Tell me, when did you find out?”

  “I’ve learned it in bits and pieces over the last week or so. Lady Amelia kept it a secret from me all these years.”

  He nodded. “No doubt she wanted to protect you from all the rumors flying around back then.”

  “She protected me from nothing and exposed me to worse. I should have known Mr. Midwinter was not my father. That cold man could never have fathered a child.”

  He looked up sharply, clearly taken aback at her coarse words, but did not correct her. “Their marriage was not . . . close?”

  “Hardly. I never saw him display any affection toward her, nor to me.”

  “Yet you feel sorry for yourself but not for her?”

  She recoiled as if slapped. “How dare you? You know nothing about it.”

  “Forgive me.” He filled the kettle and set it on the fire.

  Julia said, “I suppose you like hearing that Lady Amelia has not been happy. Serves the Buckleighs right after running you out of town.”

  “You are mistaken.” He shook his head soberly. “I take no pleasure in learning she has been unhappy. I would never have wished that for her.”

  “I find that difficult to believe. I saw how harshly she spoke to you that night in the academy.”

  He audibly exhaled. “I have given her reason to despise me.”

  “Because of her brother?”

  “Yes, and because she believed her sister’s word over mine. And who could blame her for that?”

  “I could.”

  He regarded her. “You two don’t get on?”

  “That is an understatement.”

  “I know Lady A
melia well enough to know she loves you. And no doubt Lady Anne and her husband loved you as well.”

  “Loved me? Lady Anne denied I was his. And he hasn’t bothered to visit me once since he dumped me at Buckleigh Manor so he could sail away, unfettered by a brat he didn’t want, who was his in name only.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t the reason.”

  “Then why has he never come to see me?” She lifted a palm. “No, don’t answer. I know why. Lady Amelia forbade him. Afraid her secret would get out, and she would lose her plaything, her puppet.”

  He said gently, “Or perhaps he doesn’t want to confuse you. Especially since you’ve grown up as Julia Midwinter.”

  “Sometimes I tell myself that. That he doesn’t come because he thinks I don’t know. He thinks we want him to stay away.” Her chin trembled but she was powerless to stop it. “And I convince myself that he wants to come. That he thinks of me. Often. Misses me. And longs to see me again.”

  He nodded and said cautiously, “It . . . could be.” He added, “I am sure he wants only what’s best for you.”

  She shook her head. “But if he is my father, how could he stay away so long? Especially now that I am grown.”

  Desmond hesitated. “What has Lady Amelia said about . . . your father?”

  Julia shrugged. “She said she doesn’t know for sure.”

  Desmond’s lower lip protruded. “Well, that’s something.” He spooned in tea leaves. “Have you or Lady Amelia written to Tremelling now that you know? Asked him to visit?”

  Julia blinked, chest tightening. “No.”

  “Well then, my girl, maybe it’s time you did.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she murmured, head lowered in thought.

  He slipped a long finger beneath her chin and lifted it. “But first we need something to put a smile on that pretty face.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Good luck.”

  He hesitated. “Did Lady Amelia ask you not to return to Mr. Valcourt’s after she found you there the other night?”

  Julia thought back. “No.” Her mother had said next to nothing about Mr. Valcourt. In fact, she’d seemed concerned only about what Mr. Desmond might have said to her.