The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  “Well then.” He grinned. “I know just the thing.”

  Alec had yet to hold his grand opening, but he was about to teach his first official dance class in his new academy. He was eager and apprehensive at the same time.

  At least the group was a friendly one: James, a nervous Walter, a self-conscious Mr. Pugsworth, Tess Thorne, Patience, and Aurora as third lady. He had hoped Julia might join them, or Desmond stop by to lend a hand, but he had yet to see either of them.

  He first taught them an English country dance and was in the midst of teaching a Scottish reel when the door opened behind them. Alec turned, his abdomen tightening as it often did since reopening an unpopular establishment. He was relieved to recognize the caller as friend and not foe.

  Desmond entered with a broad smile. He held the door for none other than Julia Midwinter. Alec’s mood lifted. His happiness was dampened, however, by the redness of her eyes and her blotchy cheeks—she’d been crying. But she braved a smile and greeted everyone. Alec wondered if Desmond had said something to upset her but doubted it of the kind man. As much as he trusted Desmond, he found himself looking from man to young lady. He saw no resemblance between the two and was glad of it.

  The lesson resumed, and with the addition of another couple, they moved on to a longways dance for eight.

  While Alec instructed, Desmond walked through the steps, partnering Julia. But when it was time to dance to music, he stepped aside. “You dance, Valcourt. I prefer not to. I’ll play.”

  Having previously noticed his friend’s reluctance to dance, Alec did not press him. He happily took over as Miss Midwinter’s partner while Desmond played the Scottish tune “Broom, the Bonny, Bonny Broom” on Alec’s fiddle.

  When the dance ended, Alec said, “Come now, Desmond, teach us some exotic dance you learned in Spain or the Indies.”

  Desmond smiled fleetingly, then became reflective. “Actually,” he said, “I would rather teach you a dance I learned not in some distant place, but in my own home, my hands in my mother’s, my father playin’ his pipe. A dance every Beaworthy lad and lass once learned, to dance on one special day of the year.”

  “The May Day dance,” Miss Midwinter breathed.

  Desmond looked at her in surprise. “Do you know it?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I shall never forget seeing an older couple dancing it all alone around the green two years ago.”

  He nodded. “My parents. They decided to renew the tradition on their own, I’m proud to say, despite ridicule. Though with my father’s health, I doubt he shall manage it this year.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Desmond raised both hands. “Come. I’ll teach you the dance.”

  He asked them to find partners and form a line.

  Walter looked longingly at Tess, but when she met his gaze, he ducked his head, face reddening, and snagged his sister’s hand instead. This left Milton Pugsworth to partner Tess, while James danced with Aurora, and Alec remained with Julia.

  “Gentlemen, offer your fair partner your right hand. Ladies, place your left hand in his. Now stand side by side and walk slowly in a step, shuffle-step. That’s right. Sixteen counts. Now, join both hands and turn in a circle. The footwork is: step, step, step, hop. All the way around. Excellent.”

  They repeated the simple steps until everyone, except for Walter, was proficient.

  Lifting an “aha” finger, Desmond crossed the room, hefted the old coat tree, and placed it in the center of the room. He explained that it would represent the fountain on the green beside the market hall.

  “Now, imagine making your way down the High Street, villagers in pairs ahead of you and behind. Lining the street, a happy crowd of onlookers clap and cheer you on. Musicians play near the market hall, the music growing louder as you near the fountain. Fiddle and pipe raised in cheerful celebration.

  “Neighbors you have barely seen through the dim winter months, now dance beside you in the spring sunshine, calling greetings to those they know, and remembering those not present that year. Dancing for them. Thankful for life while we have it, for our community and neighbors and friends.”

  The eight of them danced around and around that old coat tree, changing partners and dancing again as Desmond played.

  As Julia and Alec danced past him, she smiled at Desmond and said, “You were right. This was exactly what I needed.”

  Dancing adds graces to the gifts which nature has bestowed upon us. . . . And, if it do not completely eradicate the defects with which we are born, it mitigates or conceals them.

  —Pierre Rameau, The Dancing Master, 1725

  Chapter 21

  In the library, Julia faced her mother, steeling herself for a fight. “I wish to meet Lieutenant Tremelling. To ask him for myself if he is my natural father, and what he viewed the arrangement between you to be.”

  Julia imagined Lady Amelia had warned him to stay away, perhaps even paid him a great deal on the condition of his absence. He must have to support an ailing mother or father, and that was why he could not come and risk losing the money. For himself, he would not care. A man like him, a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, must do quite well on his own. . . .

  Julia imagined herself standing on the deck of his ship, the wind in her hair, a refreshing mist dampening her face, watching the rolling sea. Seeing the coast of England, the former limits of her life—Buckleigh Manor, Lady Amelia—growing smaller and smaller, farther and farther away, until they released their choke hold on Julia’s throat and disappeared from view.

  Ahead of them lay unknown horizons, new worlds to explore, new adventures. Her father stood at the helm, tall and handsome in his uniform with fair hair like hers. He smiled at her, pride evident in his eyes. He had conquered the objections of a few superstitious salts not keen on having a female aboard. And already she saw their begrudging admiration as she gained her sea legs so quickly, helped her father chart their course, and wasn’t ill once.

  Lieutenant Tremelling—or Captain Tremelling, as he was certain to become under her influence—had been surprised and delighted when she’d contacted him. How he’d missed her over the years, but he had stayed away, obeying Lady Amelia’s edict. Of course she was welcome to live with him and share his life. Had that not always been the desire of his heart, though he’d never dared believe it possible?

  Lady Amelia had begged and pleaded and threatened. But she could not forbid her. For he was her father, and she his beloved daughter, and they had years to make up for. Her rightful place was by his side. . . .

  “Very well.”

  Julia blinked, awoken abruptly from her dreamy, idealistic reverie.

  “What?”

  “I said, very well,” Lady Amelia repeated. “I can see you are determined. And whether or not he is your father, he was Lady Anne’s husband. If you wish to meet him, you shall. Will you write to him or shall I?”

  Julia stared, felt her lips part. The confidence of her imaginings faltered, and a rare feeling—fear—tingled down her spine. “Perhaps it would be better coming from you the first time—so he knows you approve.”

  “As you wish. I don’t say I approve, by the way, but I agree. I know you shall never be content otherwise.”

  Lady Amelia slipped a piece of stationery from the desk drawer and dipped a quill. “Anything particular you wish me to express?”

  Julia considered. “Make sure he knows that meeting me won’t obligate him to anything—that any further relationship between us will only be if he wishes it.”

  Lady Amelia held her gaze a moment longer, then bent to write. Several minutes later, she blotted the ink and, without being asked, handed her the letter.

  By way of preamble, Lady Amelia said, “I have attempted to word it in such a manner, that if the letter were to be misdirected, a stranger would not learn all our private family matters.”

  Julia nodded vaguely and read.

  To Lieutenant Thomas Tremelling,

 
; Miss Julia Midwinter, the young woman in my care, has been acquainted with her history and wishes to meet you. Note that a meeting does in no way obligate you or Miss Midwinter in any way. Any future involvement will be left to your discretion and mutual agreement.

  Please come to Buckleigh Manor on the 12th, between three and five in the afternoon. Or if that is not possible, on a Saturday afternoon at your convenience as soon as may be. I trust that with the war over, you will have leave to travel to us. If not, please send word of a time and place of your preference and we shall come to you.

  We await your reply.

  Lady Amelia MidwinterBuckleigh Manor,Beaworthy, Devon

  Amelia waited for Julia to read the letter, praying she would not come to regret writing it.

  Julia looked up at her, eyes troubled. “Does he even know my name?” she asked, sounding nearly panicked. “He may not realize you are referring to me, for Julia Midwinter was not my birth name.”

  “He’ll know,” Amelia assured her.

  “Did he agree to your changing it? Does he even know?”

  “Yes, Julia,” she assured her again. “He agreed.”

  For the most part, Amelia added to herself.

  She remembered very well the entire conversation, though she didn’t often think of it. But after Julia left to prepare for bed, Amelia allowed the memory to come.

  A footman, long since dismissed, had shown him into the drawing room. In one arm, Lieutenant Tremelling awkwardly held the infant bundled against the January cold. His dark blond hair was slicked back like a schoolboy’s whose harried mamma had smoothed it with a spit-dampened palm. He was in uniform—dark blue wool tailcoat with a double row of brass buttons, buff waistcoat with stand-up collar, and boots over buff breeches. Under his other arm he held a large cocked hat of beaver felt with gilt trimmings. She wondered what sort of official navy business warranted his calling in uniform but made no comment.

  The man exuded masculinity, and his face was undeniably handsome with prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a strong slightly hooked nose. But personally, Amelia had never found him attractive, nor had she ever especially liked the man. She had seen him about a month prior, at Anne’s internment in the Buckleigh churchyard. Amelia had spoken to him only briefly then, enough to learn Anne’s child—a girl—had survived but had been left in Plymouth with a nurse. Lieutenant Tremelling had made no mention of calling again, and his return filled her with surprise and not a little misgiving.

  He looked stiff. Nervous. Like a young man paying his first courting call. But Amelia steeled herself. She had never trusted the man completely and didn’t mean to start now.

  He glanced down at the cradled child, perhaps five weeks old. “I’ve come to introduce you to your sister’s daughter.” He exhaled. “And . . . to ask you to care for her, now Anne’s gone.”

  Amelia felt her palms begin to perspire. She looked down at the little face, her skin so pale and translucent that blue veins shone through. The child was bald save for the fairest fuzz atop her round head and, at the moment, asleep. Amelia had no idea what to say. Instead she asked, “What do you call her?”

  The man looked down, uncomfortable. “Anne named her Grace Amelia.”

  Amelia’s stomach clenched. It was quite common for mothers to name their daughters after themselves—but after a sister you’d hurt terribly?

  He glanced up and must have seen her look of disbelief. He held up a placating palm. “I’m not saying that to try to persuade you or flatter you. Here.” He set aside his hat and reached awkwardly with his free hand into an inner pocket. Amelia made no move to relieve him of the child.

  “Here’s a letter Anne began for the child. Before she . . .” He swallowed. “See for yourself.”

  Steeling her heart anew, Amelia read the brief letter in her sister’s shaky hand.

  Dear Grace Amelia,

  How beautiful you are, my precious daughter. How perfect. I lie here and wish I could stay and watch you grow up, but I sense the heavenly Father calling me to himself even now. This world is fading until all I can truly focus on is your face. Even your papa is beginning to blur. He will fare well without me, I know. It is only you I think of. Worry about. Pray for. Who will take care of you while your papa is gone from home? Who dare I ask—trust—to care for my most precious possession?

  Amelia’s heart tightened into a fist until it physically ached. She had closed her heart to her sister. Could she open it to her sister’s child? Foolish Anne. Had she been up to her old ways even so near the end of her life, on the surface so charming, but all the while calculating to manipulate others to do whatever she wanted? Amelia inwardly chastised herself for thinking ill of her sister, so recently departed.

  “I would not feel comfortable calling her by that name.”

  “I understand,” the man said. “And I think Anne would understand as well. From her letter, you can see she was mostly concerned about finding someone to care for the child.”

  Amelia searched the letter once more. “You don’t think she meant for you to find a nurse or a neighbor to care for her while you were away at sea? But that you would care for her yourself as much as possible?”

  He lowered his head. “She may have done. I don’t know. But I’ve got a new commission—my ship sails on Friday. And I can’t afford to keep our little place—not and pay a full-time nurse in the bargain.” He looked up at her from beneath golden brows. “Speaking of expense. There has been quite a bit of late. What with the apothecary for Anne, new things for the babe, and the wet nurse I—”

  Amelia interrupted, “Did Anne ask you to bring the child to me?”

  He grimaced. “Not . . . exactly. Near the end she made me promise not to let the child suffer want. She said, ‘My sister will take care of her, if worse comes to worst.’”

  “I see,” Amelia said dryly. “How long do you expect to leave her with me?”

  He shifted from foot to foot, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Truth is, m’lady, with the war on, I don’t know when or if I’ll be back. And certainly not regular-like. I was hopin’ you’d take her on permanently.”

  “Permanently? How permanent? Until you change your mind? Until the war is over? Until you remarry?”

  His face slackened. “Hang me, m’lady. Whatever you think of me, I did love Anne. I’ve no thought of remarrying.”

  “And after the war?”

  “If this war ever ends, I’ll still be an officer. And that’s if I make it home. War is deadly business. It would greatly ease my mind if I knew you would keep her. That she would be raised here. How could a man do better for his daughter?”

  Was the child really his daughter, in spite of Anne’s claim? Perhaps he was simply eager to be rid of the dancing master’s child now that his unfaithful wife had died. Should she come out and ask him? Even though to do so would be to accuse him, or at least Anne, of lying? Amelia could see no definite resemblance to either man, though the child’s coloring certainly resembled Tremelling’s more than Desmond’s. But the infant was Anne’s as well, and so small. Amelia was not likely to see a resemblance to anyone for months or even years. And by then it would be too late. She would have lost her heart all over again.

  Inhaling deeply, Amelia drew herself up. “If I am to raise her here and give her every advantage, as you suggest, then I should like to raise her as my own.”

  “Yes, m’lady. As I said.”

  “I mean, as my own daughter, in name and understanding.”

  He winced in confusion. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Surely you remember the scandal.” Amelia hesitated, then forged ahead, “Or are you saying this is your child, even though Anne alleged otherwise?”

  His face stiffened. “I’m not saying anything. I married your sister, and we planned to raise the girl as our own. That’s all I’ll say. But . . . does it matter, m’lady? Will it affect your decision?”

  Would it? Amelia considered. If she did raise the child, would it
not color her perception of the girl—bias her? Did she really want to know?

  She exhaled, then replied, “No. But you understand that I would want to protect her from that scandal if I could.”

  “Meaning . . . she would grow up not knowing about Anne and me, thinking she was your natural daughter—yours and Mr. Midwinter’s? But you’ve only been married, what . . . ?”

  “Six months. We could keep her here in the manor until she is older. Some will know or at least guess she is not ours, though most won’t question. And in time, people will forget. Accept.”

  “I shall never forget.” He shifted the child to his other arm, and picked up his hat once more. “But if you think it best, I shan’t object.”

  “I will need to speak to my husband, of course. Give me two days and return for my answer.”

  “Two days?”

  “You said your ship did not sail until Friday, did you not?”

  “Yes, but . . . Oh, very well. Of course you need to talk with your husband.”

  The child woke and began to chafe and complain in Tremelling’s embrace. Amelia should have known right then, that there would be trouble ahead.

  As soon as Lieutenant Tremelling took his leave that day, Amelia had instructed Barlow, then her coachman, to follow the man back to his lodgings in Plymouth.

  Barlow returned the next day and reported seeing Tremelling enter a dilapidated inn and kiss a frowsy woman who looked none too pleased to see him return with squalling babe in arms.

  It had settled things for Amelia. Though she had her doubts about her own maternal inexperience, doubts about her ability to love Anne’s daughter, and doubts about Mr. Midwinter’s ability to love anyone, she knew she would raise the child far better than Lieutenant Tremelling ever could. She would do her best. And prayed God . . . and the child . . . would forgive the rest.

  Arthur Midwinter offered little protest. “If you feel you must take in your sister’s child, I won’t forbid you. Better than having you moping about in your rooms all day. Why do you want to give her the Midwinter name? Ah yes, the rumors about your sister and that caper merchant. Well, we might spark a few rumors of our own, having a child appear so soon after marrying, but I don’t care for the good opinion of these rustics hereabouts. I can easily bear it if you can.”