The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  Amelia chose to ignore his insult about her neighbors. Instead she had thanked him with genuine gratitude. It was the closest thing to affection she had ever felt for the man.

  When Lieutenant Tremelling returned two days later, she was ready for him.

  “You’ll take her?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Clearly relieved, he had unloaded a small trunk containing the child’s few things as well as Anne’s belongings—including her locket, which he wanted the girl to have.

  Then he asked, “What will you call her?”

  “I have given that a great deal of thought,” she began. “As I said, I would not be comfortable calling her Grace Amelia.”

  “What about just Grace, then?” he suggested. “That’s what I call her. My Gracie girl.”

  Amelia hesitated at the affection in the man’s voice, and a stitch of caution pricked her. “Are you certain you want to do this, Lieutenant? Decide now, for the girl’s sake. Don’t upset her life by coming back for her in a year or two. Nor mine.”

  “Of course not. I am not a clod, no matter what you and your family thought me.” He inhaled and nodded decisively. “No. This is what’s best for her. I see that. I won’t change my mind.”

  Amelia said more gently, “If you do want to see her someday, I ask that you contact me first. That way I can prepare her for it. Explain. I would hate to see her shocked and upset. But promise me you won’t ever come storming in or try to steal her away. That would be cruel indeed—very hard on us all.”

  “What kind of man do you think I am?”

  A selfish opportunist, Amelia thought, but she refrained from saying so. Instead she asked, “Will you sign something to that effect? To protect her, you understand.”

  “If you like.”

  He looked at the paper she handed him, which a London solicitor had drawn up for her. He paused, looking up at Amelia in question. “Julia Midwinter?”

  “Yes. Julia was our mother’s name, Anne’s and mine. I think Anne would approve. Do you object?”

  “No, I suppose I don’t. I’m just accustomed to calling her Grace.” He grimaced. “But as I won’t be here to call her by one name or another, I suppose it shouldn’t matter. Hurts a bit though, I admit.” He chewed his lip. “I can understand about Amelia. But could you not at least keep one of Anne’s names for the girl, and call her Grace?”

  The name struck her as wrong, and Amelia didn’t want to agree. Grace. How hypocritical the name felt. That Anne should want to name this child, conceived out of wedlock, allegedly fathered by the man Amelia had loved. The man she thought loved her. The man who broke her heart, killed her brother, and abandoned them all? Grace?

  “I would be willing to list Grace as her second name in the baptismal record, if you like. But we shall call her Julia.”

  “Thank you, m’lady. It means a great deal.”

  A body of Bryanites, a sect lately sprung up from amongst the Wesleyan Methodists, made their appearance at the time of the Cornish hurling contest, and attempted to put a stop to the diversion by commencing their devotional exercises. . . .

  —The West Briton, 1823

  Chapter 22

  Alec looked around the academy in satisfaction. Thanks to the help of his mother, sister, and Desmond, the academy was ready for business. And just that day he’d hung the old sign: Valcourt Dancing & Fencing Academy.

  He had decided to offer a grand opening dance, in which he and Aurora, along with James and Patience Allen, would demonstrate a country dance or two, then invite those watching to participate.

  Alec went to see the nearest printer, in Holsworthy, and had notices printed, announcing the grand opening of the academy and offering his services for private lessons as well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Mrs. Tickle had hung a notice in the bakery window and placed a stack on her counter, which pleased Alec greatly. She had even offered to donate an iced cake for the occasion.

  Desmond would not attend—insisting his presence would hinder Alec’s chances of success. He also confided that someone had paid a nighttime visit to the forge, and painted Killer on the wall. Apparently word of his return had begun to spread, despite his efforts.

  Alec had yet to hear from Miss Midwinter one way or the other, but Sir Herbert had promised to be on hand, to lend visible support. He and Lady Allen also reiterated their offer to host a ball at Medlands, perhaps after Alec’s first crop of students had learned an evening’s worth of dances.

  Alec began to dream of success, even while he reminded himself that with Lady Amelia remaining staunchly against dancing, Mr. Jones turning down his request to use his assembly room, and word of his own dismissal from Buckleigh Manor likely making the rounds, there was no guarantee any pupils would show. He thought he could at least count on the few families who had expressed interest during his initial round of calls.

  He hoped.

  As soon as her mother sent the letter by messenger to Plymouth, Julia’s nerves began to fray to thin, taut threads. Outwardly, she pretended not to care, insisting Lieutenant Tremelling would not come or that he would send a reluctant reply. Inwardly, of course, she hoped for an eager one—confirmation. Affirmation. Answers. She became moody and snappish—even more so than usual, as her mother was quick to point out. Julia paced the house like a caged animal, unwilling to leave for fear of missing Lieutenant Tremelling should he call, though she would never admit it.

  She had planned to attend Mr. Valcourt’s upcoming grand opening. But then Doyle gave her mistress a printed notice she’d picked up in the village. When Lady Amelia saw it, her mouth thinned to a hard line and she forbade Julia to attend, which only worsened her mood. The grey, rainy weather didn’t help either. They were experiencing one of the wettest springs in recent memory, according to Barlow.

  Easter arrived and Julia declined her mother’s offers to visit the millinery for a new bonnet, or to take hot cross buns from Mrs. White’s kitchen to their needy neighbors. Even attending divine services on that holiest of days did nothing to improve Julia’s spirits.

  The next morning, her mother declared she’d had enough. Julia had stewed about indoors too long. She told Julia to gather her bonnet, wrap, and gloves—they were going out.

  Her mother had not forgotten about the deceitful call Julia had paid to Patience Allen’s grandmother as a ruse to attend the ball in Holsworthy. As part of her daughter’s penance, she decided, they would pay another, this time sincere, call.

  On the day after Easter, Alec returned to his academy to finalize preparations, carrying with him a potted plant. For the grand opening itself, Nancy from Posey’s had offered an arrangement of hothouse flowers, which would brighten up the place even more. The High Street was unusually quiet, Alec noticed, and many of the shops were closed. Then he remembered why—proprietors and patrons alike had gone to watch the hurling match. Alec had heard men eagerly discussing it after church the day before. Alec would have liked to see the match as well, but instead placed the plant in the bow window and set to work.

  A short while later, Desmond knocked on the academy door. Alec glanced at his watch, surprised Desmond would stop by during the daytime. He usually avoided doing so. Alec opened the door and instantly noticed the tension in his friend’s face.

  “There’s going to be trouble,” he said. “The Bible Christians are marching down the road as we speak—they plan to protest the hurling match.”

  “The Bryanites?” Alec asked.

  Desmond nodded. “Your friends the Thornes are among them. Someone’s bound to get hurt.”

  Alec grabbed his coat and tugged it on. “What can we do?”

  Desmond grimly shook his head. “I don’t know. But we can’t sit by and do nothing.”

  Carrying a basket for Mrs. Hearn—with another jar of rose hip jam and a quartern loaf of bread—Julia sullenly followed her mother out to the carriage, and they were soon on their way. They passed through Beaworthy, then turned west, following the
road out of town.

  Suddenly the carriage lurched to a halt. Julia heard voices, loud shouts, and a curse from Isaacs, the coachman. Her mother drew back the window curtain and Julia followed suit, looking out with mild trepidation. Had Isaacs driven them into the middle of a strike or bread riot?

  The road bordered an open field. A crowd had gathered along the verge, overflowing onto the road itself. People jostled to see over those in front of them. Children sat on men’s shoulders. From their relatively higher vantage in the carriage, Julia could see over most of the crowd into the field beyond. Wooden posts had been planted in either end as makeshift goals. Muddied men fought for possession of a small ball. Half the men were dressed in formerly white shirts, now mud-grey. The others were stripped to the waist.

  As Julia watched, the men separated into sides. Standing between the two teams, a man in black threw the ball into the air. With a roar, the men all surged forward, shoving violently at their opponents in pursuit of the ball.

  A man in stained white caught the ball and was quickly grabbed around the midsection by a member of the opposing team. The first man let the ball fall, but a teammate picked up the ball and ran with it, butting opponents with an outstretched fist as he ran. About to be tackled, he tossed the ball sideways toward another teammate, but before that man could catch it, he was set upon by a hairy, shirtless man, like a wolf upon a lamb.

  To Julia, the shouts and grunts and surging men seemed like a scene from battle, foot soldiers engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

  “It’s a hurling match,” Lady Amelia said. “In-hurling, I believe. Graham used to sneak off to play.”

  Julia gestured emphatically toward the window at the scene beyond. “You denounce dancing as dangerous and immoral, but this is acceptable behavior?”

  “It’s an old West Country tradition. Like wrestling.”

  “It’s uncivilized.”

  Judging by the rapt fervor of the cheering crowd, Julia was alone in her opinion. Or was she?

  From across the field came a cluster of people in Sunday best—women in dark frocks and bonnets, and men in black coats and snowy neckcloths. Their voices preceded them across the field. These people were not cheering. They were singing.

  “Jesu’s tremendous name

  Puts all our foes to flight. . . .”

  As the group of a dozen or more neared, Julia recognized the Thornes among them. These then were Bryanites.

  The supposed “ranters” marched onto the playing field, voices raised on the final words of the hymn.

  “. . . and conquering them,

  through Jesu’s blood,

  We still to conquer go.”

  For several moments the players unclenched their holds on their opponents, or paused where they were, staring dumbfounded at the odd collection of men and women, young and old, singing reverently amidst their game.

  “A strange place for devotional exercises,” her mother observed.

  “They’re trying to stop the match,” Julia said.

  The singing trailed away, and Mr. Thorne stepped forward. His powerful baritone voice boomed across the field, over the murmuring crowd, and into the Buckleigh carriage.

  “Stop this riotous display, brothers. Have we not just celebrated the resurrection of our Lord? The great John Wesley, God rest his soul, spoke against the violence of wrestling and hurling. And of their insidious power to turn our hearts and minds from what we ought be devoting our time—the worship and service of our great God.”

  The crowd’s murmurings increased, but Mr. Thorne spoke louder. “He is a God of love and peace, yes. But He is also a God of judgment. Turn, my brothers. Leave behind worldly diversions for that which truly satisfies, for that which eternally saves.”

  The onlookers began to grumble and complain of the delay of the game. A few shouts of “Go home” and “Leave off” rose in vexation. One of the players took advantage of the stupefied inattention of his opponent to swipe the ball from his grasp.

  “Hey!”

  And just that quickly, the game surged back to life. The players leapt for the ball en masse, knocking down a young Bryanite as they did so. During the pileup, the ball squirted loose. The writhing mound dove in the other direction, taking down two others who had rushed forward to stand in front of the women.

  Ben Thorne, leaping to shield his sister, was knocked from his feet as well. Julia gasped.

  From out of the crowd, two dark-haired men ran—John Desmond and Alec Valcourt. Julia pressed a hand to her mouth. They ran across the field, dodged players, and tried to help the fallen victims to their feet before they were trampled further.

  Without consciously deciding to do so, Julia threw open the carriage door and leapt out. Ignoring her mother’s cries of alarm, she ran across the field. Had she not stopped the Wilcox brothers singlehandedly when they’d harassed Tess Thorne? If she could handle two champion wrestlers on her own, certainly she could help now. The players wouldn’t dare touch her. Righteous indignation swelled in her breast that these overgrown schoolboys would trample peaceable men and women in their heedless wake.

  Reaching the mass of players, she raised her arms and shouted, “Cease this instant!”

  But blinded by competitive fervor, the rushing pack didn’t recognize her. She realized with sudden panic that they didn’t even really see her, for all her waving of arms. Her demands fell on deaf ears.

  The blow struck so unexpectedly, she didn’t even see who collided with her before she was knocked breathless and thudded to the ground.

  Jesus, help me.

  The rushing men in crushing boots charged at her like bulls with sharp hooves. Julia winced and braced for impact.

  Suddenly she was lifted up and whirled out of harm’s way by a pair of strong arms. She opened her eyes, and saw the grim-set face of John Desmond, carrying her across the field. Relief and gratitude flooded her. She glanced back over his shoulder and saw Miss Thorne in Alec Valcourt’s arms, while Ben Thorne draped an older man’s arm around his neck and helped him limp from the field.

  A part of Julia was disappointed that she was not the one in Mr. Valcourt’s arms, that he had once again rescued pretty Tess Thorne. But another part of her was deeply moved to be held by a man whose feelings for her were purely paternal.

  Amelia had watched in horror as her reckless, impetuous daughter leapt from the carriage. She’d reached out to try and stop her, but her fingertips brushed muslin and lace and could not gain hold. It was just as in her dreams, when Amelia couldn’t reach Graham in time to save him.

  “Julia!” she’d cried. But she was gone. Her brave avenger of wrongs. This time she would get herself killed.

  “Isaacs—stop her!” Amelia shouted, rising and tripping over her long gown. The coachman clambered down none too nimbly and was soon lost in the surging crowd.

  Amelia untangled her skirts and braced herself in the open carriage door. She focused on Julia amidst the players, until she was suddenly knocked off her feet. Amelia cried out and prepared to jump, but when she glanced up, what she saw filled her with relief and a dizzying sense of unreality.

  John Desmond held Julia, her Julia, in his arms. He carried her daughter toward the carriage—to safety, to her. In an unworldly, dreamlike moment, Amelia saw three paths split before her like the tines of a fork. In one, she rushed to them, demanded he set her daughter down, and scolded Julia. In the second, she rushed to them, threw her arms around them both, and thanked him profusely. In the third, she somehow changed places—and was herself held in his arms. Amelia squeezed her eyes shut and felt herself sway. She was clearly not well. The shock. The fear.

  She sat back heavily onto the carriage seat, and when she opened her eyes a moment later, John Desmond stood before the carriage, her daughter in his arms like an offering.

  She swallowed her pride and started to thank him, but Julia began talking, and her opportunity was lost.

  “You may put me down, Mr. Desmond,” Julia insisted. “I am
not hurt.”

  He set her down none too gently, eyes flashing. “You might have been worse than hurt—you might have been killed. What were you thinking, rushing into the mob like that?”

  Julia’s eyes brightened with tears. “I only wanted to help.”

  Defensiveness rose in Amelia. How strange to hear this man presuming to reprimand her daughter.

  But before she could protest, he inhaled through flared nostrils, clearly struggling to control his temper. Amelia remembered that look. How many times Anne had provoked it.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he said. “I don’t mean to scold. But you gave me a devilish scare. And your mother as well, no doubt.”

  The two of them looked at her through the open carriage door. Amelia found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

  She faltered, “I . . . I am just glad you are safe.”

  She braved a look into John Desmond’s face and forced out words she could never have imagined saying to him again. “Thank you.”

  They were the first kind words she had spoken to the man in twenty years.

  Suddenly a man she recognized as the innkeeper grabbed John Desmond’s arm.

  “Better get out of here before the match ends, Johnny. Ya don’t want this lot to lay eyes on ya—not while they’re all worked up.”

  Mr. Desmond glanced around at the people nearby. Amelia followed his gaze. Most spectators watched the match with rapt attention, but two men she didn’t know stared at Desmond with narrowed eyes. One elbowed a companion, and he turned and scowled as well.

  John Desmond smiled wryly at the innkeeper. “Thank you, Mr. Jones. I was just leaving.”

  Every savage can dance.