Mrs. Washington and myself have been honored with your polite invitation to the assemblies. . . . But, alas! our dancing days are no more.
—George Washington, 1799
Chapter 24
The next day, Julia returned from Mr. Ramsay’s house and handed her wet umbrella to Hutchings.
Lady Amelia stepped from the library into the hall. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“Attempting to help Mrs. and Miss Valcourt sew new draperies for the academy—the others were slashed and trampled beyond repair. I wish there was more I could do. I feel so helpless.” She followed her mother into the library, removing her bonnet and gloves as she went.
Lady Amelia stood at the wall of windows, her head tilted to one side as she often did when thinking. “How is Mr. Valcourt taking the setback?”
“He puts on a brave front, but I can see he is discouraged,” Julia replied. “His mother and sister are upset as well. His pain is theirs. They wanted so much for him to succeed.”
“That speaks well of their family loyalty.”
“Can you not do something to help him?” Julia asked.
“Help Mr. Valcourt?” Lady Amelia shook her head. “I am sorry for him. But it isn’t my role to come to his aid.”
“Why not?” Julia snapped. “You help everyone else in the parish.”
Her mother turned to face her. “Julia, I wouldn’t want to encourage Mr. Valcourt, either in his profession or in his relationship with you. You know I’ve never approved of your spending time in his company. Your behavior has certainly suffered since you met him—lying, dancing, leaving the house at night without a chaperone, or even my knowledge. . . . No, I cannot help but conclude he has been a bad influence. And I will have nothing to do with him or his academy.”
Incensed, Julia threw caution to the wind. “I cannot stand to hear you blame Mr. Valcourt for all our problems, Mother. I had been sneaking out alone and flirting with men long before he came to town. Mr. Valcourt has made me see what a gentleman really is. And how it feels to be treated, respected as a true lady, in every sense of that word. If you had seen how I flirted with him, and all but begged him to kiss me on several occasions. Yet he resisted my many offers.” Well, all but one, she silently amended.
Lady Amelia weakly shook her head. “I don’t believe it. You are only saying this to try to make me change my mind about him.”
Julia huffed. “Fine. Continue blaming Mr. Valcourt. He has made a convenient scapegoat.”
Lady Amelia frowned suddenly and leaned closer. “What’s happened to your chin? Is that a bruise?”
Julia gingerly touched her chin, still tender from Felton Wilcox’s grip the day before. She had meant to powder it but had forgotten to do so. “Mr. Valcourt came to my aid last night, or I should have much worse than a bruised chin.”
“What do you mean? Who dared touch you?”
“The same man who vandalized Mr. Valcourt’s academy,” Julia said, bristling. “Not that you’d care about that.”
After Julia had left in a pique, Amelia retreated to her room, feeling nauseated. Her daughter had been sneaking out alone . . . flirting . . . offering kisses? Thankfully it hadn’t gone further than that. She hoped.
And now . . . confronting dangerous men as well?
When Amelia thought back, she was forced to admit that Julia had been acting rashly and pushing the boundaries of propriety—and her patience—long before the Valcourts arrived in Beaworthy. She had been fooling herself to think otherwise, to try to cast blame elsewhere when it belonged solely, soundly, with her.
Kneeling beside her bed, Amelia beseeched God for forgiveness, for wisdom to guide her daughter and to show her how much she was loved and valued.
On Saturday the twelfth of April, Amelia met with the housekeeper first thing in the morning, including Julia in the staff meetings as usual. Amelia informed the woman they were expecting a possible caller to be arriving between three and five that afternoon and asked her to have tea, a light meal, and a cake ready.
When the housekeeper had taken her leave, Julia lifted her chin. “I don’t know why you bother, Mother. He won’t come.”
Amelia had noticed that Julia had begun addressing her with a cold, formal Mother instead of her usual Mamma. It stung, but she made no comment.
Julia waved dismissively. “Ah well, the servants shall enjoy the cake.”
Amelia knew her daughter well enough to realize she was trying to protect herself from disappointment in the event Lieutenant Tremelling did not come. But she also noticed the extra care Julia had taken with her appearance. She wore a modest, pretty gown of her favorite color—a morning-glory blue that flattered her complexion, brought out the blue in her changeable eyes and the gold in her honey-colored hair. And Doyle had confided that Julia had agreed to the hot iron, and endured the tedious hair dressing without a word of complaint. Unusual indeed.
At five minutes before three, Amelia and Julia rose by silent agreement and crossed the hall to the drawing room. Julia sat on the settee across from Amelia’s armchair. She affected a casual posture and feigned interest in a novel, but Amelia noticed she failed to turn its pages, and her eyes often strayed to the mantel clock.
Amelia was nervous as well, though she tried not to show it. For her own sake, she hoped the man would not come—would never come—and never take Julia from her. But for Julia’s sake she wished he would appear any second and show an interest in the vulnerable girl, whether related by blood or not.
Three came and went. Then a quarter past. Then half past three.
“I knew he would not come,” Julia said flippantly. “Did I not tell you?”
“Perhaps he has been unavoidably delayed, my dear. Let us wait a bit longer.”
Four. Half past four.
When the clock struck five, Julia tossed aside her book and stalked from the room. Amelia might have chastised her, but she’d seen the sheen of tears in her eyes, and knew Julia fled in hopes she would not notice.
With a sigh and a prayer for wisdom, Amelia slowly rose and followed Julia upstairs to her bedchamber. There she knocked, steeling herself for a harsh refusal. When Julia made no reply, Amelia slowly opened the door.
Inside, Julia lay across her bed, that old mermaid in her hand, crying into her pillow. Amelia’s heart twisted. She had not seen her daughter display such grief in years—anger, yes, but not sadness. It reminded her of the long-ago incident with the rouge. Would Julia push her away as she had then?
She gingerly approached the bed and said in her gentlest voice, “Remember, my dear, Lieutenant Tremelling is a naval officer. Perhaps he is away at sea.” She smoothed a lock of hair from her daughter’s temple, surprised Julia didn’t jerk away.
“The war is over” came Julia’s muffled retort.
“True,” Amelia said. “But perhaps he has been taxed with patrol duty or is away on some other Royal Navy business. In our letter, we did say if the twelfth wasn’t convenient, he was welcome to come another time. No doubt that is what he plans to do—come as soon as he is able.”
Amelia was lying.
At the last minute, she had dispatched Barlow to follow the hired messenger to Plymouth—to verify the messenger located the lieutenant and delivered the sensitive letter into his hands. She had asked Barlow to be discreet, not to allow Tremelling to see him. She knew Julia wanted the man to come of his own volition, without undue persuasion, because he wanted to see her.
Upon his return, Barlow had reported that he’d stood at a discreet distance while the messenger knocked at a lodging house not far from the docks. He had seen Tremelling answer the door, half dressed and in need of a shave, though it was nearly noon. The young man had handed over the letter, then waited for him to read it. Tremelling had offered the messenger a coin but no reply.
So Amelia knew very well Lieutenant Tremelling was not away at sea.
Though usually a stridently honest person, she found the lie slipping easily from her tongue.
She wished the words were true. She longed to protect Julia, as she had failed to protect others she had loved.
She found herself remembering Mrs. Valcourt’s falsehood—allowing people to believe her husband dead, for her sake, yes, but for her children’s sake as well. How judgmental Amelia had been.
Seeing her disappointed child now, Amelia’s heart ached, and she wished she’d asked Barlow to extract a promise from the man, or to drag him back by the ear.
But then Amelia wondered if she judged Lieutenant Tremelling too harshly. Perhaps he had been stunned by the letter, intimidated to meet the girl he left behind all those years ago. After all, Julia was his wife’s child, whether she was his daughter or not. If so, she would not blame him for nerves. But a military man should find the courage, even if it took a few days to muster.
Perhaps he really had been called to duty after he received their letter, and was unable to come. But if so, could he not have written to tell them? Surely for Julia’s sake, he could have eked out a few lines in reply.
He had written before, after all, to keep them informed of his various changes in direction so they could send money. Amelia thought of the last reply she had sent, before Julia asked her to invite Tremelling to call. Was he now reluctant to come because of what she had previously written? Was it her fault he stayed away?
All the following week, it tore at Amelia’s heart to see Julia’s eager gaze follow the silver tray upon which Hutchings carried in the day’s post.
Nothing.
Needing time away from his repairs and worries, and from his family’s long faces, Alec decided to take a walk and enjoy the sunny day, rare amid all the rain they’d been having. He strolled into the countryside, then veered from the road along the woods, recalling seeing Miss Midwinter there his first Sunday in Beaworthy.
As he walked along the stream, he saw that very woman in the distance, standing on the bank. His foolish heart banged against his chest at the mere sight of her.
Julia looked at something in her hand, then reeled back and tossed it away in a long arc. It glinted in the sunlight, then splashed into the water downstream.
He quickened his pace to join her. As he neared, he saw the hard lines of her face suddenly crumple. She ran downstream and jumped onto a rock jutting above the current, then to another farther out.
“Miss Midwinter!” he called and jogged to the bank. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve lost something.” She bent toward the water, searching.
Lost? “What is it? Can I help you find it?”
“Yes, please. It’s a mermaid. On a chain.”
“A mermaid? What color is it?”
“It’s made of brass, I think.”
Tears glistened in her eyes and her chin trembled. For some reason the mermaid was important to her. He wondered why she had thrown it in the first place but did not ask. Gauging where he’d seen the splash, Alec jumped nimbly onto a rock a little farther downstream, then to the next, searching the shallow water.
He glanced over at her and saw her face pinched in grief. “We’ll never find it. How stupid of me. I was just so . . . so . . .”
The shiny glint of metal caught his eye—well beyond his perch. With a resigned look at his boots, Alec stepped into the calf-high water.
“Do you see something?” she called eagerly.
Not wanting to raise her hopes, he said, “Not sure.” He leaned low, raking his fingers through the water, and snagged the object—an antiquated figurine on a slender metallic tube. It looked like a whistle to him. He gave an experimental blow, and a gurgling shrill pierced the air.
Her face brightened. “You found it!”
She splashed over to him and carefully grasped the offered mermaid by its chain. “Oh, thank you!” She beamed, then rose on her toes to kiss his cheek.
Alec took a deep breath, relishing the sweet gesture and the sweet satisfaction of coming to her rescue.
He helped her from the stream and walked her back toward Buckleigh Manor, both of them wet from the knees down.
She dangled the mermaid whistle from its chain. “This was a gift from my father,” she began. “I’ve always thought that meant Mr. Midwinter, but recently I learned Lieutenant Tremelling sent it.”
“Ah.” Alec nodded his understanding. “Then I am glad we were able to find it.”
She sent him a sidelong glance. “You may be shocked to learn that for a time I thought our friend John Desmond might be my father.”
“Oh?” Alec looked at her, unsure what to say or how much she knew.
“I learned he was accused of seducing Lady Anne,” she continued. “Sparking the infamous May Day duel and his departure. Everyone believed him guilty, apparently. Except for his parents.”
“But you don’t?”
She shook her head. “He told me he is not my father.”
“You asked him?”
“I did. I wish . . .”
“Wish what?”
She sighed. “Oh, never mind. At least we know now why Lady Amelia is so set against dancing masters.”
They reached the Buckleigh Manor gate and paused before it. She turned to him and said, “Well, thank you for coming to my rescue. I had better go and change out of these wet things.”
“Me too. And how will you explain your soggy frock?”
“I shall just say I went fishing, and caught . . . a mermaid.” She winked at him, then turned and passed beneath the gate.
Alec looked up, the lion above warning him that he had gone far enough.
Alec knew what was coming and braced himself. He had been asked to dinner at Medlands, yet he knew Sir Herbert had another reason for wanting to see him and speak with him privately. But first the man coddled him with a good dinner and good conversation, in an attempt to cushion the coming disappointment.
After dinner, the ladies rose and withdrew to leave the men to their port and pipe.
Alec partook of neither but waited while Sir Herbert lit his pipe and poured himself, James, and Walter a small glass. He pulled the pipe from his lips and fiddled with the stem. “I am sorry, Mr. Valcourt. But in light of what has befallen your academy, I cannot in good conscience proceed with plans for a ball here. I cannot invite destruction to dear Medlands. Nor subject my wife and daughter to danger.”
Walter protested, “But, Papa, we—!”
Alec laid a hand on his friend’s forearm. “No, Walter. It’s all right.” He met the older man’s troubled gaze. “I understand perfectly, sir. And I could never live with myself if any harm were to come to your home or family.”
Sir Herbert nodded in evident relief.
“But it isn’t right to give in to a few bullies,” Walter insisted.
James smiled at his brother. “And what would you have us do, Walt? Challenge them both to a duel?”
“That is no joking matter, James,” Sir Herbert gently chided, all of them thinking of Graham Buckleigh, no doubt.
“There must be something we can do,” Walter said, face screwed up in thought.
“Don’t hurt yourself, there, Walt,” James teased.
But for once Walter did not smile at his brother’s teasing. “No, James. It isn’t right. We shall have to think of something. Alec must have his dance one way or another.”
“I appreciate that, Walt,” Alec said. “But at present I think it best to let things lie.”
Or at least his uncle thought so. Uncle Ramsay had advised Alec not to attempt another grand opening or any public dancing which might rouse more ire. And when Alec thought of how Julia had been threatened by Felton Wilcox, he was ready to agree. Ready to give up.
His father’s voice echoed in his mind. “You’ll never succeed, Alec, unless you push harder. Learn to be more aggressive. . . .” Perhaps his father had been right about him all along.
Alec walked to the inn the next evening, looking for a little solace. He knew he would not find it at the bottom of a glass, but the company of his fellowmen sounded appealing.<
br />
After his conversation with Sir Herbert, Alec decided he would reopen the academy quietly without any fanfare. He would likely have to find a second source of income as well.
He was back where he’d started. No—worse off, for he’d spent most of his savings preparing for his ill-fated grand opening.
When he entered the inn’s taproom, he hesitated in the doorway, surprised to see Mr. Barlow sitting at the counter in low conversation with Mr. Jones. Alec had not seen Barlow since his dismissal. Maybe this is not the best idea, he thought.
Both men looked his way before he could retreat.
“Valcourt,” Jones acknowledged with a nod. “We were just talking about you.”
Uh-oh. “Shall I leave?”
“No. Sit yerself down. A ginger beer?”
“Yes, please.”
When Jones turned away to pour, Barlow began somberly, “I am glad to see you, Valcourt.”
Alec thought the man’s expression indicated otherwise, but said, “And I you.”
“I regret how your time at Buckleigh Manor ended,” Barlow said. “Her ladyship eventually confided in me the particulars—I hope you don’t mind. I was sorry to hear the tale, but I must admit relieved as well—relieved to learn I had not trusted you in error. I am only sorry I didn’t know it at the time.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Barlow.”
Jones set his ginger beer before him.
Barlow said, “On my tab, please, Jones.”
Alec began to protest, but Barlow insisted. “Come on, lad. Allow me this small thing.”
“Very well, thank you.”
“How is Apollo?” Barlow asked.
“Doing well. Though I admit I haven’t ridden him much lately with all the preparations. . . .” Alec allowed his words to trail away and sipped his drink without tasting it.
“I was sorry to hear about the vandalism at your place.”
Alec nodded. “Well, I was certainly warned something like that might happen.”
“Still a dashed shame, Valcourt.” Jones frowned. “A man ought to be able to establish whatever lawful business he chooses without fear of retaliation. I doubted anyone would patronize yer academy, but I certainly didn’t expect anything as bad as that. In Beaworthy, of all places.”
The Dancing Master Page 34