“I am glad to hear it. And if you ever have the need, you are welcome to borrow my horse.”
“Thank you. But I am in no hurry to get back in the saddle.”
Deciding to confide in Desmond, Alec told him about his father’s letter and his desire to rejoin the family. “As you know,” Alec finished, “there was some question of his . . . fate when we first arrived, and should he return—what in the world would we tell people?”
Desmond inhaled and slowly shook his head. “That’s quite a quandary, friend. I haven’t any easy answers to offer you, I’m afraid. But if you need anything else—a listening ear or a spare bed—you need only ask. And of course you have my word that I will keep what you’ve told me to myself. I hope that goes without saying.”
“Indeed it does.” Alec smiled at the understanding man, grateful for his friendship.
The door opened behind them and Mrs. Strickland walked in, bringing her son Timothy for another lesson.
“Hello, Mr. Valcourt. Here is Master Timothy, ready for his—” She broke off, staring at John Desmond. “What is he doing here?”
“What do you mean, ma’am?” Alec asked. “Mr. Desmond is—”
“I know very well who he is. Infamous—that’s who he is.” She grabbed her son’s hand and jerked open the door. “And we’ll have no part in any business he’s involved in.”
Great, Alec thought. Another setback. At this rate, how would he ever succeed in bringing dance—and life—back to Beaworthy? God, please help me. I can’t do this on my own.
It rained all night, but the morning broke clear and sunny. Alec walked into the village, determined to enjoy the beautiful April day. He saw Nancy from Posey’s perched on a stepladder, transplanting flowers into the baskets hanging from the lampposts. Cheered by the sight, he waved to her. She smiled and lifted a dirty hand in reply.
When Alec reached the academy, he was stunned to see that the glass in the broken, boarded-up windows had been replaced. He had not done so, nor had he placed another order with the glazier. He would have to ask the man what he owed. He walked down the street and around the corner to the glazier’s workshop, but the man insisted he owed nothing, saying only, “We take care of our own here in Beaworthy.”
Perplexed but grateful, Alec thanked the man and returned to the academy, brighter now with light shining through every windowpane.
Later, Aurora led the Millman twins through the figures of the minuet. The Millmans were a merchant family from nearby Shebbear whom Alec had met during his initial calls.
Julia Midwinter stopped in, supposedly on an errand for her mother. Alec doubted the excuse but was happy to see her nonetheless. She wore a pink-and-white walking dress with a matching bonnet. The colors favored her complexion. Her skin glowed, and she looked feminine and sweet. Alec found himself longing to stroke her cheek, and to kiss her. He was glad they were not alone together in the academy. Well . . . mostly glad.
She glanced across the room, taking in Aurora and her young charges. “I am happy to see you have pupils, Mr. Valcourt,” Julia said. “I feared that after the vandalism, people might stay away.”
“Business is not exactly thriving, Miss Midwinter. But we have a handful of pupils, thank goodness. In fact, a few have signed up for lessons because of the vandalism, to show their support.” He added teasingly, “You really ought to see Mrs. Tickle dance the Highland Fling.”
She smiled, then asked, “No thought of rescheduling your grand-opening dance?”
He shook his head. “No. Small, quiet lessons will hopefully attract less negative attention.”
“Unfortunately, less positive attention as well,” she said. “It’s too bad there isn’t a way to spread the word without increasing the risk of certain parties taking notice.”
Aurora looked over at them, greeted Miss Midwinter, then asked, “Alec, would you mind bringing out the appointment log, so I may schedule the Millmans’ next lesson?”
“Of course.” He turned to Julia. “Excuse me a moment.”
But Julia followed him into the back office with a great show of nonchalance.
Inside the small room, she glanced at him and whispered almost shyly, “I’ve been thinking . . . Is what happened with that Miss Underhill the reason you’ve been so uncomfortable when we’ve been alone together?”
He nodded. “That, and mortal fear of your mother.” He grinned, but she did not return the gesture.
Instead she looked down, embarrassed. “Then, how low your opinion of me must be, when I have acted such the flirt.”
“You are wrong, Miss Midwinter. Though I may not have approved of everything you’ve done, it wasn’t because I didn’t admire you but because I did.”
She looked up then, a tentative smile brightening her face.
He went on, “And as sorry as I was to have to come here to Beaworthy in the first place, meeting you has certainly eased that disappointment.”
“Has it?” She leaned toward him slightly, invitingly.
For a moment he stilled, his gaze lingering on her mouth. Oh, to kiss those lips again . . . But then he stepped away and busied himself at the desk, the open door firming his resolve.
“You say something like that, yet you still pull away,” she said, vulnerable and incredulous at once.
He picked up the appointment log, then set it back down. He took a deep breath and faced her. “Miss Midwinter,” he began, “as much as I admire you and want to . . . be with you, I am trying to be realistic. You know your mother would never countenance a courtship between us. I doubt she would have at all events, but as I have not yet proven myself—”
“I don’t care if you succeed or not.”
“But I do. And pretending there is a future for us, allowing myself to hope, to”—he reached out and ran a finger over her soft cheek—“kiss you again, would only make it more difficult for me when the inevitable happens.” He held her gaze, willing her to see all the sentiments he knew he should not express.
“The inevitable?” she asked.
He sighed. “When you marry someone else.” There. He’d said it. What would she do now, now that he had taken her no doubt light flirtation and carried it out to its logical conclusion like a killjoy?
“Who says that’s inevitable?” She pouted, and he saw a glimpse of the adorable little girl she’d once been.
He smiled indulgently. “I do.” He leaned near and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “And it’s time you accept that fact as well.”
He resolutely stepped to the door and gestured for her to precede him from the room.
That afternoon, after his last lesson, Alec stopped at the inn once more, pleased to again see Mr. Barlow there, even as guilt struck him. He hoped the man didn’t blame him for Apollo’s death.
“Afternoon, Valcourt. Good to see you up and about.” Mr. Jones poured him a ginger beer without being asked. Alec felt a wave of pleasure sweep over him at this sign that he’d become a regular.
“Yes, I’m very glad you’re all right,” Barlow said. “Even as I am sorry about Apollo.”
Alec ducked his head. “I am sorry as well. Sorry I was not skilled enough to prevent it.”
“Not your fault. There’s no talking sense to a male when he’s bent on chasing after a certain female . . .”
Alec felt his neck heat. Did Barlow know how he felt about Julia? He said, “Well, I was glad you were there at the end. Thank you. I know that was difficult for you.”
“Yes. It always is.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, each left to his own memories.
Mr. Deane entered, removing his hat and greeting the other men. He took a seat near Alec and asked, “Planning another grand opening now that you’ve got your place fixed up?”
Mr. Jones tipped a glass under the spigot. “Says his uncle advises against it. Just gonna limp along with a few quiet lessons.”
Mr. Deane nodded. “Probably wise.”
Mr. Jones set the pint before him. “I’m not sure I
agree. . . . I’m thinking it’s time to get the Beaworthy musicians back together.”
Mr. Deane gaped at him, then shared a look of surprise with Barlow.
Alec looked from one to the other, then asked, “Do you mean . . . you would play for the grand opening if I planned another?”
Alvin Deane frowned. “I haven’t agreed to that, Mick. That’s risky for a businessman like me. And Barlow here works for the lady, don’t forget.”
“True,” Barlow said with a nod. “It would be a problem.”
Mr. Deane added, “Besides, I pawned my flute.”
“Yer brother owns the shop, man,” Jones scowled, wiping the counter in agitation. “It’s not like he’s had any offers on the thing.”
“Even so,” Deane said. “I haven’t played in ages.”
“I can’t play for any dance, I’m afraid,” Barlow said. “But Fergus Desmond might, if he’s feeling up to it.”
“And John Desmond plays as well,” Alec added. “Pipe and violin.”
The men shared uneasy glances.
Jones’s cloth stilled. “Not sure that’s the best idea, son.”
“And no offense,” Deane said. “But your place isn’t big enough for musicians and dancers to boot.”
It would be a crush, Alec realized. The other men were silent as well, sipping from their pints or thinking.
Suddenly Mr. Jones slapped his cloth against the bar. “That’s it, then. Rot it all—let’s do it.”
They all turned to stare at him. Mr. Deane asked, “Do what?”
“Let’s have Valcourt’s dance upstairs. Get the assembly room out of early retirement. About dashed time, I’d say.”
Mr. Deane’s brows lowered in concern. “Mick, are you sure?”
“Why not? Only live once. Might as well live like a man, ey? Better to die a stallion than suffer a gelding. Oh. Sorry, Valcourt.”
“That’s all right. No offense taken.”
“If we agree to play,” Jones challenged him, “will ya let off with this ‘reopen quietly’ business and do it up proper?”
Alec smiled, hope lightening his heart. “If you’re quite sure, Mr. Jones, then I shall indeed. Thank you.”
Barlow, ever the voice of reason, said, “Hold on, now. Before you go getting the man’s hopes up, we ought to see if we old codgers can still play.”
“I agree.” Deane nodded. “I’ll have to run it by the missus first, but if I were to play, I would need a great deal of practice first.”
“My sister could play the harpsichord,” Alec offered. “Though if you wish to limit the group to gentlemen, I understand.”
“Tell her she is most welcome, Valcourt,” Jones said. “None of us can play the blasted thing, and it’s a shame to let ’er sit idle. Though I would guess she’s terrible out of tune. The harpsichord, that is, not your sister.”
With cautious excitement, they set about planning their first—and hopefully not last—rehearsal.
Rehearsal time had been set for four o’clock the following afternoon, when light would still be sufficient to see by without the expense of candles. Alec walked over from the academy, enjoying a chorus of birdsong, a warm breeze, and the colorful sight of baskets overflowing with red, yellow, and white flowers up and down the High Street.
He saw Mr. Deane’s wife coming out of the greengrocer’s with a crate of imported lemons, her expression indicating she’d sampled liberally of the fruit. He called “Good day” to her, and she replied with a sullen “Hmph.”
He did not see Mr. Deane and hoped that meant he’d decided to join them.
Entering the inn, Alec nodded to Mr. Jones’s cook, who was tending the tap for him while they practiced. Alec climbed the stairs by threes, eagerness and hope lightening his step.
He was the first to join Mr. Jones in the assembly room. Jones greeted him, then reminded him not to raise his hopes too high—he wasn’t sure which men would actually show and which would decide it was too risky.
Mr. Jones brought out his bass viol, well oiled and in pristine condition.
“She’s a beauty, Mr. Jones,” Alec said.
“That she is, son. That she is.”
Mr. Barlow entered next, violin case in one hand, other hand raised aloft. “I don’t say I will play for the dance itself, but I could not resist the opportunity to play with you lot.” He sat down and drew out his instrument.
Alec took his out as well and checked the strings. He said, “I spoke to Mr. Desmond, Senior. He said he would be here if he is feeling well enough. And my sister should be here any minute.” He noticed that Mr. Jones had removed the dust cover from the harpsichord in preparation.
Alec hoped he and his sister knew enough of the older pieces, for he certainly did not expect these hardworking men to take the time to learn new ones. He’d consulted his grandfather’s books to review the fashions of twenty years ago, and had brought sheet music for some of the older, traditional scores.
Mr. Desmond arrived, winded. Maria Desmond held his arm.
“Good to see you, Fergus,” Mr. Jones said. “Mrs. Desmond.”
“Where’s John?” Alec asked.
“Minding the forge. Didn’t think he’d be welcome.”
The other men exchanged sheepish looks.
Aurora strolled in with Julia Midwinter. “I hope you don’t mind,” Aurora began. “But Miss Midwinter asked to come along and watch.”
The men all looked at each other in alarm.
Julia held up her hand. “Don’t worry, gentlemen. I applaud your efforts to support Mr. Valcourt. You have my word, I shall not say a word about this to my mother or anyone else, but please let me stay and take part.”
“Very well, miss,” Barlow answered for them all, and he and Julia shared a smile.
Aurora sat at the harpsichord and flipped through the sheet music. Mrs. Desmond helped her husband into a chair, where he mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and then brought out his pipe.
Mr. Deane had yet to show.
They waited a few more minutes, then began an old-fashioned minuet by Mozart. The instruments squeaked and squawked. At one point, Alec noticed Julia wince, one eye squeezing shut in apparent pain.
Mr. Barlow laid aside his violin and rose. “I’ll attempt to conduct if you don’t mind. Some of us are out of practice, I see. Not you, Miss Valcourt. You play beautifully.”
Aurora smiled and dipped her head.
Standing before them, Barlow lifted his hand and signaled the musicians to begin all together. Alec and the others followed his lead. The estate manager was quite a good conductor, Alec realized. For several minutes, the man’s hand swayed side to side, to synchronize their playing in three-quarter time.
Then Barlow surprised them all by turning to Miss Midwinter and offering his hand, a hint of challenge on his hound-dog face.
Julia hesitated, confessing, “I don’t know what to do.”
“And I’ve no doubt forgotten,” he said. “Just mirror my steps as best you can.”
Barlow bowed in elegant fashion. She curtsied. He bowed to the musicians. She followed with another curtsy. Then Barlow led her to the middle of the room and released her hand.
Most of the minuet was performed separately side by side, with the partners passing one another, joining hands, and then separating again. Barlow began the stately mincing steps. He rose to his toes in the balance steps, and performed the crossover steps with surprising grace.
Impressive, Alec thought.
Julia did her best to mimic Barlow’s movements, and what she lacked in accuracy, she more than made up for with beauty and eagerness. A smile of self-conscious delight spread across her face, and Alec’s heart warmed to see it.
“And . . . that’s all I remember,” Barlow said, as he bowed again before halting.
Mrs. Desmond applauded. “Bravo!”
Barlow waved his hand. “Valcourt, come over here.”
Alec laid down his instrument while the others played on.
M
r. Barlow took Julia’s hand, and then—with a meaningful look—laid it into Alec’s.
“Thank you, sir,” Alec whispered, conscious of the moment’s significance. He looked at Julia, pleased to see her sparkling eyes, her dimpled smile.
Together Alec and Julia danced the minuet. The queen of dances. The dance that had opened more royal balls than any other. And now, the first dance to be performed in the Beaworthy assembly room in more than twenty years.
Later Julia walked home, the afternoon’s melodies still playing in her mind. She would have to be careful not to hum them aloud in her mother’s presence.
Strolling up the Buckleigh Manor drive, she was surprised to see the constable leaving the house. She wondered what business had brought him there and hoped nothing was wrong.
He tipped his hat as he passed. “Miss.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Mr. Lamont.”
Entering the house, she went directly to the library. When she opened the door, her mother started, inhaling a gasp.
Julia hesitated. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Sorry. I am on edge today for some reason.”
Julia felt suspicion rise. She asked, “Something to do with Mr. Lamont? I saw him leaving just now.”
Her mother fluttered her hand. “No, not him. I asked him to call about a few village matters—that is all.”
Was that all? Julia wondered. Or was her mother hiding yet more secrets?
Considering Julia had just danced with her estate manager in the village assembly room, she decided not to press the matter.
Amelia did feel nervous and on edge. A few days before, she had again dispatched Barlow to Plymouth to call on Lieutenant Tremelling, firmly request he visit, and assure him that doing so would not jeopardize the funds she had sent, nor any future stipends.
She had half hoped Barlow would find Tremelling incapacitated or shipwrecked to explain his absence to her heartbroken daughter. Instead, when Barlow returned, he reported he’d located Tremelling in the same state as before. This time Barlow spoke with the man personally, and assured Lady Amelia that he had stated their case plainly and emphatically.
Satisfied they had done all they could, Amelia anticipated the following Saturday afternoon with more hope and dread than she had in several weeks. In the meantime she steeled herself for her meeting with the magistrate, who’d sent word he’d returned from London and would receive her at her convenience.
The Dancing Master Page 37