The Dancing Master

by Julie Klassen

  Give us grace, Almighty Father, so to pray, as to deserve to be heard, to address thee with our Hearts, as with our lips. Thou art every where present, from Thee no secret can be hid.

  —Jane Austen

  Chapter 29

  That Sunday in church, Amelia could barely sit still. As thankful as she was about Julia’s visit with Tremelling, her mind still churned over her conversation with Mr. Arscott the Friday before, tormenting her with what might have been. She was tempted to leave things lie as they were and silently justified doing so. She was not obligated to reveal the new evidence in John Desmond’s favor, she told herself. There were no charges against him, and she had made certain none would arise in future. That was enough, surely. There was no point in resurrecting the past, the awful events and swirling scandal some in the village were too young to even recall. No. She had done her duty—to him and to the Buckleigh name.

  She leaned back against the hard wooden pew and drew in a long breath, telling herself to be calm. It was already time for the sermon, and she had barely heard a word of the service so far, not a single prayer or hymn. Pay heed, a small internal voice whispered. Listen.

  The dear curate, Mr. Evans, was officiating the Sunday service in the rector’s stead. He climbed gingerly into the high pulpit, opened his black book, and read from the book of Matthew, chapter five.

  And every word was like an arrow straight to her heart.

  “‘But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment. . . .’”

  Had the clergyman somehow read her mind?

  Almighty Father, have mercy, Amelia prayed. I am sorry, but—what was I to think? Was I to believe Desmond’s word over my own sister’s? And what about Graham?

  “‘Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee; Leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.’”

  Abruptly Amelia stood, as though the pew were on fire.

  The curate looked up from his text, mouth ajar.

  Around her the congregants swiveled and stared.

  All those eyes focused on her, people who looked up to her as the lady of the manor, who followed her lead in so many ways. How she had led them astray. . . . But John Desmond was not in attendance. Before Graham’s death, he used to attend regularly but now did not risk public outcry by joining his neighbors in worship. Another thing her family had taken from him.

  “I need to say something,” she blurted, before thoughts of saving face could triumph. She owed it to him and so much more. “I . . . have a confession to make.” She licked dry lips.

  Around the nave, some people exchanged nervous glances while others leaned forward, eager to hear titillating gossip.

  She took a steadying breath. “Many of you know that I blamed Mr. John Desmond for . . . several . . . calamities and losses in my family years ago. Recently, I have learned that he had been falsely accused. Yes, he was involved in a duel with my brother—one my brother did not survive. My brother wrongly believed his cause just and challenged Mr. Desmond, attacked him for something Mr. Desmond did not do.”

  She swallowed. “Now I realize many of you—out of misplaced loyalty to me, or mistaken prejudice—have not welcomed Mr. Desmond back to Beaworthy, and worse have treated him and his parents unkindly or not patronized their forge. That is my fault, all because of the false charges my family laid at his feet some twenty years ago.”

  She looked around the assembled faces—some well-known, some barely—willing them to believe her and take her words to heart, whatever they thought of her. There were the Valcourts. And Mr. Arscott. The schoolmistress, Miss Llewellyn. And farther back, many of her own servants and tenants.

  “And so today,” she said, “spurred by the Scripture Mr. Evans read, I could not sit here, silent, and let you go on believing the worst of him. It is not true. It has never been true.”

  She paused for breath, and noticed the woman from the bakery clap a hand across her gaped mouth. And in the pew beside Amelia, Julia sat with tears in her eyes.

  Amelia picked up her prayer book and concluded, “So, if you will excuse me, I will go and see if I might be reconciled to him.”

  Amelia asked Isaacs to drive her directly to the Desmonds’ forge. Her heart still burning and convicted within her, she knew she would not rest until she had spoken with him and made things right.

  When she reached the Desmonds’, Isaacs helped her down.

  Pulse racing, she looked toward the forge, and there he was on the porch. Not working on the Sabbath, but sitting on a bench, reading from the leather-bound Bible in his lap.

  Seeing her approach, he rose, surprise and concern etched across his handsome face.

  Lady Amelia looked at the man and could hardly breathe.

  “Hello, Amy . . . sorry. Lady Amelia.”

  Her throat suddenly dry, she wordlessly indicated the bench he’d just vacated.

  “Do you mind if I sit?”

  “No, of course not.” He glanced around the well-used porch. “But your gown . . . Shall we go into the house?”

  She shook her head. “No thank you. I would rather speak to you here. Privately.”

  He moved aside his teacup, and she silently sat down.

  He stood waiting, clearly feeling awkward. He asked, “Did church let out early this morning?”

  She shook her head but said nothing, her mind racing yet blank at the same time.

  He pressed the Bible in his hands, waiting for her to speak, expression growing increasingly concerned. “Has something happened?” he asked. “Is Julia all right?”

  “I think she is all right, yes,” she replied. “Her father finally came to see her.”

  “Oh . . .” The air seemed to leave him.

  Was it the fact that Tremelling had come at last, or her outward acknowledgement that Desmond was not Julia’s father?

  “And . . . how did that go?” he asked gently.

  She drew in a deep breath. “I wasn’t privy to much of their conversation. He wouldn’t come inside, so she went out to him.”

  “Did he stay long?”

  She shook her head, lip pursed. “Half an hour, perhaps a little more.”

  “What did she say about it afterward?”

  “That she was glad he came. That he answered her questions.”

  “That’s good. Does she plan to see him again?”

  “I don’t think so. She said he did not ask for another meeting, and neither did she. I own, I was selfishly relieved. I feared he might want to take her away with him. But at the same time, I was sorry for her sake, that he did not at least express interest in seeing her again. She said she did not mind, but I fancied I saw hurt in her eyes. Disappointment.”

  Amelia blinked away sudden tears and averted her face. “And you will think me ridiculous, but just for a moment, I found myself wishing you were her father. For you would not have hurt her or disappointed her.”

  She risked a glance at him and saw his eyes widen in surprise. For several moments he stood, apparently stunned into silence, and she began to regret her rash words.

  But then he said in quiet wonder, “That is a great compliment, my lady. And you’re right. I would not hurt her for the world.”

  He cleared his throat and humor lit his eyes. “But I don’t think any parent can expect to escape this life without disappointing his child at some point. And the same could be said the other way around. We all of us fall short now and again, and disappoint someone dear to us, or ourselves. Thankfully, my parents have always been the forgiving sort.”

  She looked up at him, nerves quaking, throat tight. “And . . . are you? The forgiving sort, I mean?”

  He nodded. “I hope so, yes. Though there are three things for which I’ve never been able to forgive myself.”

  She lowered her eyes, afraid to ask, longing to know. She whi
spered, “Three things?”

  He sat on the bench beside her. “Aye. Hurting my parents. Hurting you. And ending Graham’s life.”

  He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “You never would let me apologize or explain. And how could I? When I knew I had done something unforgivable in your eyes.”

  His face puckered in fresh grief. “I never meant to kill Graham. And I am so sorry he died that day. I can tell you all the things I’ve tried to tell myself over the years: ‘He tossed me a dueling sword and came at me. What was I to do? I reacted in self-defense. Instinct. There was no time to think . . .’

  “How I wish I could go back and change the events of that day. Do it all over again, even if it meant I was the one to die instead of Graham. I cannot forgive myself, so I don’t expect you to forgive me either.”

  The pain in his expression softened her heart all the more. “I have spent years blaming you,” she said. “For Anne, for Graham, for Papa . . . But it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t your fault.”

  He looked at her, dark eyes shimmering.

  For a moment she was tempted to sink into those eyes, but she looked away, determined to follow this through.

  “I went to see the magistrate, and he gave me a letter Anne wrote to my father not long before he died. Confessing everything.”

  Desmond’s eyebrows rose. “Did she?”

  Amelia nodded. “But I should have believed you without any letter.” She took a deep breath. “I misjudged you—in so many ways. In my misery I was all too quick to believe the worst about you. It was wrong of me.” She swallowed. “And I am sorry.”

  His mouth parted. He stared at her, stunned.

  She pushed out the final words over a painful lump in her throat. “Will you forgive me, John Desmond?”

  Slowly he began to shake his head, and for a moment she feared he was refusing her request.

  Then he said, “You are asking me to forgive you?”

  Chin quivering, she nodded.

  He rose and reached down a hand to her. She placed her trembling fingers in his, and he gently tugged her to her feet.

  Keeping hold of her hand, he looked into her eyes, one corner of his mouth quirked in a sad smile. “Dear Amy, don’t you know I forgave you years ago?”

  Heart squeezing, Amelia drew a shaky breath. “Julia told me something you said to her—that if you were her father, you would not deny it.”

  “Aye. And did she tell you what else I said?”

  She looked into his intense dark eyes, and managed a little shake of her head.

  He captured her other hand as well. “I told her if she were my daughter, she would never need doubt I loved her.” His gaze nearly fierce, he added hoarsely, “And neither would her mother.”

  Alec left church that morning with his mother and sister, all of them quiet and reflective. Alec had been astounded when Lady Amelia had absolved John Desmond, especially in such a humble public way. He was touched—and sorry for every uncharitable thought he’d ever had about her.

  Ahead of them, he saw Miss Midwinter, striding down the church path, planning to walk home, he guessed, since her mother had taken the carriage when she left during the service. He excused himself from his family and quickened his pace to catch up with her.

  “May I walk with you?” he asked, coming alongside.

  “Of course.” She seemed relieved to see him. “What an extraordinary service!”

  “Indeed. No one was tempted to fall asleep today.”

  “Can you believe she stood up in the middle of church, and pronounced Mr. Desmond’s innocence?” Julia shook her head. “I was amazed. And I confess, quite proud of her.”

  “As well you should be. You ought to tell her so.”

  “I shall. I wonder how her meeting with Mr. Desmond is going.”

  “I wonder as well. I spent the rest of the service praying for them both.”

  “Did you? That was kind.”

  For a few moments, they walked along the High Street without speaking, past the Sunday-silent shops.

  Then Julia said, “I finally met Lieutenant Tremelling yesterday.”

  He looked at her, interested but wary. “How . . . did it go?”

  She briefly summarized the encounter, and then Alec asked, “Not the outcome you’d hoped for?”

  Her shoulders lifted in a self-conscious shrug. “I suppose a foolish part of me hoped he would take me away with him, and we would sail the high seas together. But that did not happen, so I shall be anchored here in boring Beaworthy for the foreseeable future.” She sighed. “Still, I am glad to have met him.”

  As they turned onto the Buckleigh Road, she sidestepped a puddle, then asked, “How go plans for the grand opening dance?”

  “We rehearse again tomorrow. We have yet to announce a date, but we’re looking at the second Friday in May.” The musicians had decided it would be wise to wait until after May Day, with all its somber connotations.

  Alec added, “I worry the Wilcoxes will again try to spoil our plans. I had thought to sleep in the assembly room the night before, with sword at hand, but the constable assures me he will stand guard himself this time.”

  Julia’s fair brows rose. “Does he indeed? I am surprised.”

  “Did Lady Amelia light a fire under him, do you think?” Alec asked.

  “That sounds unlikely—though I did see Mr. Lamont leaving Buckleigh Manor recently, now that you mention it.”

  There was so much more he wanted to say to her, but at that moment the Buckleigh barouche rattled up the road behind them, slowing down to collect Julia, no doubt.

  Knowing his time was short, Alec asked quickly, “Any chance you can get away tomorrow?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Will you meet me at the fountain after my last lesson—say, three o’clock?”

  Her eyes shone with curiosity. “Very well. I shall look forward to it.”

  When the carriage halted, Alec glanced through the window at Lady Amelia, hoping to see a change there, some sign that the meeting with Desmond had gone well, but her expression was impossible to decipher.

  On the last day of April, Julia stood outside the market hall, waiting for Mr. Valcourt to finish his final lesson of the day. Her mother had said little upon her return from the Desmonds’ forge. Julia didn’t press her but hoped she had made peace with the man Julia had grown fond of.

  While she waited, she found herself staring at the fountain. She had paid it little attention before, dry as it had been for as long as she remembered.

  She felt someone’s presence and stiffened, dreading to find Felton Wilcox leering over her. But it was only Mr. Evans, the kindly old curate.

  “It’s unusual, isn’t it?” he asked, eyes on the carved fountain.

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” She again surveyed the draped female figure reaching upward with head bowed. The broken chains at her feet. Then she looked back at him, comforted by his familiar presence. “Who built it?” she asked.

  He glanced at her in mild surprise. “Has your mother not told you the story?”

  Julia shook her head.

  “It was commissioned and designed by Lady Katherine Buckleigh, nearly a hundred years ago. I believe she would be your great-great-great grandmother or something like that.” He chuckled and then returned his gaze to the fountain.

  “Lady Katherine had always been a proud, hardhearted woman—” He lifted his forefinger. “Her words, mind. But she stood up in church one morning and declared she’d found peace with God.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “There’s an account of it written in the church records, if you’d like to read it for yourself sometime.”

  “Perhaps I shall. Go on.”

  He nodded and continued, “She said she’d had a vision of herself, bound in chains, a prisoner of sin and misery. Then she saw our Lord Jesus, holding the key, ready to free her if she would but turn to Him. Then Lady Katherine saw her chains falling away, her downcast head of shame becoming a bowe
d head of worship. She lifted her freed hands to praise Him, and to point the way for others.” Mr. Evans lifted his own hands to demonstrate, paralleling the figure above them.

  Then he said, “Afterward, she drew a figure based on her vision. She commissioned the fountain and oversaw the work herself. It was her way of commemorating the moment. To thank Him for the grace He had given her—had given everyone.”

  Julia studied the fountain. “I don’t see her name anywhere.”

  “No, but there’s a plaque somewhere. . . .” He studied the base of the fountain, then pointed. “There, all but grown over.” He began to bend cumbrously down, but she laid a hand on his arm.

  “Allow me.” Julia sank down on her haunches. “Where?”

  “That small rectangle there. See it?”

  Julia brushed away the dead leaves that had gathered around the base, and began pulling up muddy overgrown grass. In her effort, she yanked out a long, woody root as well and nearly lost her footing. Finally she uncovered the plaque, but its inscription was unreadable, the engraved words encrusted with dirt, moss, and lichen.

  Julia picked up a twig and began to scrape away at the letters.

  “That’s it,” Mr. Evans encouraged.

  The letters revealed themselves, and Julia smiled up at the curate. She ran her gloved fingers over three engraved words.

  Love and Grace.

  Mr. Valcourt emerged from his academy and walked toward them. Rising, she observed with pleasure his athletic stride and excellent bearing. He looked the picture of a confident, successful gentleman. He would be all that and more if she had anything to say about it. Once again Julia breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that he had not been seriously injured in the fall—and that he would have his grand opening after all.

  He tipped his hat. “Miss Midwinter. Mr. Evans. A good day to you both.”

  The curate remained long enough to greet him, then went on his way.

  Mr. Valcourt stood a respectable distance from Julia, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked up at the fountain in silence. He waited until Mr. Evans was out of earshot, then began, “I have been thinking, Miss Midwinter—how often you say you don’t like Beaworthy . . .”