Julia looked at his profile, his inscrutable expression. “That’s correct.”
“May I ask why?”
“I’ve told you. Because it’s boring here. Small, insignificant, stifled by the past.”
“Are you describing the village, or yourself?”
She gasped, irritation flaring.
He lifted a placating hand. “Tell you what. If you don’t like Beaworthy the way it is, let’s change it.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Are you talking about your grand opening?”
“No. Not specifically. Let’s not wait ’til then. Let’s throw off the rules that aren’t scriptural or helpful and bring back life and celebration.”
Her eyes widened. “How?”
A small grin stole over his face. “I don’t know everything such a change would require, but I do know one way to start. . . .”
Julia listened to his plan with interest. Then, before going their separate ways, she reiterated the details one more time. “You will meet me here tomorrow, right here by the fountain?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t leave me standing here alone? Looking foolish?”
“No, I shan’t,” Alec said firmly. “I will be here.”
“At twelve?”
“Right. The traditional time.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “If I am a few minutes late, don’t worry. Don’t assume I’ve abandoned you. I’ll be here.”
She nodded, his words pinching her heart. Was it an unintentional choice of words? Or did he know her so well that he recognized, deep in her heart, she feared any man she cared for would abandon her?
She forced a smile. “Very well. I shall wait for you.”
As Mr. Valcourt strode away, the girl from the flower shop saw Julia, curtsied, and said timidly, “Good day, miss. Will you and your mum be by in the mornin’ for your posies as usual?”
She smiled at the girl. “I believe so. After all, it is tradition.”
Lady Amelia’s May Day ritual was not something Julia looked forward to, but she did look forward to the plans for afterward. If only her mother would not spoil them . . .
Alec went first to Uncle Ramsay’s office. He knew his uncle wouldn’t participate, but he at least wanted to respectfully inform him of his plans, and hoped he would not object, or at least not forbid them.
Entering the law office, Alec greeted the clerks, Mr. Pugsworth and Mr. Bixby, then stepped to the door of his uncle’s private office.
There on his desk, littered with sheaves of papers, sat a large iced cake. A generous wedge lay on a plate before him, and his uncle was chewing a forkful as he read a legal document of some sort.
“Hello, Alec,” he said around a mouthful. “Forgive me, I was just having a bite. Care to join me?”
“Is that one of Mrs. Tickle’s cakes?” Alec asked, realization beginning to dawn.
He nodded, and wiped his mouth. “Silly woman brings one by nearly every other day. Says I’m doing her a favor by helping her dispose of her unsold goods.”
Favor, indeed. Alec bit back a smile. The mystery of Cornelius Ramsay’s portly figure had been solved.
After speaking with his uncle, Alec walked over to Medlands and discussed his plans with the Allens. All were eager to be involved, except for Walter.
“Sorry, ol’ chap,” Walt said. “You know I’d do anything for you. But I can’t dance in public. I’d end up embarrassing us both. But I shall be there, of course, to support you.”
“No. You shall learn the dance, Walter Allen, if it’s the last thing I accomplish on this earth.” Alec considered Walter’s predicament for a moment and then said, “I have an idea. . . .”
He asked for pen and paper and sat at Sir Herbert’s desk, while Walter looked on. Alec began to draw a diagram, sketching two shoe-print shapes in each position of the dance, then numbering the steps, the movements for both feet, L and R, in a series of drawings.
Walter’s eyes widened as he watched. “Is that what I was meant to be doing?”
The light went on in Walter Allen’s eyes. And in Alec’s heart.
Alec had seen the method attempted with notable success only once before. His grandfather had been engaged to teach a man of science, a noted fellow in the Royal Society who was marrying above himself and wished to add dancing to his otherwise scholarly accomplishments. The man might have been a genius, but when it came to dancing he was completely befuddled. It was the only time Alec saw his patient, gentle grandfather throw up his hands in frustration. In desperation, he had painstakingly drawn a series of numbered diagrams—feet connected with dotted lines at the various angles and intervals required of each dance. Somehow the diagrams had opened the man’s eyes and allowed him to master the steps that had previously eluded him.
Alec could only hope the same method might work for his friend.
The drawings took far longer than Alec had expected and he returned home barely in time for dinner. There, he shared his plan with his mother and sister.
His mother, in turn, wanted to discuss her decision. Over the last few days, she confided, she had begun several letters to her estranged husband—some railing and refusing, the next full of stipulations. She had torn and wadded each in turn. For now, she decided, she would send no letter. And that would be answer enough. Alec was disappointed but did not argue, still hoping that, in time, she would have a change of heart.
After the talk with his mother, the hour was late. Alec decided to wait until morning to talk to Desmond and finalize the day’s arrangements.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; . . . A time to kill, and a time to heal; . . . A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
—Ecclesiastes, chapter 3
Chapter 30
Julia and her mother set off earlier than usual the next morning. Grey clouds were gathering in the west, and Lady Amelia wished to carry out their May Day tradition before the rain reached them. Taking the barouche into the village as usual, they purchased flowers, laid a bouquet of forget-me-nots at the market hall in Graham’s memory, and visited the family graves. The rain held off, but her mother did not seem inclined to tarry in either the High Street or churchyard that year, which suited Julia’s plans perfectly.
They returned to Buckleigh Manor sufficiently early for Julia to enjoy a late breakfast with her mother. After the meal, she would slip away and walk back to the village in plenty of time to meet Mr. Valcourt at twelve.
In the morning, Alec dressed with care, and put a sprig of lily of the valley in his buttonhole. Then, taking his grandfather’s walking stick with him, he strode into the village to call on the Thornes, Mr. Jones, Mr. Evans, and Mrs. Tickle, though he didn’t think his neighbor would take part, after her reaction to seeing Desmond in the academy. Afterward, Alec walked to Miss Llewellyn’s school, then out to the forge to speak with Desmond, missing Apollo more with each step. As he went, he glanced up at the sky, hoping the amassing grey clouds wouldn’t turn into a midday downpour and spoil their plans.
When he arrived at the forge, Desmond was not there. He knocked at the Desmonds’ door and his mother invited him inside.
Mr. and Mrs. Desmond gestured toward their small dining table with raised-brow expectation, awaiting his response.
“Cahn you believe it, lad?” Mr. Desmond asked. “Ever seen such a fine, big cake in yer life?”
Alec regarded the yellow-and-white iced cake in surprise. “It is indeed impressive,” he agreed, noticing a decorative border of peppermint candies. “Is it one of Mrs. Tickle’s?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Desmond said, eyes wide in wonder. “She delivered it here yesterday. For Johnny.”
“Aye. Fer all of us.”
Mrs. Tickle has been busy, Alec thought. He smiled, his heart lightening to see their happy expressions and to know what the gift meant.
The Desmonds told him their son had been
called away to the Strickland place, to repair an iron rail or some such. But they promised to deliver Alec’s message as soon as he returned.
The Stricklands lived several miles away, and Alec feared his friend would not return by twelve. But there was not sufficient time for Alec to make the trip out there and return by noon himself. He sighed, reproaching himself for not walking out to the forge last night. Oh well, it was too late now. He would have to return to the village without him and hope Desmond could join them later.
He thanked the Desmonds and began the walk back to Beaworthy. A quick look at his pocket watch assured him he had plenty of time.
Ahead of him, two figures appeared on the road and stopped, blocking his way.
Thunder and turf. Not these two.
Joe and Felton Wilcox stood, legs spread, arms crossed over their chests.
“Well, well,” Felton said. “If it ain’t the caper merchant. What’s your hurry, caper merchant? Late for your beauty treatment?”
Beside him, Joe guffawed. “Good one.”
Alec’s hands fisted on their own accord, ready to defend himself. If only he had thought to wear his sword.
Abruptly an odd sense of acceptance stole over him, shrouding him in illogical calm.
“You know what, gents?” He smiled and spread his hands. “I am a caper merchant, as you call it, and proud of it. Yes, I like to dance. I am graceful and gentlemanlike and dress well. I am not cut out for work in the clay pits as you are, and I am not, nor will I ever be, as good a wrestler as either of you. Nor will I ever smell half as bad, and that’s all right with me.”
Joe nodded along, enjoying Alec’s apparent praise.
But Felton narrowed his eyes, catching the insult. “Speaking of clay pits, Valcourt, there’s a nice mud puddle right there.” He gestured toward the roadside sludge left by recent rains.
Joe looked over and smiled. “Well, ain’t that convenient.”
“Perhaps we ought to do Mr. Fancy Pants a favor and acquaint him with its pleasures?”
With a glance of silent agreement, both men charged with a great roar.
Alec waited until the last second, and then leapt to the side with a move that would have made his grandfather—or any bullfighter—proud.
Meeting with no collision to slow his momentum, Joe flew toward the mud puddle. His feet flew out from under him. He made a wild grab for his brother and almost took Felton down with him. Felton skidded through the mud, arms windmilling, but Alec knew it was only a matter of seconds before he attacked again.
For one of those brief seconds, Alec looked at the mud, then his fine suit of clean clothes. With an inward shrug he tossed down his stick and launched himself at Felton, still off balance, and managed to knock the larger man off his feet.
Splosh. Squilch. Down into the mud they went. Felton fell on his back. Alec landed atop the man’s broad torso. Mud splattered onto Alec’s face. His shins sank into damp sludge. Alec rolled to the side, narrowly evading Felton’s bear-like grasp.
Joe heaved himself up none too gracefully, slipped again, and landed on his knees.
Alec snatched up his walking stick. “Listen, gents. There is somewhere I need to be. So let’s postpone this little mud fight for now. In the meantime, what would you say to a few pints down at the public house, and hefty slices of Mrs. Tickle’s famous pork and apple pie, ey? My treat?”
“Well . . .” Joe said, with a hopeful look at Felton.
Felton shook the hair from his face, eyes narrowed. “Nice try, macaroni.”
“Oh, come on, Felton,” Joe whined eagerly, lumbering to his feet once more.
Alec slapped the walking stick against his palm. “And if you still want to pummel me after you’ve eaten and drunk your fill,” he added, “I shall meet you wherever and whenever you like, all right?”
“Seems very fair, Felton,” Joe said, licking his lips.
“You would think so, Joe,” Felton sneered, rising and brushing himself off. “Anything for a free pint.”
Felton eyed Alec—and his stick—with distrust. “Very well, Valcourt. We know where you live, and can always find you another time. But if yer buyin,’ we’re drinkin’.”
Alec was surprised though relieved Felton Wilcox had agreed. Had the man recognized the painful possibilities presented by the stout walking stick in Alex’s grip? He could only hope so.
Alec tossed Joe a silver crown. “I have to go home and change first. But you two get started without me.”
On the green before the fountain, Julia looked at her watch pin with trembling fingers. It was foolish to be nervous, she told herself. Still three minutes before twelve. Mr. Valcourt said he would come and he will. He’ll be here.
How self-conscious she felt, standing there in the midst of the High Street, alone before the fountain of Love and Grace.
Love and Grace. So beautiful together carved in limestone. Such uneasy companions in Julia Midwinter’s soul.
Perhaps her watch pin was fast. She looked up at the church tower, wishing it had a clock. But Beaworthy had no striking clock. Beaworthy had bell ringers who rang, not every hour or even every day, but on special occasions. And the first of May at twelve o’clock had been marked by the ringing of bells for twenty years, and would no doubt be marked again today. She wondered which bell ringers were on duty.
Julia felt someone’s gaze on her and turned her head. Mr. Deane, the greengrocer, paused before the crates of produce and baskets of spring berries on display before his shop, no doubt wondering what Miss Midwinter was doing, standing there alone.
Did he have any idea what day it was? Had they all forgotten?
Mr. Evans, the curate, came down the street toward St. Michael’s, walking beside Mr. Clark and Mr. Rogers, two of Beaworthy’s bell ringers. All three men looked over, no doubt surprised to see her standing there. They tipped their hats and disappeared into the church.
Birdsong and silence on a day when there should be happy music, clapping, and dancing feet. Friends and neighbors calling to one another. Hands and voices raised in greeting. She remembered Mr. Desmond’s words about the old tradition and missed the community she’d never embraced. Missed Alec too.
Where was he?
He isn’t coming, she thought. Like Mr. Midwinter, like Lieutenant Tremelling, even like Lady Anne—they had all left her. In the sky above, grey clouds passed overhead like a portent.
The church bells began to ring, each clang a fist to her heart. Where is he?
The innkeeper stood in his doorway, watching her. And there was Mrs. Tickle, the baker, polishing her display window. How would Julia explain herself if the woman came over to chat? Perhaps she should give up and go home.
Suddenly elderly Mrs. Desmond appeared, and Julia’s heart lifted. She recalled seeing the small woman standing near this very spot two years before in graceful pose, waiting for someone. Then Mr. Desmond, Senior, had jogged into view, though she hadn’t known his name then. He’d tossed aside his apron and took the woman’s hand.
Together they had danced around the fountain and down the High Street, their hobbling steps made beautiful by their lingering grace, their smiles, and the love in their eyes as they shuffled away into the afternoon sunlight. . . .
“Mrs. Desmond,” Julia now hailed. “Have you come to dance again this year?” She smiled hopefully.
But the small woman’s face did not break into an answering smile. “Oh, my dear, I’m afraid not. Have you seen Johnny? Johnny Desmond? I fear his father has taken a turn for the worse.”
“Oh no,” Julia said. “Shall I find the surgeon?”
“No need. Mr. Mounce is with him already.”
“I haven’t seen your son, but if I do, I shall send him home directly.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Knobby hands clasped, Mrs. Desmond looked agitatedly up and down the High Street one last time and, with a regretful glance toward the fountain, turned and hurried away.
Now Julia was alone again. The appointed ti
me had come and gone. Was there any point in staying?
As if to further discourage her, the grey cloud above her opened. A sudden downpour chased her under the market hall.
Alec’s words echoed in her mind, his reassuring voice surprisingly deep for his trim frame. “If I’m a few minutes late, don’t worry. Don’t assume I’ve abandoned you. I’ll be there.”
Standing there, damp and chilled, she decided she would wait one more minute. After that, rain or no rain, she was going home.
The thought gave her pause, and she realized Buckleigh Manor really was home, in spite of all the negative things she had said about the estate—and its mistress—over the years. Lady Amelia, for all her rigid, overprotective ways, did love her. She was her mother, her family, the only family she had ever really had. And remembering Mr. Desmond’s words, Julia was the only family Lady Amelia had as well.
Julia knew she ought to have been grateful. She ought to have been kinder. She would start, she decided, then and there.
The bell rang again, startling her. Clang, clang, clang. That was strange.
She looked up, her gaze tracing the bell tower upward to the spire. She felt her eyes drawn to the cross atop the pinnacle, arms outstretched. How many times had she glanced at the village church without really noticing the cross? Without acknowledging what it meant?
Now she faced a difficult truth. All her life, she had been seeking a father’s love and approval. . . . And if she could not have a father’s love, then any man’s approval would do. She had strived so long and so hard to gain attention in the wrong ways and from the wrong people. All the while ignoring her heavenly Father, and His Son.
She closed her eyes and asked God to forgive her. Then she thanked Him for His love and mercy. For grace.
The sun shone through a break in the clouds, a sliver of sunlight, of hope, shining down on that cross. Julia stepped out from under the market hall and felt the warmth of it on her face, through her skin, and into her soul. It was as if God himself had reached down, touched her cheek, and whispered, “I will never leave you.”
The Dancing Master Page 41