The Dancing Master

  © 2013 by Julie Klassen

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6347-6

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC

  Author represented by Books and Such Literary Agency

  In honor of

  Aurora Villacorta

  ballroom dance instructor

  at the University of Illinois

  for more than twenty years.

  Thanks, Miss V.

  Your lessons are forever with me. Dance steps, yes, but

  so much more—etiquette, manners, respect, and grace.

  Your classes were the most enjoyable of my college years.

  I will never forget you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue 7

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Books by Julie Klassen

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Mr. J. Dawson, professor of dancing and fencing,

  has the honour to announce his return from London;

  at the same time begs most respectfully to say, that he has profited

  by the instruction and experience of the most able professors.

  Mr. J. D. has acquired all the new and fashionable dances,

  the celebrated gallopades, Spanish dances, etc.

  and therefore hopes to merit a portion of public patronage.

  —The West Briton, 1829

  Quadrilles, waltzing, minuets, Country Dancing completely taught in

  six private lessons for one guinea by Mr. Levien, Dancing Master.

  26 Lower Charlotte Street, Bedford Square.

  A select Evening Academy twice a week, two guineas a quarter.

  Also a Juvenile Academy every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon:

  schools and families attended.

  —The (London) Times, 1821

  What place is so proper as the assembly-room to see the

  fashions and manners of the times, to study men and characters,

  to become accustomed to receive flattery without regarding it,

  to learn good breeding and politeness without affection,

  to see grace without wantonness, gaiety without riot,

  dignity without haughtiness, and freedom without levity?

  —Thomas Wilson, Dancing Master,

  An Analysis of Country Dancing, 1811

  Prologue

  MAY 1, 1815

  BEAWORTHY, DEVONSHIRE, ENGLAND

  We observed the first of May as we always did. We dressed somberly and rode in the black barouche from Buckleigh Manor into Beaworthy. It was tradition, my mother said.

  But I knew she had another reason for visiting the village on that particular day. Lady Amelia Midwinter wanted to make her presence known—make sure no one dared forget.

  We drove first to the flower shop and bought two bouquets—lily of the valley and forget-me-nots.

  From there our coachman, Isaacs, halted on the corner of High Street and Green, as he knew to do without being told.

  The young groom helped my mother alight. She turned to look back at me, but I ignored her, sullenly remaining in the carriage. This was her tradition, not mine.

  She crossed the street and laid one bouquet before the market hall—that center of trade on an island of green amid the cobbled High Street. The place where he died.

  Forget-me-nots. Never forget.

  She returned to the carriage, though we did not immediately depart. We sat for a few minutes in silence, waiting for the church bells to ring at midday.

  Clang, clang, clang . . .

  As the last peal faded away, she used one dainty finger to move aside the velvet curtain and survey the street. For a moment her face remained impassive, but then her mouth parted in surprise before stiffening into a grim line.

  “What is it?” I asked, rebellious hope rising in my contrary heart. I slid over to that side of the carriage and looked out the window.

  There, before the village green, an elderly woman as thin as a sparrow stood. She held her skirt aloft with one hand and raised her other hand high. She looked this way and that, as though waiting for someone, and for a moment I feared she would be left standing alone in the middle of the street.

  Then, from behind the market hall, an old man hobbled into view. He tossed aside his apron and bowed before the woman. And she in turn curtsied. She gave him a girlish smile, and decades flew from her face.

  He offered his hand, and she placed hers in his. Together, side by side, they slowly walked up the High Street in a curious rhythm—step, shuffle-step. Step, shuffle-step. Then they faced each other, joined both hands, and turned in a circle.

  “What are they doing?” I breathed in wonder.

  My mother snapped, “What does it look like?”

  “Who are they? Do you know?”

  She made no answer.

  I glanced over and saw an array of emotions cross her face. Irritation. Pain. Longing.

  “Who are they?” I whispered again.

  She kept her gaze trained out the window. On the couple’s retreating figures as they continued their odd shuffle-step up the street.

  My mother inhaled deeply, clamping an iron fist over her emotions, whatever they were. “A Mr. and Mrs. Desmond, I believe.”

  “I don’t think I know them.”

  “No, Julia. You wouldn’t. They . . . live outside of town.”

  I felt my face pucker. “Then, don’t they know about . . . the rule?”

  “They know.”

  I glanced at her, but she averted her eyes, using her father’s walking stick to knock against the roof.

  At the familiar signal, the coachman called “Walk on” to the horses and we moved
away.

  We returned to Buckleigh and paused at the estate’s churchyard. My mother alighted first, waving away the hovering groom and his offered umbrella. I exited after her, and when the young groom offered his hand to help me down, I smiled flirtatiously and enjoyed watching his face redden.

  The day had turned pewter grey. A cold drizzle pricked through my thin cape, sending a shiver up my neck.

  I followed my mother past lichen-encrusted graves and listing markers. We stopped before the family plot, outlined in brick and set with impressive headstones like dull gems in a macabre bracelet. There I read her brother’s epitaph.

  Graham Buckleigh, Lord Upcott

  Born January 4, 1776

  Died May 1, 1797

  Beloved Son & Brother

  “One and twenty years old,” I murmured. “So young.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “How did he die?” I asked as I did every year, hoping she would one day tell me the whole story.

  “He was killed in a duel.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “I prefer not to speak his name.”

  My gaze wandered from the headstone of the uncle I had never met, to settle on that of the aunt I had never met either. She died in childbirth before I was born.

  Lady Anne Tremelling

  Born December 5, 1777

  Died December 9, 1797

  Beloved Daughter & Sister

  I nodded toward her sister’s headstone. “She died less than a year later.”

  “Yes.”

  My mother bent and laid the bouquet of lily of the valley on her brother’s grave.

  Lily of the valley. Tears and humility.

  She straightened. “We ought not tarry, Julia. Your father is not at all well.”

  “Yes, I am surprised you wanted to come today.”

  “It is tradition.”

  I sent her a sidelong glance. “You believe in carrying on only your own private traditions, I see.”

  I referred, of course, to May Day, which had not been celebrated in Beaworthy for twenty years—though I had heard whispers about the old tradition and its demise.

  Mother turned toward the carriage without reply, and I tried to ignore the sting of rejection as easily as she ignored my sharp tongue.

  “What was the duel fought over?” I asked, following her.

  She did not answer. Ahead of us, the waiting groom opened the carriage door.

  “Why do you not put flowers on your sister’s grave?” I asked. “Why only your brother’s?”

  With a glance at the groom, my mother said quietly, “We shall discuss the matter another time. Not now. We have left your father alone too long as it is.”

  I doubted he would mind my absence. But then, I doubted he cared for me at all.

  My father left us the next day. And in the aftermath of death, of mourners and bombazine, of funerals and the selection of headstones, we buried my questions along with my father, knowing they would someday be resurrected.

  Her Ladyship had been out riding and was dressed in a long riding habit . . . She danced capitally and made use of her riding whip in the most playful manner.

  —A New Most Excellent Dancing Master: the Journal of Joseph Lowe

  Chapter 1

  NOVEMBER 5, 1816

  BEAWORTHY, DEVONSHIRE, ENGLAND

  Julia Midwinter joined the inhabitants of Beaworthy gathered between the village church and inn. Although Julia’s mother, Lady Amelia, had put a stop to the May Day celebration years ago, the village continued one long-held tradition. Her mother rarely attended, but she allowed Julia to go along with their neighbors, the Allens. Each year on the fifth of November, the villagers encircled a massive stone, some six feet by four and weighing more than a ton—this estimated by a supposedly renowned man of science no one had ever heard of when he visited Beaworthy several years before.

  That long-ago year, Julia had stood at the edges of the crowd, watching as the man of science studied the rock with great interest. He peered at it through a magnifying glass and declared there was no stone like it in all of the West Country, nay the whole of England. He scratched his chin and pondered aloud how it had come to be there.

  Julia could have told him. Any of the villagers could. But they enjoyed his befuddlement—that they knew something this learned man did not. Every child in Beaworthy had been told the tale sitting atop his grandfather’s knee: The stone had fallen from the devil’s pocket as he fell from heaven to hell. And that was why, every year on the fifth of November, the church bell ringers turned the great stone over—to keep the devil away.

  But this year was different. The bell ringers could not turn the stone, despite their straining efforts. Julia, standing there with Sir Herbert Allen and his sons, wondered if the bell ringers had grown too old and feeble.

  Men from the crowd joined in, using sturdy poles for leverage, and strength built in the clay works, forges, and fields. More stout poles were brought and more men—Sir Herbert and his sons among them. But still the stone would not budge.

  Sir Herbert speculated the ground had frozen early. Others shook their heads and decried such an earthly explanation. No, it could mean only one thing.

  The return of the devil.

  The most superstitious among them declared it a portent of dire happenings to come. But almost everyone agreed on one thing—change was on the way.

  Julia Midwinter hoped they were right.

  Anything to shake up the plodding days, endless church services, and somber silent meals. Days spent on needlework for charity, and evenings spent reading Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women, The Mirror of the Graces, and the few boring novels her mother deemed proper for young ladies. Her only diversion was to escape into the company of her bosom-friend, Patience Allen. Or her horse, Liberty.

  But November, December, and January passed without the hoped-for change, and nineteen-year-old Julia grew increasingly restless. The mourning period for her father had passed as well, though the pall still lingered. At least now she could quit trying to gain the man’s approval.

  On a grey February day, Julia and Patience rode together through the extensive Buckleigh Manor grounds. They followed a trail through a wood just beginning to awaken after winter—ivy and moss beginning to green, but the gnarly tree branches overhead still bare. A few brave birds warbled rusty melodies, perhaps hoping, as Julia did, that spring would arrive early.

  Ahead of them, the wood opened into a meadow, and beyond loomed the west hedge. A wickedly delicious thrill threaded up Julia’s spine, and a grin lifted one corner of her mouth. She leaned low over Liberty’s neck and, with posture and voice, urged the mare to gallop—the riding crop she held mere affectation, like a man’s walking stick. She would never strike her horse.

  She vaguely heard Patience shout that the hedge was too high. But as Julia’s horse was faster than hers, and Julia twice the rider, her friend’s words were the faintest buzzing in her ears. She rode confidently, as comfortable in sidesaddle as a man riding astride. Exhilarated by the wind, the speed, the sense of freedom, she gave Liberty her head. The beautiful horse galloped for all she was worth, straight for the hedge that bordered her mother’s estate—Julia’s confinement. Beyond it lay the whole of Devonshire, and England, and the world.

  One last time, Patience shouted, “It’s too high!”

  For a flash of a second Julia regretted risking the legs, the life, of her beloved Liberty, but it was too late.

  Liberty jumped, and for a blissful moment Julia felt the weight of the world fall away. She was flying. Escaping.

  The horse thudded to the spongy turf on the other side and Julia braced herself, keeping her seat with effort. The horse bobbled slightly, and Julia hoped Liberty hadn’t lodged something in her hoof upon impact.

  With a “Whoa,” Julia reined her horse to a walk, then nudged her to turn back with the slightest pressure of ribbon and knee. A few yards away stood a stile—built to allow pedestrians but not
livestock to pass the hedge. She would use it to dismount and check Liberty’s hooves, though she would not be able to remount without help. No matter. She could walk her horse back.

  She unhooked her knee from the sidesaddle pommel, reached down to grab the top of the stile, and slid to its top step. Tucking the riding crop beneath her arm, she gently picked up one foreleg, then the next, inspecting the hooves.

  Patience came riding toward her a few minutes later. She’d had to ride out the west gate a quarter of a mile away to reach her.

  She looked at Liberty with concern. “Is she all right?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “And you?”

  Julia grinned. “Never better.”

  Patience didn’t return the grin, but at least she didn’t scold—not like Julia’s mother was sure to do if she heard of the jump.

  Releasing Liberty’s leg and untying the rein, Julia began walking her horse home. Patience rode slowly alongside.

  Nearing the west gate, voices drew her attention and Julia paused to listen.

  Patience halted her horse. “What—?”

  Julia held up a hand to silence her. The voices were coming from the other side of the old gate lodge, long abandoned. The voices did not sound familiar. Or pleasant.

  Looping Liberty’s rein around the branch of a nearby tree, she whispered to her friend, “Wait here.”

  “Julia, don’t,” Patience hissed. “It could be dangerous.”

  Ignoring the warning, Julia tiptoed across the damp ground, holding forth her riding crop like a weapon. She crept along the wall of the stone building and peered around the corner.

  It took her eyes a moment to register the scene before her. A beefy man held back a thin young man in workman’s attire and flat hat. Meanwhile another man, wiry with lank blond hair, harassed a young woman, taking her hand and spinning her around.

  “Come on, love,” he urged in an oily smooth voice. “Let’s see you hop. Dancin’ in the spirit, I believe your lot call it—that right?”

  Indignation heated quickly to anger as Julia recognized two of the parties involved. Those infernal Wilcox brothers.

  She marched forward, riding crop at the ready. “Unhand her, Mr. Wilcox.”

  Felton Wilcox turned, beady green eyes narrowing. “Well, well. If it ain’t Miss High and Mighty, stickin’ her nose where it don’t belong.”