The Dancing Master Page 14

  On Sunday after church, Alec saw Miss Midwinter exit the building alone. Lady Amelia had stopped to talk with the churchwarden, leaving Alec the perfect, if brief, opportunity to speak with Julia without the disapproving presence of her mother.

  With a smile of thanks to the clergyman, Alec hurried outside.

  There she was, standing alone amid chatting parishioners, watching the doorway, apparently waiting for someone—for him?

  But then she suddenly turned away as though to avoid him. Alec frowned. She had been eager to seek him out before. . . . Perhaps she had simply not seen him.

  “Miss Midwinter,” he called as he caught up with her on the church path.

  She turned and asked politely, “Mr. Valcourt. How are you?”

  “I am well, thank you. And you? Dangled off any church towers lately?”

  She pursed her lips and looked up as though estimating. “Only twice.”

  “Ah. Good. You’ve reformed, I see.”

  That earned him a lovely grin. Seeing it lightened his heart.

  But at that moment something snagged her attention and she turned abruptly. “Pardon me, Mr. Valcourt. I see someone I must speak to.”

  Alec’s mouth opened in surprise, but before he could reply or attempt a witty farewell, her heeled slippers were already tapping away down the paved path.

  She hailed a young gentleman Alec only vaguely recognized. “Mr. Bullmore!”

  In response to her call, the thin gentleman turned and joined her a few yards from where Alec stood. “Oh. Hello, Miss Midwinter.”

  She beamed at him. “Going fishing today?”

  “Not this time. I am off to Bath this afternoon.”

  “What a pity. I wish you were staying longer. I hoped to hear about your grand tour.”

  “Perhaps another time.” The young man glanced back at Alec and asked, “And who is that young man you were talking to?”

  “Oh, that’s Mr. Valcourt, our clerk,” she said with a dismissive wave of her gloved hand. She fluttered her lashes at the man. “How exciting Bath must be. I suppose you know many people there . . . ?”

  Alec turned and walked away. He told himself not to let her snub bother him. As a dancing master, he had been used to society ladies looking down at him. A caper merchant was beneath the notice of highborn females and certainly their parents, who were busy planning advantageous matches with heirs or second sons of nobility. The girls might flirt with him—all the more if he ignored them or appeared oblivious to their beauty. Most couldn’t stand that. And seeing them try all the harder to dance well, to flirt with him and gain his notice had somewhat assuaged the slight to his pride—until it had all but ruined his life and his entire family. No, he told himself. All the better if Miss Midwinter ignored him and he treated her with nothing more, and nothing less, than common civility.

  His uncle came and stood beside him, and the two men watched as Julia Midwinter chatted away, apparently unaware that the young gentleman was trying to extract himself from her company.

  “Mr. Bullmore’s son,” his uncle explained. “Recently engaged to a lady from Bath, I understand. Apparently Miss Midwinter has not yet heard.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t take it to heart, lad.”

  Too late, Alec thought. “I know I should not,” he said. “After all, what do I expect? A lady like her and a man like me . . .”

  His uncle clapped his shoulder in a rare display of affection. “Now, don’t say that, my boy. The Midwinters are no better than they should be.”

  Alec looked at Uncle Ramsay in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Normally I wouldn’t say anything,” his uncle continued. “But in this case, the client in question is no longer living.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alec asked. “What client?”

  “Halloo!” a female voice called. “Mr. Ramsay!”

  Alec glanced over and saw Mrs. Tickle, the kind widow from the bakery.

  At the interruption, Cornelius Ramsay seemed to remember his surroundings. As he lifted a hand to greet the woman, he said quietly, “We’ll talk later, all right? In my study, after we dine.”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Tickle walked over to them. “’Tis March, Mr. Ramsay, and you know what that means.”

  “No. What?”

  “Only three months ’til gooseberry season. Can you believe it?”

  “I am flummoxed, madam. But what has that to do with me?”

  “Goose!” She smacked his arm with her prayer book. “Three months until gooseberry tarts, as if you didn’t know.” She smiled conspiratorially, then turned to Alec.

  “Hello, Mr. Valcourt. My sister tells me you are working at Buckleigh Manor now. I suppose that explains why you haven’t been by for one of my pies.”

  He bowed. “Exactly so, ma’am. Nothing else would have kept me away.” He hadn’t had an opportunity to return to the bakery since he’d begun working every day.

  “I suppose they feed you there?”

  He nodded. “I share the midday meal with Mr. Barlow.”

  “That Mrs. White is known to be an excellent cook. Would be, working at the manor as she is.” She bit her lip. “I suppose her pies are far superior to mine?”

  “Why no, Mrs. Tickle. Far from it. I never ate a pie as delicious as yours in my life.”

  She beamed a closed-lip smile that puckered her lips and bulged her cheeks until her face seemed about to burst like a squeezed berry. “You are too kind, sir. Too kind. What a charming nephew you have, Mr. Ramsay.”

  His uncle eyed him dourly. “Indeed.”

  Uncle Ramsay tipped his hat to the woman and quickly excused himself, telling Alec he would go home straightaway to see how dinner was progressing, but that he and his mother and sister should return at their leisure. The man was clearly uncomfortable in social situations. Or perhaps only women made him nervous.

  Seeing his mother and sister talking to Miss Allen at the edge of the church path, Alec bid Mrs. Tickle farewell and hurried to join them.

  He bowed to Miss Allen and was welcomed into the pleasant conversation. She explained that she had ridden with the Midwinters that day, as her parents were home nursing colds. They all stood speaking for a few minutes longer, and then the Valcourts bade Patience farewell, asking her to pass along their greetings and get-wells to her family.

  As they crossed the High Street together, Alec saw Felton and Joe Wilcox loitering in the deserted market hall, watching the churchgoers depart.

  Felton leaned against one of the columns. “Well, if it ain’t Valerie Valcourt, the pretty boy,” he called with a lazy grin.

  Joe said nothing, his attention snagged by Aurora.

  Misgiving filled Alec.

  Not willing to risk the Wilcox brothers approaching his mother and sister, Alec whispered for the two of them to go on without him and turned to the dangerous pair.

  Felton’s brows rose in surprise as Alec walked over. He pushed himself upright and elbowed his brother. “Looks like he wants another wrasslin’ lesson.”

  Alec told himself to be polite. At least until his family was out of sight and harm’s way. “Hello, Felton. Joe. How are things at Kellaway’s?”

  Felton tsked, shaking his head. “Ben Thorne seems to lose his balance and fall into the pit at least once a week. His hat even oftener.” The two brothers shared a smirk.

  Then Joe asked a question of his own. “Who’s that pretty girl you were walking with? Your lover?”

  Alec stiffened at his innuendo and quickly corrected the crude man. “No, my sister.” But he regretted the words as soon as he’d uttered them. Even more so when Joe’s eyes widened.

  “Your sister?” he breathed. “Why, I’d say she’s nearly as pretty as you are.”

  “Maybe more so,” Felton agreed.

  Alec glanced at Felton but saw that his gaze was firmly fixed on Miss Allen across the street, still waiting to enter the Buckleigh barouche.

  Meanwhi
le Joe watched Aurora’s retreating figure. “Come on, Valcourt. Introduce us.”

  “Ah . . . sorry, Joe. Our uncle is expecting us. Perhaps another time.”

  To himself he added, After I’m dead and buried.

  Alec joined his uncle in his study after a buffet meal of cold meats, breads, pickled beets, and leftover pudding.

  He was curious about Miss Midwinter, of course, and longed to learn more about her, but something in his uncle’s eyes told him he wouldn’t like what he had to say.

  “I can see you’re interested in Miss Midwinter. A pretty girl, I don’t blame you. But I want to give you a word to the wise, that there’s no sense pining after her.”

  “Because she is above me, you mean?”

  “Well, of course you are not her social equal. And certainly in terms of rank, wealth, and connection, she is out of your reach, but that is not what I refer to.”

  You mean there’s more? Alec thought acerbically. He prompted, “You mentioned a client?”

  “Yes. Arthur Midwinter.”

  “Julia’s father?”

  “Well . . . um. Perhaps. You see, my former partner, Mr. Ley, was his solicitor. He acquainted me with the particulars when he retired.”

  Lady Amelia, Alec knew, retained a London solicitor.

  “Mr. Ley had been called in to compose the marriage settlement for a quickly orchestrated union between Mr. Midwinter and Lady Amelia,” Uncle Ramsay explained. “Her father, Lord Buckleigh, was on his deathbed, and apparently eager to see her settled before he died—especially since he’d recently buried his son and there would be no man to lead the family otherwise. Arthur Midwinter was from a family of landed gentry. He was wealthy and well respected. But his older brother had inherited the family property, so he was at liberty, as it were, to become master of Buckleigh Manor.”

  Alec still didn’t see what his uncle was driving at but did not interrupt him.

  “Mr. Ley confessed to me that when he heard of the birth of a child seven or eight months later, he was quite surprised. He’d heard nothing of the impending birth, though the Beaworthy rumor mill has its tentacles everywhere and is usually quite accurate. However, that particular summer and fall—after her brother’s death—Lady Amelia sequestered herself indoors, I understand. The wedding was private, the vows said right in the earl’s sickroom. There was no wedding trip. Lady Amelia didn’t even attend church for months, in her grief, everyone supposed. But apparently in her confinement as well.”

  Uncle Ramsay paused to draw breath, then continued, “Mr. Ley called on Mr. Midwinter a few months after the child’s birth, but the new father saw no need to update his will. Years later, when Mr. Midwinter’s health began to decline, and I was then his solicitor, I again asked about his will and whether he wished to leave anything to his daughter. He said there was no need to mention the girl. I believe he hinted, although subtly, that the child might not be his. I was shocked, as you can imagine, though professing to be a man of the world, I pretended not to be.”

  Uncle Ramsay shook his head. “Lady Amelia is widely respected as a paragon of sense and virtue. But apparently public opinion is not always accurate. After I spoke with Mr. Midwinter myself, the rushed wedding Mr. Ley had described made more sense. I thought it quite generous of Mr. Midwinter, assuming he married Lady Amelia knowing she carried another man’s child. Though perhaps he found out later.

  “Either way, he clearly had no intention of exposing his wife or the girl to gossip or humiliation, but nor did he wish to remember the girl in his will. He did remember his wife, and of course the marriage settlement had long ago assured that Buckleigh Manor would remain in Lady Amelia’s possession and then pass to her heir. Fortunately for Lady Amelia, Buckleigh Manor has never been entailed away to the male line.”

  Alec’s mind struggled to credit the story. He’d seen nothing in Lady Amelia’s character to suggest she was capable of such a moral lapse—none of the recklessness he’d seen in her daughter. But he also recalled Miss Midwinter saying that Mr. Barlow was more like a father to her than Mr. Midwinter had been. . . .

  “So you see, my boy,” his uncle concluded. “The girl has little reason to believe herself too good for you.”

  Alec knew that even a hint of illegitimacy could ruin a person’s reputation and prospects in some circles. And respectable people, like his uncle, would not approve of a woman whose birth had been tainted by scandal. But she was still an heiress, still Lady Amelia’s daughter—if perhaps, not Mr. Midwinter’s—and still beautiful. Besides, if he didn’t miss his guess, Julia Midwinter had no inkling that scandal may have overshadowed her birth. And he preferred to keep it that way.

  “I would appreciate it, Uncle, if you would not tell anyone else what you have just told me. I have a high regard for both Miss Midwinter and her mother and would hate to see them suffer should the rumor mill, as you call it, get wind of this.”

  “I’ve not said a word since I first heard of it until now. Nor will I again. But I wanted you to know that your high regard may be misplaced.”

  “Thank you,” Alec said stiffly. “Considering the strikes against my own family, I don’t know that I consider this a fatal blow to my hopes—such as they are. Especially as none of it is certain.”

  “Very well, my boy. But don’t raise your hopes too high. They are proud women, for all that. And from what I hear, everyone expects her to marry James Allen.”

  Marry James? Alec’s heart sank.

  His uncle added, “I’d hate to see you disappointed again.”

  So would I, Alec thought, but he made do with a nod and reassuring smile.

  Later that afternoon, Walter Allen surprised them all by stopping by unannounced.

  He apologized to Mr. Ramsay for disturbing him, greeted Mrs. Valcourt and Aurora, and then with a glance at his pocket watch said, “Valcourt, um, let’s take a walk.”

  Puzzled, Alec nevertheless picked up his hat and followed Walter outside.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just come along. I want to show you something.” Walt grasped his arm and quickened his pace.

  Alec had to scramble to keep up with his long strides. “All right. All right!”

  The tall lanky man released him and led the way into the village toward the market hall. The stalls below were deserted, but the room above was brightly lit and unaccompanied singing streamed from windows left open to the cool evening air.

  Alec remembered Ben Thorne saying this was where the Bryanites held their meetings and guessed that was the gathering he was hearing.

  He glanced at Walter and found the young man looking up at the windows with an expression both openly earnest and pinched with frustration.

  “Can’t see anything from here. Come on.”

  “Where now?” He hoped Walter didn’t plan to dash up the outside stairs and join the assembly there and then.

  But instead Walter crossed the narrow side of the divided High Street, and pushed through the door of the inn nearby.

  With a wave to Mr. Jones, Alec followed Walter up the side stairs. He thought he heard a teasing taunt of “Peeping Toms,” but hoped he was mistaken.

  At the top of the stairs, Walter turned down the narrow passage, past sleeping rooms and the sadly unused assembly room. At the end of the passage, he stopped at a window facing the High Street.

  “You can see from up here.”

  Following Walter’s example, Alec looked through the window into the market hall meeting chamber across the way. The room was lit by candle lamps and filled with people. A man at one end of the room stood with arms raised, while those facing him sang, jumping in place, and . . . dancing? Alec could not see their feet, only the swaying movements of their torsos and the graceful fan of hands.

  Mixed emotions filled him. On one hand he was taken aback, discomfited by their strange behavior—their boisterous singing, shouts of “Hallelujah” and eye-shut abandon. No wonder some unkind people called them “ranters.”

>   On the other hand, they were dancing. . . .

  “Now, this is my sort of church,” Alec murmured teasingly.

  Receiving no reply, he glanced at Walter, saw him vaguely nod, his eyes focused straight ahead. Rapt. Alec followed the direction of his gaze, and realization dawned.

  Tess Thorne. There she was, clustered with several other young women. Her eyes were open but focused upward on some distant place. On God, he supposed. Her arms were extended in graceful lines, long hair falling loose over her shoulders and down her back. Fair face serene, she seemed unaware of those around her, of anything but the object of her adoration.

  Guilt swamped Alec in double measure. First, it seemed wrong to be watching such an intimate, reverent act—and it was reverent, he realized, for all its lack of quiet solemnity. And second, how long had it been since he had communed with his Creator with half the sincerity and fervor of these people?

  The Bryanites, as they were known, were an offshoot of the followers of John Wesley, Alec had learned, begun by a man named William Bryant. But their services were certainly unlike any other Alec had ever seen.

  Within the meeting room, the volume increased: voices raised in song and shouts, and thirty or forty pairs of feet jumping up and down on wooden floorboards.

  “Do you often watch them?” Alec whispered to his fellow voyeur.

  Walter shrugged. “Now and again.”

  “Have you ever gone up and joined them?”

  Walter shook his head.

  “Have you ever even talked to her?” Alec asked, earning himself a quick glance of worried surprise from the young man.

  “I . . . No,” Walter said. “But I have met her. At least, I was there when Patience and Julia met her.”

  Alec rolled his eyes, then looked again at the window display of worshipers.

  CRACK. A great bang shot the air and shook the building. For a second Alec thought the inn was collapsing and grabbed for the window ledge. Was it a cannon? An explosion? The market hall beyond shuddered and the worshipers’ praise turned to cries of alarm. Several figures framed in the window suddenly disappeared while others looked down in shock.