The Dancing Master Read online

  “Is there . . . anything else I need to know? Anything about the man or the contents of the letter?”

  Barlow shook his head.

  “Is he expecting you? Expecting this?” Alec fanned the letter.

  “Yes. I imagine he has very little doubt of it.”

  “How shall I answer if he asks who I am or why I’ve come?”

  Barlow grimaced, whether from the pain in his arm or because Alec was being a pain in the neck with all his questions, Alec wasn’t sure.

  “No need for a social call, Valcourt,” Barlow said. “You find the man, confirm his name, and hand over the letter. You can tell him I have been . . . indisposed or would have come myself. Don’t engage him in conversation. If he asks for . . . or about anything else, simply tell him he may write to me or her ladyship. But that”—he nodded toward the letter—“should be self-explanatory. More than sufficient.”

  A prickling of foreboding crept up Alec’s spine. Something was going on here beyond a simple errand, but what was it? Even with the problems Lady Amelia had caused him, he hoped she was not in any trouble—that nothing untoward was going on between her and this lieutenant—for her own sake, for Julia’s, for loyal Barlow’s, even for his own.

  Don’t be an idiot, he told himself. Why had he jumped to such dire conclusions? It could be anything. A letter to a distant relative, soon to leave port with no time to wait for the post to send greetings. But he’d seen Barlow slip a bank note into that letter. Had he not seen other payments recorded to the same name in the ledgers? He believed so. Payment for what? Services rendered? A naval officer was not a tradesman with a bill to present, like a mantua maker or greengrocer. Or was the man one of Lady Amelia’s many charity projects—perhaps injured in the war and unable to return to his duties? But then why all the secrecy? Did she—or Barlow—fear every injured sailor would come knocking, palm outstretched, if word of her almsgiving spread?

  Supposition would get him nowhere, Alec realized. He would meet the man and find out for himself.

  Half an hour later, Alec strode into the paddock, wearing his boots, greatcoat, hat, and gloves. There, a stout, swaybacked mare stood saddled and waiting. The smug young groom who had witnessed Alec’s ill-fated attempts with Apollo held the reins. The horse’s coat of light grey had likely once been snowy white. The old mare swished her silver tail but otherwise stood resigned and still while Alec mounted, and the groom adjusted the length of the stirrups. What had Barlow said? Ooze confidence and earn trust? Something like it at any rate.

  “She’s the sweetest of the lot, sir,” the groom said. “She’ll give ya no trouble.”

  “Thank you.”

  Remembering Barlow’s previous instructions, Alec clicked his tongue and gently shifted his weight and lifted the rein. Albina sighed and turned as commanded and plodded to the gate the groom held open.

  “She may resist a faster pace, or try to stop and eat. But don’t let her have her way. Show her who’s in charge.”

  What happened to “She’ll give you no trouble”? Alec wondered, though he nodded to acknowledge the advice, trying not to resent the youth of its giver.

  Albina’s silver-maned neck and hopeful muzzle—its hair so thin her skin shone through—turned now and again toward a brittle stalk or bramble alongside the road, but with a pull of the reins and a stern word, Alec was able to keep the old thing on course. As Barlow had assured him, the road to Hatherleigh was easy to follow and the turn well marked. The weather that mid-March morning promised to be fine, which lifted his spirits.

  A little more than an hour later by his pocket watch, he reached the outskirts of the town. He allowed the horse to leave off its bone-jarring trot and walk the rest of the way. It was a relief to them both.

  He saw the coaching inn ahead on the main thoroughfare. Reaching it, a hostler hailed him. Alec handed over Albina with relief, dismounting onto shaky legs the consistency of warm jelly. He gave the young man Barlow’s name and card as instructed.

  The hostler nodded. “How is ol’ Mr. B.? Not ailin’, I hope?”

  “Oh, nothing serious. He’ll be good as new in a week or two.”

  “Glad to hear it. Well, don’t worry about this old girl. I’ll take good care of her ’til you get back.”

  The hostler directed him where to find the booking clerk, and with word and coin Alec thanked him for his help. Inside the inn, Alec paid his fare and even had time for a cup of tea and a hot bun. From a table near the front window, he drank his tea and watched as the coach was readied for departure outside: horses changed and harnessed, wheels checked, and deliveries loaded.

  They were soon underway. Alec felt rather important sitting inside the coach with two well-dressed gentlemen and a lovely young lady traveling with her father.

  Apparently noticing his daughter’s interested glance stray to Alec again and again, the father asked him, “And you, young sir. Traveling to Plymouth to visit friends or . . . ?”

  “No, sir. On estate business.”

  “Ah. May I ask which estate?”

  “Buckleigh Manor.” Too late Alec wondered if he should have refrained from naming his employer.

  “Buckleigh Manor,” the gentleman echoed, lips pursed and clearly impressed. “I have heard of it. Are you a member of the family?”

  Here we go, Alec thought, anticipating his reaction with little relish. “No, sir. I am clerk there.”

  “Ah,” the gentleman said significantly, with a pointed look at his daughter.

  She looked away in a sullen huff.

  Alec should have probably left it at that, but he had been taught to reciprocate polite inquiry, so he said, “And you, sir. What takes you to Plymouth, if I may ask?”

  “We are meeting my son there. My youngest. He left us a cabin boy and comes home a lieutenant. And him not yet one and twenty. Not bad, ey?”

  “Not bad at all, sir. You must be proud.”

  “Indeed I am. Too bad the war is over, elsewise he might yet make captain, as I did. Ah, well.” He sighed ruefully.

  Alec found it odd he should regret the end of the war, when so many welcomed it. He thought the man should be glad his son was coming home alive and in one piece, when so many were not as fortunate. But he held his tongue.

  Alec pried no further, and the conversation lagged.

  They stopped at an inn along a local turnpike in Tavistock to change horses and have a bite to eat. Soon they were on their way again. Through the left-side carriage window, Alec watched as they passed a sprawling wilderness of rolling hills and open moorland dotted with strange rock outcroppings, wild horses, and sheep. Dartmoor.

  The journey consumed the greater part of four hours and Alec’s pocket watch read half past three by the time he disembarked. The porter in the stable yard directed him to the Admiral MacBride and offered to call for a chair, but Alec declined, preferring to stretch his legs after sitting so long. A brisk walk to the inn would allow him to see a bit of Plymouth as well.

  He strode past the old port with its ships and sails, dinghies and docks. The boardinghouses, public houses, and houses of ill repute. He heard the clank of tackle and mooring lines and the cries of gulls. He breathed in the smells of fish and tar.

  Walking up a steep lane away from the harbor, he quickly reached the Admiral MacBride, a two-story whitewashed inn with black-framed windows and an anchor above the door.

  The taproom was not crowded, but he saw several uniformed men.

  Alec approached the barkeep. “Lieutenant Tremelling?” he asked. The aproned man looked up from uncorking a bottle to lift his chin toward an officer sitting alone at a table near the rear door.

  The man had a pint before him and a tricorn hat. He looked up at Alec’s approach, but seeing him, his interest quickly faded.

  “Lieutenant Tremelling?” Alec asked.

  The man surveyed him skeptically. “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Valcourt. Mr. Barlow sent me.”

  The lieutenant e
yed him, his expression part amusement and part suspicion. “Why’d he send a stand-in? I’m not important enough to warrant a visit from the estate manager. Is that it?”

  Alec was surprised by his tone. The man had a hooked nose and cleft chin. His eyes were flat—grey or dull green, he couldn’t be sure. His hair was a nondescript bronze. His skin was weathered, but he had been handsome once, Alec thought. And near enough in age to Lady Amelia that he might have been a suitor of hers. . . . He stopped, chastising himself for his foolish imagination and concentrated on the task at hand.

  “No, sir. Not at all. Mr. Barlow has broken his arm and the surgeon forbids him to ride. That’s the only reason he sent me in his place.”

  The man studied him, taking his measure. Amused irony quirked his lips. “Any idea what you’ve waded into, lad?”

  Alec opened his mouth, then pressed his lips together. He said officiously, “Mr. Barlow has apprised me of all the information he deemed necessary.”

  “Which is what? Nothing?”

  Alec could not resist returning the man’s wry grin. “Exactly.”

  Tremelling chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “Very careful, our Mr. Barlow. Lady Amelia too, for that matter.” He hesitated. “Is she . . . Is everyone at Buckleigh Manor in good health?”

  “Um, yes. I believe so.”

  “Good. Good.” He exhaled, took a long swallow of ale, and then sat back. “Well, let’s have it.”

  Alec was tempted to ply the man with questions, but recalling Barlow’s warnings, he withdrew the folded letter from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  Lieutenant Tremelling eyed it without eagerness, with a look of resigned fatalism that surprised Alec.

  The man glanced up. “Know what’s inside?”

  Alec shook his head. “I . . . am not privy to the contents, sir.”

  “Haven’t stolen a peek?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I haven’t either, but I can tell you what it says. It says stay away, we don’t want you here.” The man shrugged. “Not that I blame her.”

  Alec swallowed. He should leave. Get up and leave. “Don’t engage the man in conversation,” Barlow had said. “Don’t entertain his questions.”

  But what about my questions? Alec wondered. He was so curious. Yet he knew it was not his place to ask about the letter. Instead, he said, “Well . . . A lieutenant, are you?”

  “Aye. Had hoped for more, but now that the war is over . . .” Tremelling shrugged. “We’re all adrift here. Hundreds of men have already been let go from the dockyard. Who knows when the next commission, the next ship will come, or if it will. Enough to make a man stop and think about his future . . . and his past. The navy is all I’ve known.”

  “But . . . surely the navy keeps men on in peacetime, just in case.”

  “Oh, aye. To patrol and whatnot. But that holds little appeal to a fightin’ man like me.”

  Alec thought of the fine gentleman in the coach, whose son had already reached the rank of lieutenant at one and twenty. Tremelling was easily twice that age but the same rank. Alec wondered what had kept him from progressing up the chain of command.

  “So, what will you do—try out civilian life and see how it suits you?” Alec asked it lightly, sneaking a look at his pocket watch beneath the table and already calculating how soon he would need to leave to make the six-o’clock coach back to Hatherleigh.

  “Well . . .” The man tapped the letter against the table. “That depends on this.”

  The lieutenant’s steely gaze held his. There was something about the man, about this situation, that intrigued Alec. But he knew it was time to leave if he was to return with his mission successfully and discreetly achieved.

  “Well then, I shall leave you to it.” Alec rose and picked up his hat. “A good day to you, sir.”

  “Thanks. That would make for a welcome change.”

  On the return journey to Hatherleigh, a pair of elderly spinster sisters were his only companions inside the coach. Alec exchanged a few polite words with them, accepted a piece of overbaked shortbread from their basket, and then allowed himself to close his eyes and feign sleep. He was tired from the long day and wanted to review his meeting with the lieutenant, his mind conjuring various scenarios to explain the man’s role in Lady Amelia’s life. He thought again of what his uncle had told him—that something had been amiss about her ladyship’s rushed marriage to Mr. Midwinter. He hoped his uncle’s former partner had misunderstood the situation.

  After they changed horses and continued on, Alec nodded off in earnest and slept for most of the second leg of the trip. He arrived back in Hatherleigh around ten, and still had an hour’s ride on Albina to reach Buckleigh Manor. He wished he had thought to ask Mr. Barlow if he might sleep at the inn if the hour grew too late. But he had not. Thankfully the moon was full and the sky clear, or he would have a treacherous ride back indeed.

  When he finally walked Albina back into the stable yard, no one came out to greet him, which he supposed was not surprising considering the late hour. He dismounted stiffly and—keeping hold of the reins—opened the stable door and led the horse inside. An oil lamp, hanging from the low rafters, emitted enough light to see by. Ahead of him, Apollo whickered at him, or perhaps at Albina, from his stall. Alec supposed he should take Apollo back to his uncle’s—but not tonight. Walking nearer Albina’s stall, he was stunned to see a man slumped on a bale of straw, dark head lolling against a stall, mouth ajar, sound asleep.

  “Mr. Barlow?”

  The man did not respond. Concern flooded Alec.

  “Mr. Barlow,” Alec repeated more loudly and gently shook the man’s shoulder, too late realizing it was the shoulder of his broken arm.

  The man winced, then slowly opened bleary eyes. He murmured, “Master Graham?”

  Alec stiffened. Was the man foxed?

  Barlow blinked more fully awake, straightening as he did so.

  “Sorry, Valcourt. Didn’t mean to doze off. It’s the dashed laudanum Mounce gave me.”

  Ah . . . that explains it. Alec said, “You called me Master Graham just now.” The name of Lady Amelia’s brother, Alec believed, dead these many years.

  “Did I?” Confusion tinged Barlow’s voice. “Sorry. I was dreaming.”

  Barlow ran a hand through his dark, slicked-back hair and rose unsteadily to his feet.

  Regarding the man’s drooping figure, Alec asked, “What are you doing here, sir? You ought to be home sleeping.”

  “I did go home, but then I came back and sent young Tommy to bed. Thought I should be here to meet you myself. See how it went. I couldn’t sleep at home for wondering. Though apparently I had not the same problem here. Arm began throbbing something terrible, so I took a bit of the stuff. It certainly did its job—and then some.”

  Alec grinned. “As I saw.”

  “So you found him all right?”

  “Yes. He was in the Admiral MacBride, just as you said he’d be.”

  “Just as he said he’d be, in the note he sent to her ladyship.”

  So Tremelling had instigated the meeting? Odd then that he seemed almost disappointed to receive the letter.

  “He was expecting you, of course, but he seemed to accept my appearance in his stride.”

  “Good. Did he . . . read the letter then and there?”

  Alec shook his head. “Did you want him to? You didn’t ask me to wait for a reply.”

  “No. As I believe I said, the contents of that letter should have been self-explanatory and more than sufficient.”

  More than sufficient for what? Alec wondered. To set the officer up for civilian life? And why would Lady Amelia fund that?

  Barlow grimaced, apparently choosing his words carefully. “He didn’t . . . didn’t say anything about . . . coming here, did he?”

  “Coming here, to Buckleigh Manor?” Alec repeated in surprise. “No.” Alec tried to remember the man’s exact words. “He said something about the letter being his answer.
Telling him to stay away.”

  “Good.” Mr. Barlow expelled a sigh of relief. “Well done, Valcourt.”

  With Barlow’s guidance and one-armed assistance, Alec removed Albina’s saddle. He pulled bridle straps over her ears, and the bit from between her long yellow teeth. At last, he led the mare into her stall and patted her sparse-haired neck. “Thanks, ol’ girl.”

  “It’s late,” Barlow said. “I’ll ask Tommy to give her an extra-thorough grooming tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  Barlow extracted a few lumps of sugar from his pocket and handed them to Alec. “A present for the lady.”

  Alec thanked him again, then had the pleasure of offering the horse the treat and watching her nibble and chomp it with evident relish.

  Again, Apollo whickered from his stall.

  “Jealous, boy?” Barlow patted the gelding’s sandy brown neck. “You’ll have your chance soon, if I don’t miss my guess.”

  They secured Albina’s stall and extinguished the lamp. “Head on home and get some sleep, Valcourt. Take the morning off, since you worked so late tonight.”

  “But might Lady Amelia not wonder why and ask . . . ?”

  Barlow grimaced. “I am afraid she has already learned that I dispatched you to make the journey in my place—and was none too pleased about it either. She came to the office while you were gone, and I could not lie.”

  “Is she . . . very angry? After all, she wanted you to begin delegating more tasks to me.”

  “But not this particular task, my boy.” He drew himself up. “Now, not a word about it to anyone, remember. You can say I sent you to make a delivery, though none of the particulars.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. You can trust me.”

  But apparently Lady Amelia did not. Alec doubted she ever would.

  We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz was introduced (we believe, for the first time) at the English Court on Friday last.