The Dancing Master Read online

  His face tightened in mirror image of his hand. He rasped, “I am sorry.” He inhaled through flared nostrils, then exhaled a ragged breath. “Please forgive me.”

  He hurried from the stall, through the stable door, and into the driving, drenching rain.

  Shaken, Julia watched him through the open doorway. For a moment Alec stood, face lifted to the heavens, hands fisted, letting the rain run over his face. Then he strode away.

  He had disappeared from view before Julia remembered she still wore his coat.

  Late the next afternoon, Lady Amelia sent a housemaid to summon Julia into the library.

  Oh, bother. Julia felt her defenses rise and her mood plummet as she made her way across the hall.

  Her mother glanced up when she entered and refolded the letter she had been reading. “Julia, please sit down.”

  Julia’s stomach clenched. What now? Her mother already knew about the Holsworthy ball. Had she found out about the private lessons with Mr. Valcourt as well? Or their time alone in the stable?

  “Another inquisition, Mamma?” Julia sighed. “What have I done this time?”

  “This is not about you. At least, not directly. This time, all you have done is befriend the wrong person.”

  Julia stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Valcourt is not to be trusted. I regret placing him here under our roof. Exposing you to his company. Had I known what I know now, I would not have given him a position here in the first place.”

  Julia’s mind struggled to keep up. She asked, “Is this about the ball again?”

  “No.”

  “Then what has Mr. Valcourt supposedly done now?” Her mother couldn’t know about that kiss, could she? Julia’s body warmed all over again at the memory.

  “This is not mere supposition, Julia. Have you not wondered why a dancing master would leave London and come here to small, remote Beaworthy, where no one dances?”

  Julia shrugged. “I wonder why anyone should want to live here, but what has that to say to anything? There is no law against moving in with one’s uncle, even if he is as dull as ditchwater.”

  “Julia, that is not kind.”

  But Julia continued, “And if no one dances here, whose fault is that? I understand Mr. Valcourt did not know before he came.” She paused to consider, biting her lip in thought. “I wonder why his uncle did not warn him.”

  Her mother nodded. “I wondered as well. I also wondered why the Valcourts would give up an established academy even if his father had died. Were times really so hard for dancing masters, or had he some other reason for fleeing London?”

  “Fleeing? You make him sound the criminal.”

  “I am afraid he is just that.” She held up a hand. “No, he has not stolen anything or killed anybody—at least as far as I know—but he is not innocent either.”

  Julia tensed in anticipation. “What has he done?”

  Lady Amelia tapped the folded letter on the desk. “Apparently, he seduced one of his pupils. I’m sorry to say it so bluntly, but there it is.”

  “I . . . I am hardly shocked, Mamma,” Julia lied. “I am not a child.”

  “You should be shocked. She was a young lady from a good family. A wealthy, accomplished girl.”

  “How do you know she didn’t seduce him?” Julia asked tartly, though inwardly she quailed. Mr. Valcourt . . . intimate with another young woman? It hurt to contemplate.

  Her mother frowned. “Really, Julia. I hardly think that likely.”

  Julia rose up in his defense. “How do you know all this, Mamma? Have you sent in your spies? Are you so determined I not have any friends who have tasted life beyond Beaworthy? That I shall never leave? Never be happy?”

  “What has any of that to do with Mr. Valcourt?” her mother asked. “He is not your friend. Not really. His station in life is too far beneath yours. And worse than that, he is not the honorable young man we thought him.” She inhaled and set her face in resolve. “And so I must ask you not to spend any more time with him. And take care never to be alone with him. For your own safety and reputation. Do I make myself clear?”

  “How do you even know any of this is true?”

  “I wrote to an old friend who lives not far from Mr. Valcourt’s London academy. She was away when my letter first arrived, but her reply reached me this afternoon. She writes that everyone knows why the academy closed. Mr. Valcourt was being sued by the girl’s father. He probably came here to avoid the civil suit and a hefty settlement he could not pay.”

  Julia’s stomach clenched, but she lifted her chin. “It is all hearsay.”

  Her mother shook her head. “I wish it were.”

  “Do you? I doubt it. You have been set against Mr. Valcourt since he arrived. Simply because he was a dancing master—not because of anything else he may or may not have done in the past.”

  “If I was so set against him, why did I offer him a position here?”

  “To keep him from hanging out his shingle as a dancing master and ending your iron-fisted reign.”

  Her mother stared at her, lips parted, a sheen in her eyes. Tears? Julia had never seen her mother cry. Not even at her father’s death.

  “How you speak to me,” she breathed, slowly shaking her head. “Do you not realize that everything I do, I do for you? To protect you?”

  “I don’t want to be protected! I am not a little girl any longer. I want to live. I want to breathe. I want to leave this dreary, stifling place forever!”

  Julia whirled and ran from the room, unsure where the anger, the tears, the desperate longing for escape came from but slave to its call. She ran from the manor, through the estate grounds, and into the churchyard. Pushing through the old heavy door, she fell into the nearest pew and sobbed until her throat ached.

  Was she crying because of what her mother had learned or because of what Alec had done? Oh, Alec . . .

  Julia thought she had finally found an honorable man to love who admired and respected her. Had she been so mistaken in his character? She prayed the report about him was wrong.

  Why couldn’t her mother have left well enough alone? Had she never made a mistake? From her distant memory rang her father’s voice, snapping at Lady Amelia about something Julia had done. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he’d said. And not for the first time, Julia wondered what he’d meant.

  The next day, when Alec returned from a midday visit to Apollo, Mr. Barlow met him at the office door, somber faced. “Lady Amelia wishes to see you straightaway.”

  Alec’s muscles tightened. Was she going to reprimand him about the Holsworthy ball? The dancing lessons? Kissing her daughter in the stable? His pulse thudded. Or had she finally received a letter from London?

  With a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, Alec turned and walked across the hall. He removed his hat but did not bother to leave it in the office. Why should he, when she would no doubt send him packing without delay?

  Lady Amelia was seated at the desk as usual. She did not wait for him to approach before she began reading from a letter in her hand.

  “Mr. Valcourt has lately sold his Queen’s Square academy and last-known residence and fled town, it is assumed, to avoid the consequences—legal, financial, and otherwise—for reputedly seducing one of his pupils, a Miss U—of Mayfair.”

  She looked up at him gravely. “Do you deny it?”

  An iron weight sank onto Alec’s chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. Even if he told the truth, there was no escape. Neither he nor his family would leave this room unscathed. His position was gone, his excuse to spend time with Julia Midwinter gone with it. As though I’d ever had a chance with her, scandal or no, he thought dully. Though after that kiss he’d foolishly allowed himself to hope . . .

  Alec shook his head, a bitter taste in his mouth. “I cannot deny that such a suit exists. It is not the complete truth, but I’d rather not elaborate.”

  “Why not?”

  He looked down at the floor. Wh
y bother to explain? If he told her everything, and by some miracle she believed him, he might come out with his reputation partially restored. But his sister? His poor mother? It would only be worse for them.

  He inhaled, resigned. “Never mind. How can I expect you to believe the truth when I don’t want to believe it myself?”

  She said coolly, “Truth is always the best way.”

  Alec snapped his head up and boldly held her gaze. “Is it, your ladyship?” His eyes bore into hers. “Can you truly say that?”

  She froze, staring at him, but did not ask what he meant. Worried concern passed over her features, then was quickly replaced with steely resolve. “You give me no choice but to remove you from your position here.”

  Alec nodded. “I assumed as much.” Alec replaced his hat. “Thank you for the opportunity while it lasted. Good day.”

  He turned and left the room.

  Instead of saddling Apollo and going directly home, Alec walked all the way into the village center. Yes, he dreaded telling his mother and uncle that he had lost his place at Buckleigh Manor, but more than that drove him up the High Street.

  Losing his job was the final straw, yet the successful dance lessons at Medlands had already stirred up the old dreams.

  His restless steps led him along the walkway bordering the High Street. Past the inn, the tailor’s, the public house, and bakery, to the abandoned shop with the papered-over windows. Again he stood on tiptoe and peered inside. Afternoon sunlight reflected off the large mirror and shone into the long room—onto the wooden floorboards and the mismatched chairs around the perimeter.

  Hope rose. Might he yet become the successful dancing master his grandfather had been? Again he walked to the padlocked shop door and read the small hand-lettered notice.

  For let. Reasonable terms. Inquire at the inn.

  Alec thought again of his meager savings. Would it be enough? Would it be wise to risk the last of his savings, now that his well-paying position was gone, his steady source of income with it?

  No, it would not be wise. Then why did he find himself turning and walking toward the inn to ask about the notice?

  When he entered the quiet taproom, Mr. Jones looked up from behind his counter, but without a welcoming smile. Alec had not been inside since the night of the market hall cave-in and had never bought so much as a cup of tea in the place, so reluctant had he been to spend what little money he had. But tonight, he thought, one ginger beer might be a small price to pay to ease his way into asking about the notice.

  Alec removed his hat. “Evening, Mr. Jones.”

  Washing a tankard, the innkeeper said dourly, “What can I do for ya this time? Come to use my stairs again?”

  “No. A ginger beer, if you please.”

  The man pursed his lips in surprise. He set aside the tankard, wiped his hands on his apron, and then poured a frothy golden mug of the stinging-sweet beverage.

  Two men came in while Mr. Jones poured. Alec glanced over, dismayed to see Joe and Felton Wilcox. Just his luck.

  “Ginger beer?” Joe jeered. “Oh, that’s a man’s drink all right. Ain’t it, Felton?”

  Felton snorted. “Must want to forget his troubles. Or a fickle lady what done him wrong.”

  Without waiting to be asked, Mr. Jones put a pint of ale before each Wilcox brother.

  Joe looked at Alec askance. “You know only ladies and brats drink ginger beer, right? It ain’t real beer, ya know. Don’t they have it up in London town?”

  “Yes, they have it. I prefer it.”

  Joe looked over at his brother. “Told ya he was a girly man.”

  Alec told himself to ignore the insult. He’d heard it all before, and it would do no good to argue with these men, especially when they were drinking.

  With a dismissive wave, Joe and Felton took their ales over to the inglenook and flopped into the high-backed bench near the fire.

  “Friends of yers?” Mr. Jones quipped as he wiped the spigot.

  “No.” Alec pulled a face. “How do they get away with harassing people?”

  “Easy. Felton has been a local hero ever since he beat Cornwall’s wrasslin’ champ a few years back. Beaworthy folk are excessively proud and willing to overlook certain other deeds. Our constable chief among them. And so far at least, they’ve only bothered outsiders with few locals to defend them.”

  “Like me.”

  “Afraid so.”

  Alec took a deep breath and changed the subject. “That abandoned shop up the street. The one with the windows covered over?”

  The innkeeper nodded. “What about it?”

  “I, uh, noticed the notice.” Alec chuckled awkwardly at the unintentional repetition. “And I wondered about it.”

  “Wondered what?” Mr. Jones looked toward the door, lifting his chin to acknowledge another patron entering.

  Alec glanced over. A large well-dressed man came in and stopped to greet the Wilcoxes. “Who’s that?” he asked quietly.

  “Mr. Kellaway. He owns the clay works.”

  “Ah.” Alec nodded. He leaned nearer the innkeeper and hoped to appear nonchalant. “I wondered how long it’s been sitting empty, why no one has let it. . . .” He wasn’t ready to admit his designs on the place. Not yet. Not when it was likely far beyond his means. Nor was he eager to have the other men present overhear and scoff at his hopes.

  “Oh, it’s been sittin’ empty many a year now,” Jones said. “A chandler let it for a time, but that didn’t last. Then a bookseller. But people weren’t willing to support any business that dared reopen those doors.”

  Alec frowned. “Why not?” he asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

  Mr. Kellaway stepped to the bar, laying down his hat and tugging off his gloves. Alec would have liked to retract his private questions in the stranger’s presence, but it was too late. Mr. Jones had already launched into an explanation.

  “Because, man, it used to be a dancing school, run by one of them caper merchants—no offense—back before, you know, dancing was done away with hereabouts.”

  The innkeeper poured Kellaway a pint as he continued. “The lady of the manor was so set against the place, she refused to patronize any business that opened there, and forbid her servants to do the same. Well, I don’t have to tell you that Lady Amelia wields no small influence in Beaworthy, nay, the entire parish. So most other folks wouldn’t patronize the businesses either, for fear of word gettin’ back to her, and their Jimmy losing his place as hallboy or their Susan as housemaid, or their Tom finding no more orders coming from Buckleigh. Weren’t worth the risk.”

  Mr. Kellaway amiably joined the conversation. “Mr. Jones here quit holding dances in his assembly room for the same reason. Didn’t you?”

  The innkeeper’s eyes flashed at this implied slight to his manhood. “Yes, and what else was I to do? Her ladyship called for an end of public dances and removed Buckleigh support of the assembly room—no longer of paying for the musicians, the refreshments, the candles, and such. At least her butler still buys small beer from me for the servants’ hall.”

  “I understand, man,” Kellaway said. “But I for one patronized the businesses.” Kellaway paused to sip his ale.

  Mr. Jones slanted Kellaway a look. “Easy for you to say—you don’t rely on Buckleigh Manor for employment or patronage.”

  “True,” Kellaway acknowledged. “And glad I am of that.”

  He picked up his hat, lifted his glass in salute—“Gents”—and stepped away to join the Wilcox brothers.

  Mr. Jones watched him walk away, then asked Alec, “Thinkin’ of opening a place of yer own?”

  “I . . . was just wondering. Why it is sitting empty. Asking a lot for it, are they?”

  The innkeeper hesitated, chewing his lip as he considered Alec.

  Uncomfortable, Alec asked, “Who owns the place?”

  “The smith out at the forge.”

  “The smith?”

  “Aye. Mr. Desmond.”

&nbs
p; “But . . . why would he let that nice piece of property in the center of town sit idle, and keep his forge so out of the way like it is?”

  Mr. Jones shook his head. “You really don’t know anythin’, do ya? He has his reasons—that’s all I tell ya. Ain’t my place to say more. I’d say go ask him yerself, but I hear he’s been ailing.”

  “Yes,” Alec murmured. “I heard that too.” It was on the tip of the tongue to mention that the smith’s son, helping out at the forge, had told him, but he remembered just in time that Desmond didn’t want his presence spread about.

  “It’s been a year or more since he told me what he’s askin’ to let the place, and yer the first to ask in some time. May have changed ’is mind since then. So you’d better ask him or the missus yerself.”

  “Perhaps I will.” Alec finished his ginger beer and stood. “Thank you.”

  The movement drew the attention of Joe Wilcox, who raised his head from his pint. “One entire ginger beer? Are ya sure you’ll be all right to get home?”

  Felton snorted into his ale.

  “Gentlemen.” Ignoring their jeers, Alec tipped his hat and took his leave, hoping the inebriated men wouldn’t follow him out into the street to continue their taunts—or worse.

  Alec walked to the forge. From a distance, he saw John Desmond standing in the outer porch, which expanded the work space and provided shelter for waiting customers. Desmond stood, leaning one shoulder against a support post, arms crossed, a mug in his hand.

  As Alec neared, the man called, “Don’t tell me those two broke your blade again.”

  Alec shook his head. “Nothing to repair this time.” At least not a physical object, he added to himself.

  “No? Then what can I do for you?”

  Alec stepped up into the porch. “I came to ask about the property in the High Street. The innkeeper said your father owns it.”

  “Did he now?”

  Alec nodded. “Well, he said the smith, so I assume that’s who he meant.”

  “Tea?” Desmond offered, nodding toward the kettle on the edge of the fire.

  “No, thank you.”

  “What’s your interest in the place, friend?” Desmond asked, topping off his cup.