The Dancing Master Read online

  “About six months ago now. Before he . . .”

  When she hesitated, Julia gently suggested, “Died?”

  Aurora stared at her, grieved and upset, and Julia was sorry she’d asked.

  The girl faltered, “Your mother did not . . . did not mention that my mother paid a call to . . . clarify the matter?”

  Julia felt anger flash. “No. She did not say a word to me.”

  Aurora bit her lip. “I have said more than I should have. It is not my place. But I could not stand by and let you think the worst of Alec, the dearest and kindest brother in the world.”

  Julia returned home and confronted her mother at the first opportunity.

  “I cannot believe you did not tell me. Alec Valcourt did not seduce a pupil. His father did.”

  Lady Amelia’s lips tightened. “Mr. Valcourt lost no time in pleading his case, and enlisting you to his cause, I see.”

  “Mr. Valcourt has not breathed a word,” Julia insisted. “I went to see his sister. She told me because I asked.”

  “Did she also tell you her father is not dead, but has merely left the country to avoid trial?”

  Julia stared. “She did say he left the country, though not that he was still alive.” Aurora had seemed on the verge of saying more but had held her tongue.

  “So you see,” her mother continued. “I am not the only one keeping information to myself to serve my own purposes.”

  “What purposes? To cast aspersions on an innocent man in hopes of dashing my admiration for him? Now I only admire him all the more for trying to protect his family.”

  Her mother defended herself, saying, “Mrs. Valcourt came here only yesterday. I had not yet decided what to do with what she told me. I had been considering not telling anyone to avoid exposing the family to further gossip.”

  “I am not anyone. I am your daughter.”

  Lady Amelia stilled. “Yes, you are,” she breathed, those foreign tears shimmering in her eyes once again. Then she averted her gaze and inhaled deeply. “Perhaps I should have told you straightaway. But it does not change anything.”

  Julia slowly shook her head. “On the contrary, Mother. It changes everything.”

  WANTED by a Dancing Master of the first respectability;

  a young man, either as an APPRENTICE, or an Assistant.

  Address post paid to A. B. Z. at Read’s Coffee-house, 102 Fleet Street.

  —The (London) Times, 1815

  Chapter 16

  The next day turned ominously dark and rainy. It was too wet to go out-of-doors, so Julia and Patience sat quietly in the drawing room. Thankfully, her dear friend had arrived before the heavens opened. Julia fiddled with the locket around her neck and watched Patience work diligently on a sampler, seemingly content to sew for hours, her stitches precise and orderly.

  On her lap, Julia’s loop of canvas held a snarled mess of knotted embroidery thread. She just hadn’t enough interest in needlework to do it justice—nor the patience. Julia sighed. Her friend was certainly aptly named.

  Patience looked up at Julia’s sigh, white-blond eyebrows arched. “Is something amiss?”

  Everything, Julia thought, but instead asked a question of her own. “Why does your family call you Pet? I’m not sure why I’ve never thought to ask. I know there are such things as pet names, but could they think of nothing more original?”

  Patience shrugged, tying off a thread. “I don’t mind. I suppose Patience does not lend itself to many diminutives.” She looked up in thought. “And when my father says, ‘Hello, my pet,’ it sounds so sweet, and reminds me how much he loves me.”

  Julia snorted.

  “I’m sorry, Julia,” Patience said earnestly. “I know you didn’t feel close to your father, but I am certain he loved you.”

  “Are you? Based on what, pray? I doubt he said more than a dozen words a month to either of us.” Julia tried to imagine Mr. Midwinter calling her by some fond pet name . . . but could not.

  Patience considered. “Surely you exaggerate, Julia. He had been ill for a long time, remember, yet he must have loved you.”

  “Why?”

  Patience shifted. “Because . . .” She faltered. “Because that’s what fathers do.”

  Pain sliced Julia’s heart. “Not all fathers.” She felt tears fill her eyes and angrily blinked them back. She did not want her friend’s pity.

  Patience reached across and touched her arm. “Well, we all love you. And your mother does. It is as clear as the nose on your face.”

  “You and your platitudes, Pet. Ugh. Now I’m using that name.”

  “I don’t mind. And your mother does love you.”

  “She may love me, but she certainly doesn’t approve of me.”

  Patience’s eyes softened. “She worries about you, Julia, and tries to protect you. Sometimes, perhaps, she tries a little too hard, but she means well, I know.”

  “More platitudes.”

  “Come now, Julia. You must admit you don’t make it easy for her.” Her friend’s eyes twinkled. “In fact it seems to be a matter of pride to you, how skilled you are in vexing her.”

  “That bad, ey?”

  “Oh come. You cannot pretend my words surprise or offend you.”

  Julia exhaled loudly. “It sounds, well, worse coming from you, Miss Perfect. Now there’s a pet name for you. Perfect Patience.”

  Her fair cheeks dimpling, Miss Allen playfully pushed her arm. “Goose.”

  Lady Amelia stepped into the drawing room, and Julia stiffened as she always did in her presence lately, as though expecting a blow. Her mother had never struck her, so Julia supposed she anticipated verbal blows: criticisms or calls to tedious duty. Which would it be this time?

  Then she noticed her mother was tying a hooded cape beneath her chin.

  “I’m going out,” she announced.

  Both girls looked toward the rain-streaked windows. Outside, lightning flashed.

  “In this?” Julia asked.

  Her mother nodded. “I have a meeting with the Overseers of the Poor.”

  “Can you not reschedule?”

  “Our new churchwarden is very earnest,” she replied. “He says the poor go on in any weather and so shall we.”

  Julia laughed before she realized her mother had not meant it as a joke. She was relieved she wasn’t expected to attend as well.

  Patience nodded with solemn admiration. “Your work is very important. Take care not to catch chill.”

  “Thank you, Patience.”

  Julia knew she ought to say something kind as well, but the words stuck in her throat.

  Lady Amelia flicked a glance at her, a glance that took in the knotted heap on her lap, before her mouth tightened and she turned from the room.

  When she had gone, Julia stared out the window until the black carriage lumbered past. Then she tossed aside her embroidery and rose.

  “Come, Patience. I cannot sit still another minute. Let’s have an adventure.”

  Patience rose less eagerly, eyes wary. “What sort of adventure—on a day like this?”

  “Precisely.” With the lightning flashing and the thunder rumbling, Julia thought it the perfect sort of day to tiptoe up into the dry, dusty attic and search for secrets . . . or to frighten her oh-so-timid friend.

  Patience followed her up the stairs with little enthusiasm. “Is there nothing else you’d like to do? Perhaps a game of draughts or cards. Or we might look at the new edition of the Ladies’ Monthly Museum.”

  Julia continued up the stairs without comment.

  Patience tried another course, “You know, we really ought to continue with our needlework. I don’t mean to chide, but you promised your mamma you would finally finish your sampler.”

  “I think I shall go mad if I have to spend another second on such a tedious pastime.”

  “But—”

  Julia hurried to reassure Patience. “I shall pick up my needle again soon, I promise. But first, just a little adventure. Please
?”

  Patience sighed and acquiesced.

  Julia’s candle lamp illuminated the way up the narrow attic stairs. At the top, she was surprised to find the storeroom door ajar. She turned toward Patience, warning finger on her lips.

  Patience’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t worry,” Julia whispered. “It is probably just old Lord Buckleigh’s ghost.”

  Her friend’s lips parted. She gripped the stair rail and stayed where she was.

  “Don’t be silly, Pet. I am only teasing.”

  For all her bravado, Julia did wonder at the door being open. She was certain she had latched it the last time she’d been up there, but who else would come up to the attic? Was that person in there even now?

  Julia grasped Patience’s cold hand and pulled her along as she slowly edged open the door with a belligerent creeaak.

  No answering flutter of bat wings, patter of earthly footsteps, or ghostly howl. Julia lifted her candle lamp higher and peered through the murky dimness to study the shapes and positions of the various furnishings—all apparently in their familiar places. Then why did her heart beat hard against her ribs?

  In the light of her candle, dust motes hung heavy in the air, as though recently disturbed. She lowered her lamp and looked for footprints in the dust, or some other telltale sign someone had recently trespassed. She saw no definable footprints, but a swath on the floorboards shone dingy brown, compared to the less-trod, dustier areas of floor—a swath that seemed to lead toward the attic’s back corner.

  Julia peered toward the forbidden trunk there. She narrowed her eyes to better focus. Was it only her imagination, or did it look different somehow? Tentatively, she tiptoed around the first trunk toward it, ducking where the roof pitched lower.

  “Julia . . .” Patience hissed disapproval.

  But Julia kept walking. She swung her lamp from side to side and studied the floor. The dust had definitely been disturbed. Had her mother recently visited the private trunk? If not, who?

  “Someone has been here,” Julia breathed, half to Patience and half to herself. Mostly to justify what she was about to do.

  Ignoring the dust, she knelt before the trunk.

  “Julia, don’t!” Patience hissed again.

  “Come here and hold the light.”

  “I won’t be a party to this.”

  “Your objection is duly noted, and you are absolved of any responsibility. Just hold the light.”

  Patience heaved a long-suffering sigh and tiptoed to her side. Hovering over Julia, she held the proffered lamp high.

  Julia jested, “Do you suppose someone has hidden a body up here?”

  “Julia!”

  “Only teasing.” She’d said it as much to vex her friend as to relieve her own nerves.

  Julia laid her hands on the lid, held her breath, and lifted. It didn’t budge. She saw no obvious lock, so she felt around for a latch. She noticed the raised filigree on the lower portion of the trunk. Ornamentation . . . or a handle? She reached lower, feeling her way around the filigree detail, and felt a slight groove beneath.

  Gingerly, tentatively, she slid her fingers into the groove and pulled. It gave. She scooted back on her knees and pulled farther. How delicious!

  “It’s a hidden drawer,” she said aloud for her friend’s benefit.

  Julia was fairly certain it had not been ajar before. Who had left it so?

  “Hold the light closer,” she whispered.

  Patience averted her face. “I am not supposed to look at anything in that trunk, and neither are you.”

  “It’s not exactly in the trunk, is it? Just this lower drawer here. Not even locked.”

  Patience sighed and held the lamp closer.

  Had something valuable lain there for years—decades? Or had her mother only recently hidden something within?

  Reaching in, Julia’s fingers felt fabric. Smooth and cool, like satin or silk. She lifted a small garment and held it toward the light. A tiny dress.

  “A christening gown?” Patience asked over her shoulder.

  “Perhaps,” Julia murmured. “Though it is quite plain.”

  Was it mine? Julia wondered. Her heart fluttered. Did her mother hold sentimental affection for her after all, well hidden though it might be? She looked inside the neckline, but there was no embroidery to identify either the child or seamstress.

  Julia set the gown on her knee and reached into the drawer once more. She felt nothing but rough wood. Wait . . . Something so flat she almost missed it. Julia peeled it up with her fingernail, pinched the folded paper between her fingers, and pulled it forth. Her heart rate accelerated.

  A letter.

  In the distance a door slammed, and Julia jumped.

  Patience hissed a warning, “Julia . . .”

  Julia shoved the drawer closed, slipped the letter down her own bodice, and crammed the gown into her friend’s apron pocket.

  She rose on shaky legs and quickly followed Patience to the attic door. They paused, listening. Had they heard footsteps? Was someone coming up?

  Silence.

  The two girls tiptoed onto the landing and Julia quietly closed the door behind them. Still no sound from below. She had probably only imagined the footsteps.

  Julia squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, forcing her face into unconcerned lines. She walked casually down the stairs, Patience following nervously behind.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Julia looked one way down the passage, toward the old schoolroom. Empty. Then she looked the other way, toward the servants’ bedchambers.

  Her stomach dropped.

  There stood her mother’s lady’s maid. Doyle stared at Julia, her hard eyes studying Julia’s face, then flicking to her empty hands.

  Doyle nodded toward the attic stairs and said gravely, “Did ya find what you were looking for?”

  Julia lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Again the maid scrutinized her face and her person. Did she notice the bulge in her bodice, or the lump in her friend’s pocket? A knowing smirk twisted the woman’s mouth.

  Julia went on the offensive. “What are you doing up here this time of day?”

  Doyle retorted, “I might ask the same of you, miss.”

  The vile woman did not even have the grace to appear sheepish.

  “Let’s go, Patience.” Julia turned away dismissively.

  Patience jogged anxiously beside her. “Do you think she knows we looked in that trunk?”

  Julia made no answer, her mind reviewing the scene and the woman’s odd expression. It was almost as if she did know. . . . Had she been the one to leave the drawer ajar? But why on earth would she?

  They hurried to Julia’s room and shut the door firmly behind them. Patience removed the wadded gown from her pocket and laid it on Julia’s bed, smoothing it flat.

  Outside, the storm had passed. Warm daylight filtered through the windows, illuminating the dress better than the candle had.

  “It is a sweet little gown,” Patience said, though Julia did not miss the question in her voice or the small line between her brows. “But I don’t think it can be a christening gown. It isn’t very . . .” Patience sought the right word and settled on “ornate.”

  “The material is rather cheap and coarse,” Julia said with none of her friend’s reserve. She fingered the border of rudimentary green X’s embroidered at the neckline. “Looks like something I would do.”

  Patience chuckled but did not deny it. “Perhaps a gift from a poor relation . . . ?”

  Forgetting the gown, Julia extracted the letter from her bodice. Patience’s eyes widened, as did her mouth. “Julia!”

  Clearly her friend had not noticed her slip it down her neckline.

  The ink was somewhat faded. Julia squinted at the two small words printed on the front—my . . . grace?

  Not your grace, as to a duke or duchess, but my grace? She stepped nearer the table, where she’d set the lamp, and bent her ne
ck to look closer.

  “The gown was one thing, but I’m not going to stay if you’re going to read that letter,” Patience insisted. “That is private. How would you like it if your mother read your post or journal?”

  “She probably does.” Julia’s eyes remained riveted to the paper. “It may not be a letter at all. There is no direction or postal marking. . . .”

  “Well, I shall leave you to your own conscience, Julia. Thank you for an . . . odd . . . afternoon.”

  Though the rain had stopped, the walk to Medlands would still be damp. Julia offered to call for the coach, but Patience declined, clearly anxious to leave and not be privy to the letter or whatever it was.

  Julia walked Patience downstairs to the door, and asked the hallboy to escort Miss Allen home safely. Bidding her pensive friend farewell, Julia hurried back to her room and shut the door.

  She brought the candle lamp to her side table and sat on the edge of the bed. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, beyond the thrill of uncovering a secret. An adventure.

  Heart thumping, Julia unfolded the yellowed page and read.

  Dear Grace Amelia,

  How beautiful you are, my precious daughter. How perfect. I lie here and wish I could stay and watch you grow up, but I sense the heavenly Father calling me to himself even now. This world is fading until all I can truly focus on is your face. Even your papa is beginning to blur. He will fare well without me, I know. It is only you I think of. Worry about. Pray for. Who will take care of you while your papa is gone from home? Who dare I ask—trust—to care for my most precious possession?

  The letter ended abruptly, with no closing or signature. As if the writer had been called from the world whilst writing.

  Julia’s brow puckered in confusion. Dormant suspicions whispered in her brain, but she did not heed them. The only Amelia she knew was her mother. Neither she nor Lady Amelia had ever been given second names, as far as Julia knew. Had her mother ceased going by Grace for some reason? But no. Lady Amelia’s mother, Lady Buckleigh, had lived past Amelia’s coming-out days.

  If not Lady Amelia, then who was Grace Amelia, and why did her mother possess her letter? And why was it hidden in that secret drawer? Julia was no judge, but this did not seem a recent letter, but it was not ancient either.