The Dancing Master Page 4

  James nodded. “I quite agree. The Beaworthy cricket team would be hard-pressed indeed if our best batsman showed up lame.” He laid a hand on his younger, though larger, brother’s shoulder. “Jesting aside, I am glad you are all right, old man. You must promise to look about you next time you go for a ramble.”

  Walter grinned. “I shall.”

  Lady Allen spoke up. “I am afraid it is Cook’s half day, Mr. Valcourt, or we should invite you to stay for dinner.”

  “Thank you anyway, Lady Allen. But no further thanks are necessary.”

  “You’ve not eaten Mrs. White’s puddings,” Walter teased. “Or you’d not be so quick to decline.”

  “Another time, then,” Sir Herbert suggested.

  Alec bowed. “Thank you, sir.”

  Alec recalled his uncle’s admonition to avoid soliciting pupils at Buckleigh Manor and Medlands, yet even had he not, Alec would have been reluctant to press his advantage—to spoil the moment by asking for their patronage. His father’s critical voice, saying, “You must be more persuasive and assertive . . .” echoed in Alec’s memory, but he ignored it.

  “And I hope we might fence together one day,” Walter added. “James and I had a few lessons, but it’s years ago now.”

  Alec explained, “That’s why I was wandering about today. I’d hoped to find an out-of-the-way place to practice, but . . .”

  “But instead you found me.” Walter chuckled, then added, “The churchyard isn’t used much. Or you’re welcome to come here.”

  “Perhaps after your foot heals,” Alec suggested.

  “Oh, I’ll be right as a trivet in a day or two.” Walter gingerly replaced his stocking.

  “You mustn’t rush things, Walter,” Lady Allen said. “And I don’t know that playing with swords is, um, the best pastime for you.”

  “Worried I’ll cut off my own head?” Walter turned to grin at Alec. “You see how my reputation precedes me.”

  Learning to dance was an important accomplishment for ladies and gentlemen, so was included in any genteel or semi-genteel education.

  —Susannah Fullerton, A Dance With Jane Austen

  Chapter 3

  Julia led her horse back to the Buckleigh Manor stables and there removed Liberty’s bridle while the groom unfastened the saddle and carried it away. Julia insisted on grooming Liberty herself, first with currycomb, then brush, putting off returning to the house as long as possible.

  “There, my sweet girl. My beauty,” she murmured, stroking the mare’s forelock.

  Finally she went inside and up to her room, removing her hat as she went. Then she rang for the upper housemaid to help her change from her riding habit.

  While she waited, Julia slumped onto her dressing stool. Noticing the brass mermaid on the table, she picked it up and fiddled with it while she thought back over the afternoon. The outing had certainly not turned out as she’d hoped. She had ridden, not to Medlands, as she’d told her mother, but rather toward the stream where Cedric Bullmore liked to fly-fish. The rector was forever bragging about his son’s angling prowess, mixing fish stories into his sermons on “fishers of men.” And Julia had planned to do a little fishing of her own. . . .

  Julia rode alongside the wood, allowing it to conceal her approach until she could observe the scene unnoticed. If Cedric’s father was there with him, she would turn and ride home. She did not wish the rector to report to her mother that he’d seen her out riding alone. Nor would she dismount until she was certain.

  She halted at the edge of the wood and peered toward the stream. There he was. Standing on the bank in his boots, broad-brimmed hat shielding his face, fly rod bent as he worked to land a fish.

  Cedric Bullmore was not as handsome as either James Allen or the new man she had met in church. He was extremely thin, had a long nose, and tended to blather on like his father. But he was a gentleman, and better yet, he had recently returned from his grand tour, and she longed to hear about his travels on the continent.

  For a moment, Julia imagined herself married to Cedric Bullmore and traveling the world with him. . . .

  Together they journeyed through Spain, France, and Italy. He had filled out under her nurturing and learned to curb his tongue. Arm in arm, they toured art galleries, palazzi, and Roman ruins. Cedric introduced her as mi esposa, ma femme, or amore mio, with pride and affection wherever they went. They dined in lovely cafés and were invited to fashionable balls. They stayed in quaint pensiones, where they enjoyed breathtaking views from separate rooms. . . .

  Blinking away the daydream, Julia lifted her knee from the pommel and slid to the ground. Keeping hold of the reins, she watched from behind Liberty’s neck as Cedric netted the obstinate fish. She would wait until he had placed it in his basket, and then—

  “Julia?” a male voice called.

  She turned, her stomach dropping.

  James Allen came riding up, looking none too pleased to see her. “Where is your groom?”

  “Hello, James.” Julia forced a smile. “And how are you on this beautiful day?”

  “Relieved I came upon you when I did—that’s how.” He jerked up his hand. “For there stands Cedric Bullmore. What would the rector’s son have thought had you happened upon him unchaperoned? Do you not care a whit about your reputation?”

  Julia lifted her chin. “It is perfectly respectable to ride on one’s own land, I think.”

  James dismounted. “Then why are you off your horse? Tell me you did not plan to go over and speak to the man alone.”

  “Why not?” Julia changed tack, stepping nearer and lowering her voice. “I am speaking to you alone.”

  “I realize that. And if Mr. Bullmore sees the two of us together, he might think we . . .”

  “He might think we . . . what?” Julia smiled into the young man’s angelic face. If everyone expected them to marry one day, she might as well see if there was any spark of attraction between them. Especially since he’d ruined her other plans.

  She leaned toward him, nearer yet.

  James stiffened and pulled back. “He might conclude we are . . . engaged.”

  Irritated, Julia pulled a face. “Which we are not, of course.”

  “No. But even so . . .”

  Some slight movement snagged the corner of her eye, and Julia glanced toward the wood. There through the trees stood a figure, partially hidden by a pine bough—the new man she had met in church. Embarrassment singed Julia’s ears but was quickly overpowered by indignation. Was everyone spying on her today?

  She gritted her teeth and murmured peevishly, “Very well, James, you have made your point. Now, will you give me a leg up?”

  He hesitated. “I am no groom, Julia. I’d probably toss you over the other side. Better walk her back.”

  She huffed. “Some gallant you are.” Then she added more loudly, for the benefit of the eavesdropper, “What a pleasant surprise to happen upon you, sir. But now I must bid you good-day.”

  Even now, in the privacy of her room, the memory provoked an uncomfortable wave of embarrassment, irritation, and . . . disappointment. Must James Allen be such a dull stick? So suffocatingly proper?

  She hoped the newcomer, Mr. Valcourt, would keep his mouth shut about seeing her alone with him. Not that her mother would suspect gentlemanly Mr. Allen of impropriety, but she might see it as the excuse she’d been waiting for to prod him into declaring himself. And Julia wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t sure if she ever would be.

  She looked down at the old brass mermaid in her hand. Half woman. Half fish. The only gift she’d ever received from her father, odd though it was.

  Too bad it was the only fish she’d managed to land that day.

  Alec returned to his uncle’s house, without having taken as much exercise as he would have liked, but feeling oddly invigorated by the brisk walk and the encounter with the Allen family. At least one potential fencing pupil, he thought. Or even a friend.

  Perhaps things in Beaworthy weren’t
as bleak as Uncle Ramsay declared, Alec thought. It was time to put his plan into action.

  His uncle’s cook-housekeeper had Sunday afternoons off, but Alec found his manservant and borrowed a pair of scissors and an iron. With the former, he carefully trimmed his pamphlets. Then he heated the iron and smoothed a shirt and his finest cravat.

  Dressing well to meet prospective pupils had served him well in the past, so he would do the same on the morrow. He brushed his best frock coat, laid out buff pantaloons and his most fashionable waistcoat. He missed his father’s manservant, Lester, who had kept all their dancing slippers, shoes, and boots in excellent condition, and had helped Alec on with his tight-fitting coats and tied his more complicated cravat knots. But they’d had to let Lester go last year, and Alec had learned to do for himself.

  Thinking ahead to the next day’s unannounced and likely unwelcome calls, nerves pricked Alec’s stomach. He always detested this part of the job. And his father had always criticized him for it. To buoy his spirits, he thought not of his pushy father, but of his charming, gentle grandfather. His grandfather truly believed dancing added to life’s joys and satisfaction. He believed his lessons in both dancing and fencing helped people physically as well as socially, and he genuinely cared about his pupils’ success. In his younger days, his grandfather had been one of the strongest men Alec knew. Beneath his fashionable coat and polished manners lay solid muscles and strength built from hours of fencing and dancing every week. Because of him, Alec knew a man could be strong and yet graceful and caring. That was the sort of dancing master Alec wished to be, whether soliciting pupils or teaching them.

  Lord, be with me, he murmured as he lay down to sleep. If half of his uncle’s warnings were true, he’d need all the help he could get.

  In the morning, Alec dressed with care, and helped himself to a breakfast of tea and toast in the quiet dining parlor alone, as no one else was yet down. Then he set off, pamphlets and a map his uncle had provided in hand.

  Taking his uncle’s advice into account, Alec decided to bypass Beaworthy proper and start on the outskirts of town.

  He walked to the Sheepwash Road and headed east out of the village. A hedgerow lined one side, a stream and meadow the other. The ding of cowbells and bawl of sheep announced his passing. He came first to a small house with an outbuilding—a forge, perhaps. He didn’t think a blacksmith or his offspring likely clients and walked on without stopping.

  Some distance farther, he saw a tidy white cottage with a thatched roof. It reminded him of his uncle’s house. Perhaps a merchant or a professional of some sort lived there. A rope swing suggested children—promising indeed. Steeling himself, he walked up to the front door and knocked.

  A neat middle-aged woman answered.

  Alec doffed his hat. “Good day, madam. I am Mr. Alec Valcourt, lately of London, but newly arrived in Beaworthy. I am a dancing and fencing master, and am well acquainted with all the new and fashionable dances. Have you children, madam? Dancing is an important accomplishment for young ladies and gentlemen, you know.”

  The woman frowned. “No, sir. We want nothing to do with dancing here. Now be on your way and don’t come back.” She shut the door before Alec could say another word.

  By midday, Alec had knocked at four more promising-looking houses, with similar results. Don’t give up, he told himself. You can do this.

  He saw a prosperous-looking farmhouse across the field, flanked by a barn and woodshed. One more, he told himself. He was met by a friendly dog that wagged his tail and offered his head to be patted. Alec didn’t oblige him, but still thought it a good sign. He knocked, and the door was opened by a mustachioed man of perhaps forty years.

  Again Alec introduced himself and offered lessons, tensing as he awaited the man’s reaction.

  “Ohhh . . . !” the man said as though Alec had given him the answer to a deep mystery. “Saw you stop by the Williamses’ place across the way. Wondered what you was sellin’. Sent you on yer way and sharp-like, did they?”

  “Yes,” Alec admitted.

  “Coulda told ya that. The Williamses and most folks in these parts are tenant farmers—workin’ Buckleigh land. Not me.” His chest puffed out as he spoke. “I own my land outright. And my son Bertrand helps me farm it.”

  “So . . .” Alec began hopefully, “might you be interested in dancing lessons for yourself or your son?”

  The yeoman farmer considered this, then asked, “Will dancin’ help me farm my land? Help Bertie plant our crops?”

  “Not directly,” Alec allowed. “Though it is excellent exercise and develops grace—”

  “Me and Bertie get plenty of exercise round here, I can tell you. And we have precious little need of grace. But I thank you just the same and wish you well.”

  Alec swallowed the rest of his argument. “Then, can you think of anyone who might be interested in dancing or fencing lessons?”

  The farmer crossed his thick arms and pursed his lower lip. “If I were you, I’d go see the Stricklands out Holsworthy way. Always did think they were better than the rest of us. Just your sort, I imagine. No offense.”

  Alec forced a smile.

  It was too late in the day to start off for Holsworthy on foot, so Alec decided he would call in at the private girls’ school—one of the few places Uncle Ramsay had pointed out on his map as a potential client.

  Alec walked back toward town and took the side lane his uncle had marked. A square stone house with a tiled roof came into view. A small plaque on the gate read Miss Llewellyn’s Boarding and Day School for Girls.

  Alec’s heart lifted. He’d taught regular dance classes at several girls’ seminaries in London. Such schools were always hiring drawing and dancing masters to enhance their curriculum. He would be well received here, he thought.

  The schoolmistress—a plain, slender woman in her late twenties—received him in her parlor with reserved civility. She accepted one of his pamphlets and regarded it wistfully. Looking up from its text, she sighed. “While I would very much like to offer my girls the opportunity to learn dancing, I am afraid I can’t.”

  Alec’s stomach fell, but he managed to keep his expression neutral. “May I ask why not?”

  She nodded. “Lady Amelia Midwinter is our primary benefactor, you see. She offers scholarships for worthy girls who could not otherwise afford tuition. And she and her daughter tutor my younger pupils in reading from time to time.”

  Alec was surprised to hear it.

  Miss Llewellyn pointed across the room. “Lady Amelia even gave us that harpsichord for my pupils to play. She has been generosity itself, and I could not go against her wishes in this.”

  The schoolmistress rose, her long-lashed eyes sad. “But thank you for thinking of us.”

  Alec returned home, tired, hungry, and discouraged. The meager dinner at his uncle’s table did little to cheer or strengthen him. Nor did having to relay his utter lack of success.

  After dinner, Aurora and their mother withdrew to the sitting room. When they’d gone, Uncle Ramsay said, “Alec, I’ve been thinking. If you’re going to seek pupils in Holsworthy or farther afield, you ought to have a way to get there.” He rose and gestured for Alec to follow. “Come with me.”

  Alec followed his uncle outside to the stable around back. His uncle unlatched the stable door and stepped inside. As Alec entered, the sharp, musty smell of hay, leather, and manure struck him. Inside were three stalls, two occupied with horses and one with straw and hay.

  His uncle turned and beamed at him. “He’s all yours, if you can manage him.”

  “What?”

  Uncle Ramsay pointed to the sandy brown horse in the first stall. “The dun horse. The Cleveland bay is my carriage horse.”

  Alec narrowed his eyes. His practical, penny-wise uncle was giving him a horse? There must be a catch. He asked, “What do you mean, manage him?”

  “He isn’t terribly well trained, or behaved for that matter,” his uncle allowed. “I shou
ld have known, when a client signed him over to cover my fees.”

  “You’ve ridden him?”

  “Once.” His uncle pulled a face. “It was not a long ride. I own I haven’t taken the time to work with him. My offices are within easy walking distance. And I take the carriage for longer trips. Besides, I have little interest in pleasure riding . . . and less in breaking my neck.”

  “I am surprised you haven’t sold him.”

  Uncle Ramsay shrugged. “Probably should have. Oddly enough I think my bay likes having a friend. I don’t take the carriage out as often as I once did. I imagine he’d get lonely living out here all alone.”

  A strange bleakness lit his uncle’s eyes. Cornelius Ramsay knew something about living alone, Alec realized. He wondered if his uncle had been lonely before they’d arrived. Was he lonely still?

  As if sensing his nephew’s scrutiny and the direction of his thoughts, the man cleared his throat and said brusquely, “Well?”

  Alec considered the prospect. “I am sorry, Uncle. But I cannot afford a horse’s upkeep. Not until my financial situation improves.”

  “I realize that.” Uncle Ramsay waved a dismissive hand. “Have you experience with horses?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “Know how to saddle one?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, more for you to learn.” He clapped Alec’s shoulder and inhaled. “It’s time you discovered there’s more to life than dancing.”

  Perhaps, Alec thought. Though he doubted he would like it as well, or be half as good at it. Even so, the idea of having his own horse appealed to him. Very gentlemanlike, horsemanship was. He was no expert, but this seemed a fine-looking animal, with a dark line along its spine and black points in sharp contrast to his sandy coat. This was no old nag he should be embarrassed to be seen riding. But then again, he had no desire to break his neck either.

  His uncle added, “Abe can even saddle him for you, if you like.”