The Dancing Master Page 42

  Suddenly Alec came jogging into the High Street from the Buckleigh Road. Her heart leapt. She released a breath she barely realized she’d been holding.

  Vaguely she noticed he was wearing freshly pressed trousers rather than the breeches he usually preferred, and a green coat in place of his favorite blue. He was still tying his cravat as he hurried over. She knew he was something of a dandy, but had he really left her standing there simply to change clothes?

  Then she noticed a speck of mud along his jaw and another near his ear.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Sorry I’m late. I hope you didn’t worry.”

  “Are you late?” She fluttered her lashes. “I had not noticed.” She sent him a sidelong glance, and they shared a grin.

  He held out his hand to her, and she placed her fingers in his. He gave a squeeze that she felt all the way to her heart.

  “May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Midwinter?”

  She felt her neck heat, self-conscious to be standing there in the middle of the High Street, hand in hand. It felt somewhat . . . daring, she decided. And she liked that. Liked too the warm way Alec Valcourt looked into her eyes.

  “I should enjoy it above all things,” she said, her grin widening.

  They turned, both facing down the High Street side by side, their inside hands joined. Julia feared she’d forgotten the steps, simple though they were.

  But Alec, ever the dancing master, murmured reminders as they progressed. “Step, shuffle-step. Step, shuffle-step. Very good, Miss Midwinter. Sixteen counts.”

  He turned to her and took her other hand as well. “Now, we turn in a circle. Step, step, step, hop . . . All the way around. Perfect. What a natural you are.”

  Julia warmed at the praise, perhaps more effusive than the simple dance deserved but boosting her confidence nonetheless.

  “Now, forward once more.”

  From somewhere nearby came the sound of a reedy pipe being played.

  Julia swiveled her head, surprised to see John Desmond standing on the walkway outside the dancing academy, playing the May Day tune. Mrs. Tickle came out of the bakery and smiled up at him. Julia was about to excuse herself to tell Desmond that his parents needed him, when that very couple hurried around the corner, both looking spry and eager.

  “Mr. Desmond, are you all right?” Julia called.

  “Right as a trivet, miss.” He patted his wife’s arm. “The old love here worries for nothing. I choked on a peppermint from one of Mrs. Tickle’s cakes, that’s all. Mrs. Desmond was sure I was having an apoplexy.”

  “The old fool lives to frighten me to death, you know.”

  Julia smiled. “I am so glad you’re all right.”

  “Wouldn’t miss this year’s May Day dance for the world,” Mr. Desmond said.

  He bowed to his wispy wife, and she curtsied in return, a fond smile creasing her lined face. Julia noticed the sprig of lily of the valley in his buttonhole and another tucked into his hat band.

  Julia and Alec would not dance alone after all. They fell into step behind Mr. and Mrs. Desmond as their son played on.

  The innkeeper, Mr. Jones, disappeared within his establishment. But a few minutes later, he returned, striding out of the inn with a bass viol. Behind him came dear Mr. Barlow, fiddle in hand.

  John Desmond looked up, surprised and pleased to see them. A moment later, they were joined by Mr. Deane on a flute, his first few notes shrill and out of tune, but quickly finding his way into the melody.

  Desmond met her eyes across the distance, and Julia felt that all—well, almost all—was right in her world.

  She and Alec shared a smile and danced on.

  Alec hummed along with the May Day tune, relishing the dance and his partner. His heart felt lighter than it had in months. Drawn by the music, people began stepping out of shops to see what was going on. Including, unfortunately, the Wilcox brothers from the public house. But even they could not spoil this moment for Alec.

  The Medlands carriage rattled up the High Street. James and Walter hopped out, then reached back to hand down Patience and their mother. Sir Herbert brought up the rear. Alec was especially surprised to see Lady Allen, who so rarely went anywhere, disinclined to leave the happy surroundings of Medlands.

  Sir Herbert and Lady Allen hurried over and fell into place behind Alec and Julia, giggling like carefree children.

  “I hope I remember the steps,” she said.

  “Of course you do, my love. We danced this every year when we were young. Just follow the others. It does not matter if we stumble once or twice. It’s being here that counts.”

  “Exactly so,” Alec agreed.

  The curate, Mr. Evans, appeared, with his wife in tow. Behind him came Miss Llewellyn, and a band of bell ringers and their spouses. Tess Thorne and several others came from the direction of the Green Street tenement.

  Soon the High Street around the fountain and market hall was filled with dancers, and the walkway became crowded with onlookers, who clapped or tapped their toes to the music.

  Alec’s mother and sister appeared, wearing tentative smiles. Alec noticed with a start that his mother was out of mourning at last—she wore a lovely blue-and-ivory gown—and looked years younger. For some reason the sight gave Alec hope.

  From his law offices across the street emerged Uncle Ramsay, who surveyed the scene with cautious concern. Mr. Pugsworth followed him out. His eyes lit when he saw the schoolmistress, and he walked over to ask her to dance. Miss Llewellyn hesitated but then agreed with a toothy grin.

  Walter pulled a folded diagram from his pocket, consulted it one last time, then bowed before Tess. “Miss Thorne, may I have this dance?”

  Her dark eyes widened in surprise, and if Alec was not mistaken, pleasure. “Yes, Mr. Allen. I would be delighted to dance with you.”

  James Allen turned dutifully to his sister. But Patience, Alec noticed, tilted her head significantly toward Aurora. James complied, leading Aurora out to join them.

  Then Patience shocked everyone by walking over and standing before the Wilcox brothers. Joe’s mouth drooped in surprise. Beside him, Felton straightened to attention, his Adam’s apple traveling up and down his throat. He pushed the curtain of blond hair from his eyes and stared at the young woman before him.

  As Alec danced past, he heard Patience say, “Mr. Wilcox, you don’t intend to threaten or harm my friend Alec Valcourt any further, I trust?”

  “Uh . . . no, ma’am. I mean, miss. Miss Allen.”

  She gave him a lovely smile. “Then shall we join the dance, Mr. Wilcox?”

  Felton’s mouth fell ajar, but he stuck out his elbow and Patience took it. As the two walked toward the dancers, Nancy from the flower shop claimed hulking Joe as her partner.

  Uncle Ramsay stood back, at the periphery, though Alec had expected nothing else. But then Mrs. Tickle grabbed the solicitor’s arm and pulled him along behind her into the fray, like a fish on a line.

  Alec and Aurora sought out each other’s gazes of long habit and shared a laugh of surprised delight at the sight, before returning their attention to their partners.

  Other couples joined in. Around them, the sounds of community, of celebration, filled the High Street and village green. Water trickled from the fountain for the first time in years. Alec saw it as a good sign for his future.

  Suddenly a second carriage rattled up the High Street. Big, black, and ominous. The Buckleigh Manor barouche.

  Alec groaned. Lady Amelia Midwinter had come to put a stop to their celebration before it had barely begun.

  The groom hopped down with an umbrella but, seeing the rain had stopped, set it aside. He let down the step and unlatched the carriage door. Then Lady Amelia herself came into view, head bowed to watch her step as she alighted.

  The music squeaked to a halt. The crowd hushed. A few onlookers retreated back into shops, hoping not to be seen or associated with the forbidden goings-on.

  Lady Amelia look
ed up, and Alec caught his first full glimpse of her face. She wore an intense expression, part frown, part concentration, as she scanned the crowd, looking for someone—Julia, he supposed. Her gaze tripped over Desmond, then skittered on.

  Resolutely, Julia stepped forward, shoulders back, head held high. Not guilty, yet not defiant either.

  “Are you looking for me?” she asked evenly.

  Lady Amelia blinked. “Um . . . yes. I didn’t know where you’d gone. And then it started to rain. . . .”

  Lady Amelia again looked around the High Street, taking in the frozen dancers, the startled onlookers, the idle musicians. Mr. Barlow, he noticed, sheepishly ducked his head.

  She asked, “What is going on?”

  “We’re celebrating May Day,” Julia explained. “The old Beaworthy tradition.”

  When Lady Amelia made no reply, Julia added, “It’s been far too long since we have done so.”

  Lady Amelia looked again at the assembled, wary faces. “Well then, don’t let me stop you.”

  No one moved.

  “Go on with what you were doing,” Lady Amelia urged. “Pray don’t stop on my account. I am only one person, after all.”

  Still no one moved. A few exchanged questioning looks. Was she being sarcastic or sincere?

  The elder Mr. Desmond stepped onto the walkway and gave his son a significant look, nodding toward Lady Amelia.

  Understanding, Desmond surrendered his pipe to his father and stepped down into the street.

  “One person, perhaps,” he said across the distance. “But a very important one. Highly influential.”

  He crossed the paving stones. “We would be more likely to believe you won’t hold it against us if you’d join in.” He held out his hand to her.

  Brave man, Alec thought.

  Or stupid.

  With all eyes on her, Amelia felt nervous and self-conscious. “Oh no,” she said. “I have no intention of dancing. But all of you go ahead.”

  No one moved.

  She swallowed, then continued, “You have every right to celebrate the old traditions. I know I said otherwise years ago, but I was wrong. You are free to dance, all of you. Free to live as you please.” She looked at her daughter, willing her eyes to communicate all the love she felt. “Even you, Julia. I have tried to shelter you for far too long. You are free.”

  Julia came and stood at Desmond’s side. “Come, Mamma. Just once around the green for Beaworthy? For me?”

  Amelia’s heart squeezed to hear the cherished moniker, the affectionate Mamma Julia had avoided using the last several weeks. She had missed hearing it.

  “Remember, my lady,” Mr. Evans began, stepping forward. “Even the Good Book says there is a time for everything. Even a time to dance.”

  Desmond bowed before her. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

  Amelia’s breath caught. How startling to see this man bow before her, to hear him ask her to dance as he had done so many years before. . . .

  Knowing the crowd awaited her response, Amelia felt wary and ready to flee. She did not want to dance. Not here. Not now. It would be a blow to her pride, humbling after maintaining her stance against it for so long. How self-conscious she would feel dancing in the middle of the street with the whole village as witness. She didn’t even remember the steps. She should just leave. Without her stifling presence, she told herself, they would return to their celebration.

  But then she looked once more at Julia, saw the hope and concern in her beloved face, and could not resist.

  She swallowed, then forced a smile. “Very well, Mr. Desmond. I would be honored.”

  Gasps and excited whispers were soon followed by applause, intermixed no doubt with a few judgmental whispers behind hands.

  Mr. and Mrs. Desmond beamed at them, clearly overjoyed to see their son about to dance again. Fergus Desmond launched into the tune on the pipe, his wife standing at his side. The other musicians closed their gaped mouths and joined in.

  John Desmond led Amelia to a place in line behind Julia and Mr. Valcourt, and gave her a reassuring smile. “Just follow my lead.”

  Amelia did so. And after a few hesitant missteps she found the rhythm and mastered the simple steps.

  For a minute or two, only a few of the original couples danced, most still watching Lady Amelia cautiously. Then, with looks at one another, shrugs of acceptance, and game smiles, the other couples, and several new ones, joined in.

  Together the inhabitants of Beaworthy danced around the village green hand in hand. The clouds had passed, and the fountain of Love and Grace flowed steadily at last.

  Epilogue

  ONE YEAR LATER

  MAY 1, 1818

  We observed the first of May much as we always did. We dressed gaily and drove in the barouche from Buckleigh Manor into Beaworthy. It was tradition, Lady Amelia said.

  But I knew she had another reason for wanting to visit the village on this particular day. She wanted to make sure no one forgot.

  We drove first to the flower shop and there bought a large bouquet.

  But Lady Amelia did not lay forget-me-nots at the place where her brother died. She decided it was time to forgive and forget. She would remember the man, the good, but not the regrettable details of his death. Instead she placed the forget-me-nots at the foot of the fountain of Love and Grace. Two things she wanted never to forget.

  This past autumn, she and I went to London for the “little season.” Mamma had decided it was time I finally saw and experienced all I had been missing. At the same time, she planned to introduce me to many suitable gentlemen, hoping one of them would win my heart where James Allen had failed. I enjoyed London, and I am glad we went, but her plan did not succeed. For I had left my heart with a certain dancing master in Beaworthy.

  We returned in early November, in time to watch the bell ringers turn the devil’s stone, this time without incident. However, this did not signal the end of change for our village. For with the arrival of spring this year, new life has budded all around. Romance has budded as well.

  Mr. Ramsay, Alec’s uncle, has wed the widow Mrs. Tickle and now shares her snug house, where the rooms are ever warm and he is ever well fed. Last I saw him, he was happier and more portly than ever. The new Mrs. Ramsay has decided, however, not to change the name of her bakery, for Mrs. Tickle’s pies and pasties are world famous, you know, and Mrs. Ramsay’s are not.

  Alec’s mother and father now live in Mr. Ramsay’s former cottage. Mr. Valcourt returned and has succeeded in earning his wife’s trust and winning her heart all over again. When he arrived in Beaworthy and those first, awkward introductions had to be made, flabbergasted pupils and neighbors invariably sputtered, “But . . . I thought you were dead.”

  In response, Colin Valcourt had nodded solemnly and said, “The man I once was is dead. I was gone many months, and they had no word of me. They feared, even assumed, the worst. And can you blame them? Trapped in war-torn France as I was? But I am back, through the grace of God. Whole and healthy and reunited with my family. Is that not what is important?”

  And eventually people accepted him as they had the rest of his family.

  Mr. Valcourt, Senior, now assists his son in the dancing academy, which began prospering soon after the grand-opening dance. In fact, these days he teaches more lessons than his son, who is occupied with other endeavors.

  Alec Valcourt still teaches the occasional dancing or fencing class, but also devotes time to a new book of dance instruction and etiquette he will soon publish. He is also quite busy arranging our wedding trip. He and I are engaged to be married, and he plans to leave the academy in his father’s sole charge for a few months while he and I see more of the world together.

  Walter Allen has begun courting Tess Thorne, and has learned to praise and dance with the best of the Bryanites. James Allen is not courting anyone, as far as I know, though his eyes still linger admiringly on Aurora Valcourt whenever he sees her, especially as she is blossoming mo
re and more into a beautiful young lady, now in her eighteenth year. Perhaps James is waiting to find a more suitable match. Or perhaps for the match of his heart to become a little older.

  My dear friend Patience is not being courted at all, I’m afraid. But she seems content with that. She is happy to be . . . patient.

  The olive branch she’d extended to the Wilcox brothers had been only that. She’d never held any romantic feelings for either man, which is little surprise. However, I will say, her chosen method was quite effective, as the brothers have not given Alec any trouble since.

  John Desmond is on his way to becoming a renowned bladesmith, making dress swords and fencing swords for gentlemen and noblemen. He does it for the satisfaction of working with his hands, of creating something functional and beautiful. But these days he spends less time admiring hilts and scabbards than he does admiring a certain woman’s auburn hair and dainty figure, her quiet smile and fine eyes.

  At midday this first of May, the church bells ring, not in somber memorial of a long-ago death, but in annual celebration of life.

  Hearing the much-anticipated signal, the inhabitants of Beaworthy come out of their respective shops and homes and join in the May Day dance. This year we are also attempting a new dance Alec has composed. It is called Upon a Spring Day—a dance of new life. The steps are simple, but some of us will take longer than others to master them: Turn. Bow. Reach high. Clap. Honor your neighbor. Join hands with your partner and walk forward, hand in hand.

  Author’s Note

  I learned to dance the box step standing atop my father’s size 15 triple E shoes. I danced the polka with uncles and cousins at family weddings, then went on to take every ballroom dance class I could sign up for during my university days. My dear, long-suffering husband has taken various dance classes with me over the years, and most recently English country dancing at the Tapestry Folkdance Center in Minneapolis. It was research, after all! We learned a lot and had a great time. You may want to try English country dancing for yourself sometime if lessons are offered near you.