The Dancing Master Page 7

  The carriage moved on, past the church and inn, past the village green and market hall, and then turned down the Buckleigh Road. But even after the carriage had disappeared from view, Alec could still see Lady Amelia’s somber face watching him. He shivered, then dragged himself home.

  On Tuesday morning, Alec rose early with lead in his stomach. He had agreed to his uncle’s request that he at least go out to the clay works, meet Mr. Kellaway, and see what the job entailed. Alec hoped he could still find a way to teach evening classes, but he accepted the fact that he might have to work during the day to support his family.

  Time to gird up your loins, Valcourt, he told himself. You can do this.

  While Alec cleaned his teeth, he pondered his wardrobe. He wasn’t certain what one wore to seek a place at a clay works, so he selected one of his older coats, a pair of dark trousers, and boots, and he made do with a simple barrel knot for his cravat.

  He breakfasted alone, as usual, took a piece of bread and cheese in case he was expected to start work straightaway, and left his uncle’s house as quietly as possible.

  He walked through the village and passed by the bakery and a slumbering Mr. Gawman. Alec didn’t expect to be gone long, so he did not plan to stop and trade up his lunch, but the jingling bell of the bakery door and Mrs. Tickle’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Halloo! Are you not forgetting something, Mr. Valcourt?”

  He turned and saw the baker, one hand fisted on her ample hip, the other cradling a meat pie wrapped in brown paper.

  Alec smiled. “Morning, Mrs. Tickle.”

  She said, “Off to Kellaway’s today, I understand.”

  The woman seemed to know his business before he did. Apparently she and her sister spoke daily.

  “Yes. I am going to take a look around, at least.”

  She held out her palm. “Well then, let’s have it.”

  He hesitated. “But I’m not certain I shall even take the job.”

  She waved a plump, dismissive hand. “And if you do get hired on, you stop by and see me every morning, you hear? The work is hard at Kellaway’s. You’ll need to keep up your strength.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Tickle.” Alec handed a drowsy Mr. Gawman his bread and cheese, accepted Mrs. Tickle’s pasty with a warm smile, and went on his way.

  As Alec followed the main road west out of town, a gig rattled up beside him. Thinking the vehicle wished only to pass, Alec stepped farther to the side of the road.

  The driver slowed his horse to match Alec’s stride. Alec looked up curiously, but he did not recognize the man of some fifty years at the reins, with dark hair and long side-whiskers as black as his suit of clothes.

  “A moment of your time, Mr. Valcourt.”

  Alec paused. He was quite certain he had not met the man before. Still, he stopped and waited as the man halted the horse and small gig.

  “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Alec said. “For I don’t know your name.”

  “I am Mr. Barlow—estate manager at Buckleigh Manor. You are acquainted with Lady Amelia Midwinter, I trust?”

  “We have met, yes.”

  “Right. Well. Her ladyship wishes you to call in at Buckleigh Manor. This morning at ten.”

  Alec frowned. “Why should she wish to see me?”

  “That is for her to explain,” the man replied. “But I will say, it could very well be worth your while.”

  Had Lady Amelia read his mind when she saw him standing outside the empty storefront last night? Did she wish to warn him—make sure he understood dancing was unwelcome in her domain? As if his uncle hadn’t already told him at every turn.

  Alec said stiffly, “I am on my way to see Mr. Kellaway. I don’t know that I shall have sufficient time to return and change by ten.”

  Mr. Barlow’s eyes hardened. “Make time, Mr. Valcourt. This is not a lady you want to keep waiting.”

  The gig moved on, but Alec remained where he was, thinking. Then he made his decision. He would postpone the trip out to the clay works and see what Lady Amelia wanted first. His uncle would not want him to disappoint the lady of the manor.

  He turned and made haste home, wishing again he could ride his horse. At his uncle’s, he set aside his pie for later, and changed into his Sunday suit of clothes. He told himself he was not out to impress the woman, but knew he would feel more confident for whatever lay ahead if he were well dressed.

  As his pocket watch marked the hour, Alec jogged through the estate gate, tipping his hat to the glaring lion as he hurried up the long drive. When the manor came into view, he slowed to a long-strided walk, hoping to appear at ease to anyone who happened to observe his approach.

  Alec surveyed Buckleigh Manor in awe. It was a magnificent stone structure with a front portico supported by massive granite pillars. The manor overlooked an ornamental lake and was surrounded by luxurious lawns and topiary gardens scattered about in pleasing negligence. In the distance, he saw more trees and glimpsed the Dartmoor hills beyond.

  In the vestibule, a stiff-lipped butler took his hat. “Her ladyship has been expecting you these two minutes gone.”

  “I am sorry,” Alec panted, trying to catch his breath, and wondering why he was apologizing to the butler.

  The black-suited man led him through the inner hall and showed him into the library. “Mr. Valcourt,” he announced and then backed from the room, closing the door behind him.

  Alec tried not to gape at the two-story library, with a gallery above. Two walls held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the third was primarily of windows, and the fourth was dominated by a broad marble hearth, framed by panels of rich green silk. He had been in impressive homes before, he reminded himself. But houses in town were not usually built to such a sprawling scale.

  Lady Amelia looked up from an ornate desk near the fireplace, laid with a tasteful arrangement of silver writing implements, sealing jack, and a vase of silk flowers. Seeing him, she replaced her quill in its holder and gestured him closer with a regal hand.

  Alec bowed. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, your ladyship.”

  She waved away his apology with that same pale hand. “You do not yet work for me, Mr. Valcourt, so a delay of two minutes is of little concern.”

  Not yet work for her?

  She regarded him with eyes that were either green or blue—it was difficult to tell. She appeared to be several years younger than his mother and would be quite a handsome woman, he thought, if not so severe. Discomfited by her imperious gaze, he glanced down at his hands.

  “I understand you were formerly a dancing master.” She said the words as though distasteful.

  “That is correct, your ladyship. I taught dancing and fencing in London.”

  She studied him thoughtfully. “You are well spoken, Mr. Valcourt,” she said. “May I ask about your education?”

  He felt both eager and wary at once, not certain he wanted to work for this woman. “I was educated from a young age by my grandfather, and was later apprenticed as clerk to a London solicitor.”

  One thin brow rose. “Were you indeed?”

  “My mother’s idea.”

  “She hoped to interest you in another profession?”

  “Yes.”

  A ghost of a smile. “As do I.”

  Alec shot her a look, trying not to frown. “I don’t understand.”

  “I saw you standing outside the empty shop on the High Street. I hope you were not considering opening a dancing school of your own. You have undoubtedly learned by now that Beaworthy is not a propitious place for a dancing master.”

  “Thanks to you?” he asked before he could curb his tongue.

  “Thanks to me,” she acknowledged graciously, as though a compliment.

  “May I ask why?”

  “I am under no obligation to explain myself. Suffice it to say I have good reason to believe dancing—and dancing masters—to be insidious and dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? Not
all dancing masters are corrupt or lecherous, your ladyship. If that’s what you mean.”

  “I hope not. For I am prepared to offer you a position here in Buckleigh Manor. As clerk. Assuming your uncle will vouch for your character.”

  His mind spun. It was a good offer. A good position. And the only mess he would get on his hands was the occasional smear of ink. But was it a bribe? Would he, by accepting, be agreeing never to teach dancing again? That he could not do.

  Seeing him hesitate, Lady Amelia said, “I prefer not to speak of anything as vulgar as money, but Mr. Barlow will make certain your wages are more than fair.”

  Alec faltered. “But . . . why would you want me here?”

  She entwined her slender fingers. “It is not that I particularly want you here, but that I don’t want you elsewhere, doing . . . other things.” She held his gaze.

  He exhaled a dry laugh. “You mean to reform me, then?”

  “By offering you an alternative livelihood, yes. That is the plan.”

  “You recall my saying that my mother tried that once already?”

  “I do. But I think you will find I am nothing like your mother.”

  Their gazes locked, each weighing the expression, the fortitude, of the other.

  “Very well,” Alec said. “I accept. Gratefully.”

  Lady Amelia leaned back fractionally. “Good. You may start tomorrow.” She stood and pulled a cord on the wall nearby.

  The library door opened, and Mr. Barlow entered.

  “Mr. Valcourt has agreed to join us,” Lady Amelia announced. “Please advance his salary so he might purchase a suit of clothes befitting his new situation.” She glanced at Alec. “Mr. Gilbert in the High Street will know what you need.”

  He was offended by the condescending suggestion but knew better than to object. He turned to follow the estate manager from the room.

  Lady Amelia’s voice reached him at the threshold. “And Mr. Valcourt?”

  He turned back.

  She ran her fingers over the highly polished desk. “I hope it goes without saying that, even though you are to work here under my roof, you are to have as little to do with Miss Midwinter as possible. You are not her social equal, you understand. She is destined for . . . greater things.”

  Alec’s stomach soured, but this time he managed to hold his tongue.

  There was an air of celebration in his uncle’s dining parlor that evening, as the family lifted glasses and offered prayers of thanksgiving for Alec’s new position. There was even a cake from the bakery. Alec wondered if Mrs. Tickle had slipped inside and left it on the sideboard herself, or if Mrs. Dobb had actually purchased it for the occasion. He thought it wiser not to ask.

  His uncle smiled broadly, and seemed in danger of popping the buttons off his waistcoat. Alec could imagine him boasting to his clients. “My nephew is clerk at Buckleigh Manor. Engaged by the earl’s daughter herself. And how well he looks in his new black coat!”

  His mother was all relieved happiness. Only Aurora, the sister who knew him so well, watched him with concerned eyes, clearly testing his outward appearance of gaiety and wondering if it was genuine.

  Alec was glad to have a way to support his family that didn’t involve dirty manual labor—that relief was genuine enough. Yet he had his reservations about working for the woman who had single-handedly laid waste his career and plans for the future.

  At least for the present.

  After dinner, Alec decided to walk to the bakery, hoping to catch Mrs. Tickle and let her know not to set aside any more pies for him. The stroll would also ease his stomach after the unusually filling dinner.

  He walked into Beaworthy and up the High Street but found the bakery already closed for the evening. Turning back, he glanced once again at the unusual fountain—dry and lifeless. Like the village.

  As he passed the wheelwright’s on the corner, he recalled the young man Miss Midwinter had spoken with during their tour the day before. Curious, Alec turned down that side street. Ahead, he saw a narrow green tenement and that very young man sitting on the front stoop, whittling.

  The dark-haired man looked up with a welcoming smile. “Hello. Fine evening, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” Alec hesitated. “May I ask what you are making?”

  The man shrugged. “Nothing really. Just an excuse to step outside and have a few moments to myself.”

  Alec nodded. “That I understand. It’s why I’m out for a walk.”

  The man stuck out a strong hand. “Ben Thorne.”

  Alec glanced at it, trying not to notice the soiled nails, and shook it. “Alec Valcourt.”

  Following the direction of Alec’s gaze, Ben said, “Sorry. Never clean these days, no matter how I scrub them. And I forever have white dust in my hair. I’m a cutter at the clay works, you see. Bring a bushel of clay dust home with me every night. My poor mother.”

  “Oh, I see.” Alec was relieved all over again to have escaped that fate.

  The man squinted up at him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

  Clearly, he’d had eyes only for Miss Midwinter when they’d spoken on the street.

  “I’ve only recently moved here with my mother and sister,” Alec explained. “We are staying with my uncle, Mr. Ramsay.”

  “Ah yes. I’ve heard the name.” Ben set aside his whittling and asked conversationally, “And what do you do for work, if I may ask?”

  “I’ve just been offered a place at Buckleigh Manor.”

  “Have you, now?” Surprise lengthened the man’s thin face. “Well, good for you. What sort of position?”

  “Clerk.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “You don’t say? I’m impressed. Well acquainted with her ladyship, are you?”

  “Not really. I met her at church.” And her beautiful daughter, he added to himself.

  “Ah.” Ben nodded in understanding. “My family are Bryanites. We have our own services. You should come along sometime. Far more lively than what you’re accustomed to, I can tell you. Singing and dancing . . .”

  “Dancing, you say? That’s intriguing.”

  “Well, I don’t mean a reel or minuet. Still, you won’t be tempted to sleep through the service, I promise you.”

  Alec chuckled. “Have you been spying on me on Sundays?”

  Ben grinned. “No. But my family attended St. Michael’s before we joined up with the Bryanites, and I remember nodding off more than once. Come with us sometime. Sundays at four and Wednesdays at seven. We meet in the room above the market hall.”

  “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

  A young woman stepped out onto the stoop. “Who are you talking with, Benjamin?”

  Thick, reddish-brown hair tumbled over her shoulders and framed a heart-shaped face with a hint of freckles. Dark chocolate eyes met his. Goodness, she was beautiful.

  Ben rose and said, “This is Alec Valcourt. New to Beaworthy, and new clerk at the manor. Mr. Valcourt, my sister, Tess.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Valcourt.” She did not smile. Yet her long-lashed eyes shone.

  Alec bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Thorne.”

  Ben turned to his sister. “I was just inviting Mr. Valcourt to visit our services one of these days.”

  “Were you?” His sister nodded her approval. “Indeed I hope you shall, Mr. Valcourt.”

  She smiled then, the expression emphasizing her prominent cheekbones and lovely teeth. Suddenly Alec thought he just might visit one day after all.

  From the corner of his eye, Alec noticed two men sauntering up the street. Glancing toward them, Ben instantly stiffened. He said between clenched teeth, “Go inside, Tess.”

  Following his gaze, Tess paled and hurriedly complied.

  The two men paused before them, one stout, one wiry, both muscled.

  “Where’s your sister gone in such a hurry?” the wiry one asked.

  “To help our mother inside,” Ben replied.

  “Too ba
d.”

  The stout one eyed Alec. “Who’s your friend, Ben?” His round cheeks and dark curls made him look boyish, but a man’s muscles were evident beneath his layers of fat.

  “Ain’t he pretty?” the wiry one added, shaking the dark blond hair from his face. “Never seen such a pretty lad. Have you, Joe?”

  “No, Felton. I ain’t.”

  Alec held out his hand. “Alec Valcourt.”

  “Felton Wilcox,” the wiry one said. “You probably heard of me.”

  Felton gripped Alec’s hand hard. Too hard. Alec tried not to wince.

  “And this is my little brother, Joe.”

  “Valcourt?” Joe Wilcox asked. “Ain’t that a French name?”

  “Sounds like it,” Felton agreed. “We’re not partial to the French here.”

  Alec lifted his chin. “I was born in London, Mr. Wilcox, as was my father before me.”

  “No Frenchie accent,” Joe observed.

  “No, he speaks good English,” Felton agreed. “And has a fine hat. Isn’t it fine, Joe?”

  Joe smirked. “That it is, Felton.”

  Felton knocked the hat to the ground before Alec could react.

  Alec’s muscles tensed to pounce on the man, but Ben caught his arm. “No, Alec,” he hissed. “You don’t want to cross that lot.”

  The Wilcox brothers snickered and sauntered away, yet Alec kept his wary gaze on them until they disappeared up the High Street.

  Finally, Ben released him, and picked up Alec’s hat. “I see what you’re thinking, but forget it. Felton Wilcox is a champion Devon wrestler, and his brother fights for pleasure. You’ve no chance against them, as I’ve learnt the hard way. So steer clear.”

  Caper Merchant: A dancing master, or hop merchant; [also] to cut capers; to leap or jump in dancing.

  —The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue

  Chapter 6

  On Wednesday morning, Julia walked beside her mother on the way to the breakfast room. She would have preferred sleeping in, but Lady Amelia kept a strict schedule of rising and devotions before breakfast and insisted Julia do the same. Lady Amelia explained that, as heiress to Buckleigh Manor, Julia would one day assume her responsibilities—meeting regularly with housekeeper, cook, estate manager, rector, and charitable committees. Such duties were incumbent upon the leading family of the parish.