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Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

T he silence that followed after the departure of Lady Stanton and Eva was nearly deafening. Josiah stood for some moments, simply staring at the entryway through which they had left. Idly, he passed his tall instructor's cane from hand to hand. Despite his affluent origins, it would be incorrect to assume that Josiah still enjoyed the spoils of the ton. Though forced to move among them, he found most of them to be a silly and vain lot, with very few exceptions.

It was an unexpected pleasure to realise that Eva was not one of these shallow creatures. She had spoken little, only asking pertinent questions. She had followed his instructions with an alacrity that was immensely gratifying. More importantly, she had a real instinct of movement; Josiah had felt like he'd been struck by lightning when, for those few moments that it was simply Eva and her reflection, she had shown more creativity and movement than the rest of the fashionable girls he tutored combined.

She had been magnificent, not because she was such an expert, but because of the manner in which she could convey feeling. He could not help but compare her to Beatrice, who was, in terms of technicality, far superior to Eva, but lacked the impulsion for emotion. Though he was used to seeing extraordinary things on the stage, even he had to stop and simply admire Eva. Her poise, her carriage, the movement…

It doesn't hurt that she's prettier than a sunrise, either , Josiah thought, unbidden. He attempted to maintain a distance between himself and his students, especially the young ladies. There had been some pretty ones through the years, but he had always held them at arms' length, as if there were an invisible sheet of glass between them. This distance suited everyone, especially as the ladies liked having someone harmless to flutter their eyelashes at. Eva…she was different. She had an arresting beauty that drew him in, like a moth to a flame.

Slowly, Josiah strode about across the polished wooden floor. Idly, he went up on his toes, then back down again, mostly attempting to stay limber and warm before his next lesson. Pirouetting lightly on one foot, he found himself facing the now empty chair next to the fireplace. His face pulled downward into a frown.

Lady Stanton was a problem. Eva had been on the verge of something great, struggling against the weight of society's expectations and her mother's demands, and her mother's cross words had pulled her from the precipice. There were a number of rumours making their way about London about Eva and her mother. Josiah had a healthy amount of doubt for most of them, but there was enough gossip for him to piece together the bare bones of their situation.

"Bare bones" did indeed seem the most apt way to describe it. They were clearly in reduced circumstances, and it was no secret that Lady Stanton was on the make on her daughter's behalf. Josiah was a little surprised that she had been unsuccessful thus far—the ton was full of men willing to pay a fortune for a pretty face, much like a painting to hang in their grand halls. Still, there was a reluctance about Eva, as if she were not completely in agreement with her mother's insistence.

Eva's father had died some years ago, leaving Lady Stanton in a real fix. The details were scant, but it seemed that the late Lord Stanton had invested heavily in some credit scheme, which had promptly burst just before his death. It did not seem a stretch to assume that the stress of it did him in. Lady Stanton seemed intent on simply pretending that all was as it had been before.

Josiah's knee twinged, a reminder of the grey weather that still battered London. He could not help but sigh and be a little grateful that he was not performing this night. He was due to instruct a group of ladies and young men who were set to make their debuts into society later in the year, but were not of the highest echelons of the ton by any figure. Their middle-class mothers had pooled their resources and paid for group lessons, which was becoming more and more common. As their money was more dear to them, they were less inclined to skip lessons, which Josiah admired. Their dedication, while admirable, did not help with Josiah's aches and pains.

He sat on the floor, stretching his legs out before him, and attempting to rub some warmth into his knee. His mind wandered back to Eva, who seemed to radiate her own kind of warmth. He could understand her reluctance to dissent openly against her mother. Moreover, he could sympathise with her: His own family had been quite averse to his choice of career, or even that he should have one in the first place.

His father had been a wealthy landowner-turned-factory owner in one of the new mills that had sprung up at the end of the last century. While his family had been old, it had lacked the wealth and standing that the elder Mr. Galpin had been grasping for. With the advent of his mill, he had the wealth, but had lost all hope of respectability. There was no chance for him to form a decent attachment, not in the north of England, so he had gone further afield.

As the story went, he had been set on finding an Italian bride, but had made it no farther than France. He had found Josiah's mother while on a somewhat clandestine trip to Versailles. She was the natural daughter of a high-ranking nobleman at court, and had been raised in all of the splendour that Paris had to offer. She had a voice like a canary, and had instilled in Josiah a sense of music from an early age.

They had left France for patently clear reasons; Josiah could not remember much of the details, only the chaos and shouting, and that everyone seemed to be running, always running, but never sure of where they were going. From that moment on, his childhood was as good as over; his mother did not sing anymore, and their home had taken on a grey pallor. It was a despondent time.

Dance had saved Josiah. It was the one spark of joy left to him, though he always carried a sense of guilt that he had found a form of happiness. Being accepted to a prestigious academe during peace with France had been like sunlight breaking through a heavy blanket of grey clouds. His father had scowled when he had learned the news; his mother had merely looked pained, and then panicked—she did not trust peacetime in France, not anymore, not when most of her family's heads had gone rolling across a public square.

Josiah was disinherited, but free. To a young man, it was an easy price to pay. His father had refused to see him again, even when Josiah had begun to make a name for himself. It had taken years, years of bleeding feet and currying favour with the Correct People, but he had done it. He had seen his mother once or twice, but she always looked at him with liquid eyes, full of tears and regret.

Because he had managed to break free, Josiah had little patience for those who had remained trapped. Some warranted sympathy…like Lady Eva. She was clearly stuck in an impossible situation, one without a solution that wouldn't crush her spirit anymore than it already was. He could see her testing the boundaries, pushing against them, but always drawing back. With a little encouragement, with the right motivation, perhaps she could…

Josiah shook himself all over suddenly, like a dog that has lately come in from the rain. Frowning, he looked about himself, realising that he was still on the floor of the studio. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there, lost in thoughts and memories that all swirled together. He also didn't know why it was that Lady Eva had dredged up all of these feelings—he hadn't thought about his parents in years.

It would not do for him to be caught lolling about on the floor when his students arrived. With a sigh that verged on a groan, Josiah swept both of his legs underneath him in one graceful motion. Pushing off the floor with his hands, he rose easily, with only a perfunctory grunt at his knee. He quickly arranged his face into a mask of pleasantness, hoping that it concealed the heaviness within.

He was just in time, too, for from the entryway came the sounds of girls chattering and boys stamping their feet from the cold. Assuming the mien of the maestro , Josiah clicked his heels together, threw back his shoulders, and lifted his chin. He held the cane before him in both hands, and attempted to quiet himself with a deep breath.

But it did not work. He was not centred, he was not steady. He felt agitated, full of a sharp, biting energy. The students began filing in, having exchanged their heavy walking boots for the light shoes required for dancing. At Josiah's instruction, he had them collect their boots and put them before either of the fires.

When this was done, Josiah firmly rapped the floor twice with the cane. In an instant, all chatter died away, and two lines were formed of boys and girls, facing one another. Shy glances were exchanged between them, cheeks already pink from the cold going redder still. The mothers who had shepherded them were in chairs near the fires, but sat on the very edges, as if they expected to be told to vacate their seats at any moment.

Josiah took his place at the head of the lines, and all of the students turned to look at him expectantly. They were still young, the oldest not yet thirteen. Josiah merely looked down at them for a moment, something fighting within him. He glanced over to their mothers, their plain dresses and hopeful faces.

He never really knew how much he had experienced the Great Turmoil in France, though it was something that he was asked about regularly. He knew that people wanted the gritty details, the stories about blood and sharp knives and fires that no one could put out, but he refused to indulge them. He would only give a shrug and an affable smile, and say that he was very young then. He could only remember once, adults in his mother's salon, arguing loudly among themselves. They seemed upset about a book, and who was reading it. He could remember distinctly, his mother, pretty and fair, sitting on a chair listening, and simply asking, "Why not? Why shouldn't they be allowed?"

Now, looking down at these eager, waiting faces, Josiah wondered if he had taken on more than he had known; perhaps his mind had been watered with revolutionary fervour. He knew what these children had been told: "This is how you will gain entry into their world. They must think you are one of them. Do you know what we have sacrificed to pay for this?"

Something hardened into a cutting edge within Josiah. If they wish to infiltrate the ballrooms of the ton, then I will ensure that they do it with the greatest possible style, he thought, fighting to keep his mouth from smiling at the prospect. Why should they not have their chance? Why shouldn't anyone?

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