Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

J osiah had no memory of actually walking back to the dancing academy. He simply found himself standing before the familiar door, his hand on the latch, reaching for the key in his pocket. It should be empty at this particular hour of the afternoon, which was a blessing for Josiah—he had no wish to speak to anyone.

If only she weren't so beautiful, if only she weren't so compelling, if only… was the constant refrain that he had kept up on his journey. His feet had apparently carried him of their own volition to the academy. It was appropriate, as it felt more like home to him than anywhere else in London.

Sighing, he jammed the large brass key into the lock on the door and twisted, but instead of the familiar clank of the tumblers falling back, there was only a hollow clinking. He frowned, and then sighed again, heavier this time. The door was already unlocked; someone was clearly within. He debated for a full minute about simply turning about and returning home, but ultimately decided that wouldn't do. Someone may well have heard him fiddling with the lock, and he didn't want anyone to be alarmed.

Of course, there were only two other people beside himself who had a key to the door. One was the maid, and it wasn't the poor girl's fault that he was having a bad day. She had the innate talent for being silent and making herself scarce when it was clear that she needed to, so it would not be hard for Josiah to pretend that he was alone if it was she within.

The other person who had a key was Beatrice, and she…well, Josiah doubted that she would be sympathetic. It was this thought that had him hesitating, freezing on the doorstep to his own dancing school. On the other hand, if he did not speak to her now, the expectant conversation would hang over him relentlessly.

Better to get it over with, then, Josiah thought grimly. Resolute, he withdrew the key and replaced it in his pocket, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The entryway to the school was not particularly warm, but the cloakroom and connecting dressing room was always a bit warmer. There were small brass braziers, and the maid diligently kept them warmed with coals during the winter months. There were the two fireplaces at either end of the dancing hall, which threw out warmth and light well enough, but on particularly cool and draughty days, these were supplemented with additional braziers.

Such was the case today, in anticipation of the rehearsal that would commence in an hour's time. Josiah had been counting on this hour of solitude to pull his thoughts together, to regain some kind of composure. Robbed of the opportunity, he instead steeled himself for a conversation with Beatrice.

He paused long enough to remove his snow and dirt-covered boots in one of the dressing rooms, replacing them with his leather dancing pumps. The familiar feeling brought comfort, as it always did, but there was an unfamiliar sort of sadness this time as well. It was a strange feeling, like a pre-emptive disappointment. He flexed his feet a couple times, sighed, and rose, pushing off from the chair with his hands.

In the dancing hall, Beatrice was indeed there, which was not unexpected. What was unexpected, however, was the fact that she was standing next to the bar bolted to one long wall. She stood firmly on one foot, grasping with the hand on the same side; with her injured foot, she was cautiously placing weight on it, flexing her ankle slowly. She winced, then tried again.

"Aren't you supposed to be resting that foot?" Josiah demanded. One of the things he simply couldn't abide was his dancers not taking the proper due care and jeopardising themselves further.

"Aren't you supposed to be teaching a saucy bit of rich baggage how to drag her hooves across the floor?" Beatrice snapped back. Josiah did not rise to the bait; Beatrice was at her most spiky when she was vulnerable, and being injured was just about the most vulnerable she could be. He simply ignored her, and made as if he were going to perform some stretches of his own.

After a few minutes of silence, punctuated only with sharply inhaled gasps whenever she placed her foot too quickly on the floor, Beatrice spoke again. This time, her voice was more even and contrite.

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," she said. "I'm just worried about you. You seem to have taken a greater interest in her than your other students in the past." Josiah turned and watched as she attempted to bear weight on her foot again, wincing and gritting her teeth.

"How long have you been at this?" he demanded, nodding toward her injured limb.

"Long enough," Beatrice admitted. "Would you help me to my seat, please?"

"Of course."

Josiah went to her, and placed his right arm securely about her waist, allowing her to hold onto his left hand. Slowly they hobbled along, making their way in little hops and starts to the settee that had been pushed against the wall.

Beatrice let out a strained, breathy laugh at one point about halfway there. "At least you're used to leading me about, I suppose."

"There is that," Josiah agreed.

"That's my point, though." She paused and gritted her teeth for a moment, then continued on. "I know this life of ours, I know the demands placed on you. Is it fair to expect someone else to just throw themselves into our world, and expect them not to drown?"

Josiah said nothing, but he could feel his jaw clenching. Beatrice, apparently taking his taciturn silence as encouragement, continued speaking as they reached the settee.

"I'm not speaking ill of her; it's not her fault, really," Beatrice said, speaking in tones that indicated that she felt she was being incredibly generous. "She was brought up to one life, and it's all that she knows. Is it decent to both of you to expect her to completely throw away everything she knows?"

Conversation was again interrupted as Beatrice released her hold on Josiah, sliding down to the settee with a pinched face. "Honestly, I do not know how I managed to get that far."

"Which brings up another problem," Josiah said, turning away as Beatrice hoisted her bad leg up next to her. "What shall we do about the Duke's ball?"

"Oh honestly Josiah, come off it already," Beatrice sighed, exasperated. She was leaned forward at an awkward angle, tenderly massaging her sore ankle. "It is not that difficult of a prospect."

Josiah turned back to her, one eyebrow arched. "I thought you were the one pushing for the demonstration, as it would bring further opportunities for patronage."

"I am," Beatrice said, her eyes still on her swollen ankle as she turned her leg this way and that, attempting to get a better look at it. "But it is a waltzing demonstration, not exactly the ballet at the Royal Opera."

"What do you suggest, then?"

Giving up on her ankle, Beatrice sat back, meeting Josiah's eye with a careless shrug. "Just pull Lilly or Ruth from the theatre for a couple of hours on the day of. No one will be any the wiser, and it's not as if anyone will really be able to tell if they miss a step."

Josiah frowned, but did not immediately veto the idea. It had merit, and was likely not only the most practical solution, but also the only solution. He turned away, looking out the window. The sun had been out earlier in the day, but clouds were now hiding its face again, threatening snow or rain.

"I suppose I haven't much choice," he said finally.

"Why look so morose then? Honestly Josiah, you are the only man I know who can be presented with a perfectly serviceable solution to a problem, and find it upsetting," Beatrice huffed, folding her arms over herself.

"I just—I thought she might be great," Josiah said softly, turning at last to look at Beatrice.

Her face, hard and inscrutable, softened a little as she gazed at him. "Not everyone is destined for greatness," Beatrice said with surprising gentleness, putting her hand on Josiah's arm. "Trying to drag others to your level of achievement will only drive you mad."

He had nothing to say to that, at least nothing that wouldn't end in a quarrel. So, he elected for silence, staring out at the empty dancefloor of the school. In less than an hour, it would be populated by members of his troupe again, eager to perfect their performances.

It would have been easier if she had not shone as bright as a sun, Josiah lamented. He would allow himself this moment of melancholia, then put it away for the sake of those who depended on him.

"But your mother didn't really say anything that was untrue," Kitty argued, far too reasonably for Eva's taste, from her usual spot at the foot of Eva's bed. The bed's owner had flopped facedown across it, and had scarcely moved since Kitty had arrived. Eva had summoned her immediately after the lesson with Josiah.

"Yes, but she didn't have to say it!" Eva objected, her words muffled as she spoke into the quilt. "I'm not the same person that I was at sixteen, and it's unfair to pretend that I am."

"True enough," Kitty agreed. The bed dipped a little as she leaned back on her elbows. "For instance, you used to find Pamela to be the very last word on literature."

"What are you implying?" Eva said, her head snapping up.

Kitty gave a one-shouldered shrug, a playful look on her face. "Only that perhaps it was not only your taste in marriage prospects that was questionable."

In spite of her misery, Eva floundered around behind herself with one hand until she found a pillow, which she quickly put to use by thumping Kitty on the head.

"How very dare you," Kitty said with the least amount of outrage humanly possible. "I shall have to call you out for this grievous insult."

Eva flopped over onto her back, looking up at Kitty. "Shall it be pistols at dawn then?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of pillows ," Kitty said, taking up the pillow herself and letting it fall onto Eva's stomach. "Who knows, we may start a new fad for entertainment."

"Ladies duelling with pillows in the parks and back alleys at dawn? Why not, I suppose. Mother says that in her youth there was a great spate of ladies bare-knuckle boxing," Eva mused.

"Good Lord," Kitty muttered. "Wait, at dawn? Oh, eugh, no, far too early." Her pert little nose wrinkled up in distaste, which made Eva laugh. Life's greatest sins as far as Kitty was concerned were cakes that were too dry, ugly shoes, and having to rise before the clock struck nine in the morning.

Though their conversation was purely nonsensical, it did have the benefit of distracting Eva from what had made her so unhappy in the first place. Kitty was a good friend: She knew the precise ratio of serious conversation to cheering that was required at any given moment. It was relatively seamless, then, when she turned a level gaze on Eva and spoke more practically.

"So why do you care what Mr. Galpin's opinion is of you? Logically, it shouldn't matter; you likely won't ever see him again."

Eva leaned over a little, not wishing to meet Kitty's eye. With one finger, she traced the curlicue pattern of stitching on her bedspread. "That's…not entirely true," she admitted quietly.

"What do you mean? Which part isn't true?" Kitty demanded.

"I shall be seeing him again—I imagine we all shall. He is invited to demonstrate at the Duke's ball," Eva said, glancing up once.

"Oh, yes, I remember. You were supposed to dance with him there, yes? Oh. Oh, I see, yes, that does present a bit of a problem." Kitty's face creased a little as she thought.

"I just don't know if I can bear to see him after the display this afternoon," Eva said, still looking down at her bed.

"You still haven't answered the question as to why it matters so much to you," Kitty reminded her.

There followed a few beats of silence. Eva half-hoped that Kitty would become bored and forget what they were discussing, but to no avail. Realising that she wouldn't be fobbed off so easily, Eva sighed.

"I just want him to think ill of me, is all," she said unconvincingly. She felt the bed shift a little as Kitty folded her arms and pursed her lips at her. "Oh very well," Eva said, flopping backward again. "I suppose you might say that…it may be entirely possible that I…may have formed the slightest, most inconsequential attachment to him," she admitted at last, dragging her words out reluctantly.

In the manner of a condescending governess, Kitty reached over and patted Eva's hand comfortingly. "There, that wasn't so very difficult, was it?"

Eva's head rolled so that she could glare up at Kitty. "You already knew," she said, less of a question and more of an accusation.

"Of course I knew," Kitty said off-handedly, as if discussing the weather. "How long have I known you? Give me some credit."

"Fair enough," Eva grumped. "And now this is the part where you tell me I'm being foolish, throwing away my chances, and so forth?"

Kitty looked surprisingly thoughtful. "No, I don't think I will. As long as I've known you, you've hardly formed an attachment to anyone. The fact that you have done so now is surely significant."

"So should I attempt to set things right with Mr. Galpin, then?"

Laughing gently, Kitty patted Eva's hand again. "Oh Eva, darling Eva, was that ever really in question? You are single-minded when the fancy strikes you. I expect there isn't a man alive who could resist your charms when you are decided."

Eva smiled and squeezed Kitty's fingers. "There is still an even greater problem to surmount."

"Your mother?" Kitty asked, clearly knowing the answer full-well.

"She was very eager to show me a letter that arrived this afternoon, confirming that Lady Cluett and her son are ‘anxiously awaiting the chance to become better acquainted' at the Duke's ball." Eva reached up and scrubbed her face with her hands. "I have no idea how I will begin to make this come off."

"Mm," Kitty agreed. Abruptly she leaned over Eva, quirking her brows. "Tell me about the lucky Mr. Cluett."

"Oh, you know the type," Eva said, waving her off. "Big, burly specimen, handsome enough in a rustic sort of way. Likely a Highlander or two in his family tree, I'd wager. Far too nice for his own good, or mine for that matter," she added.

"I am generally opposed to eating off someone else's plate, but I must admit that I am sorely tempted in this case," Kitty said with a coy little smile.

Eva sat up so suddenly that her head nearly collided with Kitty's. "Kitty, I think you may be in great danger of being a genius," she said, her eyes darting back and forth as she thought. Her mind was working quickly, putting pieces of a puzzle together. Slowly, her gaze lifted, and she looked at Kitty, who wore an expectant expression. "I think we have a chance to both get what we want, if we are clever."

"Is there really any doubt of that?" Kitty asked rhetorically.