If they wished to learn to dance, Camille had said rashly, then she would teach them. And had they noticed that in the troupe they had just watched there were exactly as many men dancers as women? One of the recently hired housemothers had even admitted to some skill at the pianoforte and might be persuaded to play while their teacher taught the steps. Her offer had been met with such enthusiasm—a public cheer in the middle of the street that would have scandalized Lady Camille Westcott even without the conspicuous addition of the purple rope—that she had decided to waste no time but to begin immediately after luncheon. Ursula Trask, the housemother in question, had agreed to play for them, though she had warned that her fingers were rusty and might well hit as many wrong notes as right.
It was only when she was already hot and bothered and disheveled and barking out instructions as she tried to teach the steps of the Roger de Coverley, however, that Camille recalled this was one of the days for art instruction. It was amazing she had forgotten when she had thought of little else but Joel Cunningham and their journey up into the hills all last evening and most of last night—she had slept only in fits and starts—and much of this morning too. But she had indeed forgotten and would not have remembered now if she had not suddenly noticed him standing, or rather, slouching in the doorway, one shoulder propping up the frame, one booted foot crossed over the other ankle, his arms folded over his chest, a smirk on his face.
She stopped barking abruptly and the music faltered and children went prancing off in all directions.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh goodness. Children. Artists. It is time for your painting lesson.”
She was horribly aware of her appearance, and of his. Since when had shabby men started to look impossibly attractive when immaculately tailored ones merely looked . . . well, immaculately tailored? Though it was not shabby men exactly—was it?—but a certain shabby man. It was really very puzzling.
There were sounds of protest from the art pupils, even, surprisingly, the boys. Joel held up one hand, palm out, and pushed himself away from the doorframe.
“Dancing?” he said. “It has not been taught here since Miss Rutledge’s days. Most of you will not even remember her. But everyone should know how to dance. Among other things, it is an art form. A dancing lesson can conceivably be considered an art class. Let it proceed, then, and I will lend my support to Miss Westcott.”
The children cheered and Camille wished she had realized before she started that knowing how to dance was somewhat different from knowing how to teach dancing. There was so much to teach. There were the steps and the figures, of course, but there were also things like daintiness and grace and the correct positioning of one’s head and hands to consider, and even the expression upon one’s face. And it was different for boys and girls. This could well be her biggest failure in two weeks of dubious successes—except that the children were obviously enjoying themselves enough to want to continue. And younger children and housemothers and even Roger and Miss Ford kept poking their heads about the door, smiles on their faces.
After Joel had explained that when he learned to dance they had all moved about with great enthusiasm and a bounce in their steps and no regard for style or grace, the process became easier and far more fun. He taught the boys the steps. Camille taught the girls. Together they pushed and prodded and led and coaxed and bullied and applauded the class into performing a dance that had some sort of resemblance to the Roger de Coverley. And since everyone ended up flushed and bright eyed and clamoring for more lessons and different dances another day, Camille supposed they had achieved some success after all.
She dismissed school early rather than herd everyone back to the schoolroom for a mere half hour. She thanked Ursula for playing the pianoforte and went back to the schoolroom to tidy up. Joel followed her there.
“Is this not the final day of your two-week trial?” he asked.
“It is.” She half grimaced. “Miss Ford told me during luncheon that if I wish to stay for the next twenty years or so she will put no obstacle in my way. Is it because no one else has applied for the position, do you suppose?”
“What I suppose,” he said, “is that it is because you are an excellent teacher and the children love you.”
“I cannot imagine why,” she said, straightening the books in the bookcase. “I seem to have brought nothing but chaos to the schoolroom. And I have no idea what I am doing.”
He grinned at her. “Have you heard of the waltz?” he asked.
“The waltz?” She frowned. “Of course.”
“Have you danced it?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“It is said to be both risqué and hopelessly romantic,” he said. “Which is it, in your estimation? Or is it both?”
She had never considered it particularly romantic. But then, she had never found anything romantic. Romance was not for the likes of people like Lady Camille Westcott. She had never found it risqué either. If it was danced properly, with the emphasis upon grace and elegance, then it was a perfectly unexceptionable dance. Her partners had always been chosen with great care, of course. She had waltzed a number of times with Viscount Uxbury, and no one was more proper than he—until, that was, he had begun calling her a doxy. Was that what he had called her, she wondered, when Avery and Alexander had chucked him out of the ball in London?
“Or is it neither?” Joel asked when she did not immediately reply.