Shades of Milk and Honey (12 page)

“Who is that?” Mrs. Ellsworth demanded.

“Mr. Vincent departing, I should expect,” Jane said.

Her mother plucked at the blanket fretfully and craned her neck toward the window as though by artful twisting of her head she might see out it. Jane put aside the book without waiting for her mother to ask a second time. She looked
out the window, fully expecting that Mr. Vincent would be striding across the lawn, but saw no one.

“Well?” her mother demanded querulously from the bed. “Who is it? Was it Mr. Vincent?”

“No. Someone must have arrived, but I do not know who it could be.” Jane returned to her book, intent on resuming where she had left off, with Sidonia in danger from a bear, but her mother was not willing to let the matter rest.

“Oh, I do hope it is not Lady FitzCameron. Perhaps I should prepare myself in case it is. It would not do to receive her in bed. Now, if it were Mrs. Marchand, it would be quite a different story because Joy is always so generous and so understanding of my neuralgia. She would be quite, quite willing to see me in the state that I am in, especially after the fright over poor Melody.”

“First, Mother, I am certain that it is not Lady FitzCameron, for her carriage is not at the door. Second, you have no reason to be still afraid for poor Melody, as we went for a walk in the shrubbery this morning and she gave every sign of having affected a full recovery.”

“Oh! I do wish I had been consulted. I would have told her not to go walking under any circumstances. A fall such as hers can have grave consequences later, without any warning. Mark my words, she will be plagued with health troubles for the rest of her life.”

Jane feared that was true, though not for the reasons put forward by her mother. She had a vision of Melody becoming an invalid like Mrs. Ellsworth, for the purpose of the
attention it brought to her. She wondered if that was how her mother’s case had begun, and if Mrs. Ellsworth knew any longer what her real aches were and which were imagined. Melody’s moans of pain had seemed genuine enough. Still, Jane reassured her mother on Melody’s general good health as best she could and then asked if she should continue reading
Sidonia the Sorceress.

“Oh no! I should not be able to concentrate without knowing who is belowstairs. Pray, do go and see who has come. If it is a person of consequence, I should pay my respects.”

Jane could have told her mother that if it had been a person of consequence, Nancy would have brought his or her card up straightaway, but she knew that to argue would only prolong the moment when she went to quiet her mother’s unease. “Of course. I will be happy to check for you.”

Setting the book aside once more, Jane made her way downstairs. She paused by the parlour door, struck by the bouts of laughter within. Jane cracked the door, peering in at a scene which astounded her.

Melody was seated on the couch by Captain Livingston, who must have been the recent arrival. They faced Mr. Vincent, who was conjuring small vignettes on the tea table before them. Jane could barely make out the illusion from where she was, so she crept farther into the room in order to see better. Mindful of Mr. Vincent’s feelings, she endeavored not to watch the folds he manipulated, but to focus on the small manikins. Even so, she marveled at his
skill in managing the minuscule folds needed to create the illusion. The scenery, he had tied off; but beyond that, she was unwilling to look. She would try to enjoy the scene for what it was.

He had conjured a setting of trees which served as a sort of proscenium arch. Their jeweled leaves glowed in the air with the idealized beauty of stained glass. The figures were cunning silhouettes, without color, like living shadows made from the fabric of glamour. A traveler, after a number of obstacles, approached a bridge, which was in the process of being destroyed by a workman with a pickax. Jane at once recognized it as the French shadow-play
The Broken Bridge
. The traveler tried to get the workman to tell him how to cross the river, and after receiving a series of increasingly rude answers, he found a boat and crossed the river.

Though it was a crude story and she knew how it ended, when the traveler approached the workman from behind and kicked him into the river, Jane laughed as heartily as the others.

Mr. Vincent dropped the folds he was holding and, with his breath still somewhat quickened from the shadow-play, rose to his feet. Captain Livingston sprang to his feet an instant after, ever the gallant, but Melody stayed seated, her face subsiding into a mask of bland pleasure.

Sketching a quick bow, Captain Livingston said, “Miss Ellsworth, I had hoped you would make an appearance. Mr. Vincent is being most gracious and amusing us with his talents. Do join us.”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt, I only came because our mother wished to know who had arrived. I must go reassure her; she is not well today.”

“Of course. Please give her my regards and my hopes that she is soon recovered,” Captain Livingston said. Though he was perfect courtesy, Jane felt as if she were already out of the room in his mind.

“I enjoyed watching your shadow-play, Mr. Vincent,” Jane said.

“Did you?” His flushed countenance seemed to doubt her words.

“
The Broken Bridge
has but rarely amused me, while your rendition made me laugh aloud. Though he was but silhouette, I could quite imagine the face of the workman as he fell into the river.”

“La! Jane, you will strip enjoyment from everything with your endless examinations.” Melody picked her fan up from the side table and flicked it open; the sharp rattle as the fan opened expressed her irritation far beyond the sweet tone of her voice.

“I would not want to diminish your enjoyment.” Jane forced a smile to her face. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Escaping the drawing room, she could not stand to return to her mother. Finding Nancy in the hall, Jane asked her to tell Mrs. Ellsworth who the visitor was and that Jane would attend to her later.

Jane headed out of the house to lose herself in the maze, which she hoped would hold a measure of peace in its heart.

*   *   *

As the weeks passed, Captain Livingston came to the house on an increasingly regular basis, until it seemed he was quite a regular fixture. Jane wondered if Lady FitzCameron were well pleased with this devotion of Captain Livingston’s to a family which was not his own. Jane needed more frequent reasons to be out of the house, so she was particularly grateful to have found a friend in young Miss Dunkirk. Though years separated them, she felt that she and the young woman were kindred spirits. As she and Miss Dunkirk spent more time in each other’s company, it was only natural that they began to call one another by their Christian names as a sign of their mutual affection for each other.

Though it too often put her in contact with Mr. Dunkirk, Jane was frequently in Beth’s company at Robinsford Abbey. It was all too easy to see that Beth was lonely for feminine companionship. For her part, Jane endeavored not to shew by word or deed or look that seed of feeling which had taken hold of her heart. This task was much the easier on days when he was away on business, and so Jane found herself timing her visits to coincide with his absences.

On one such afternoon Jane stitched while Beth read aloud. After a particularly emotional passage, Beth stopped and said, “Oh, Jane, have you ever been in love?”

Jane twitched in surprize and drove the needle into her finger, wondering if she had given herself away by some
sigh. Looking up, she saw that Beth was staring out the window with a gaze both melancholy and with the same tenderness which Jane had seen on her sister’s face, and in unguarded moments, on her own. “Every girl does, I think, but the feeling soon passes.”

“Not if it is real love, it doesn’t.” Beth seemed to recollect herself. She returned her gaze to the book, stammering, “At least, that’s what all the books say.”

“One must not put trust in novelists, Beth; they create worlds to fit their own needs and drive their characters mad in doing it.” Jane returned her gaze to her sewing, but continued to watch Beth from the corners of her eyes. “What has made you think of such a thing? Is it only the book we are enjoying?”

“Well, that, and something that Mr. Vincent said the other day when he was talking of art. He said that it was his one true love, and that he had no room in his life for anyone other than his muse. And I said, ‘What, really?’ because I had always thought that artists were passionate, but he was always so cold.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He said that he wasn’t cold, merely focused. That he could not trust himself to speak because his passion made him uncivil.”

Jane laughed, remembering her encounter with him at the strawberry party. “He can be at that.”

“I don’t think he means to be, though.” Beth was silent for a long moment, still staring out the window toward,
Jane realized, the spot where Mr. Vincent had stood painting. “I think his muse is a real person who he cannot be with due to his circumstances. Did you know . . . ?” She leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, “Did you know that Vincent is not his real name? I do not know what it is, but I know that he has some secret in his past, because I overheard my brother talking about it with the investigator before he hired Mr. Vincent to tutor me. Is that not the most romantic thing? I think
that
is why he is so brooding all the time, because of his muse.”

“I think he is brooding because he enjoys being disagreeable.” Jane waited for Beth to laugh, but she did not. Jane suddenly had the uncomfortable sensation that Beth had other reasons for wondering about love and muses. Carefully, so that it might seem like playful teasing, Jane tried to draw her out by saying, “And why do you brood? Do you have a muse?”

At this, Beth did laugh, blushing, and turned her face away. “It is not Mr. Vincent, if that is what you think.”

A silence reigned between them for some moments, until Beth picked up the book and resumed her reading, as if nothing had occurred. Too distracted to follow the plight of the heroine of Beth’s book, Jane continued working on her needlepoint, willing to pretend that the conversation had not happened, but conscious that Beth held a secret in her heart.

The door to the drawing room opened and Mr. Dunkirk stood, framed in the opening, windswept and breathless.
“Miss Ellsworth. I am glad to see you; it seems too long since our paths have crossed.”

Jane put her sewing aside and rose to greet him. “Mr. Dunkirk, you are so often away on business that I wondered if you were still in residence.”

“I am not away so often as that.” He pulled off his riding gloves and strode into the room. “One might begin to think that the two of you conspire to exclude me.”

Jane flushed and stammered that he was incorrect, painfully aware how inadequate a rebuttal she made.

“Edmund! You know she speaks nothing but the truth. You are forever away,” Beth said. “Jane, you simply don’t know how often I wish Edmund would be home, but he is instead away to London. And he will never take me with him.”

“London would not suit you, Beth.” He beckoned to her. “But perhaps you might like what I have brought for you. It is a gift that I have had in mind for some time, and I suspect will inspire you to forgive me for being gone today.”

“Do you see! Do you see how he bribes me so I will forgive him for inviting me here and then ignoring me?” Beth turned in her chair, as if to shun her brother, but it was clear by the curve of her cheek that she enjoyed teazing him.

“Then humor me, and come see it.”

Beth’s looks spoke loudly of a curiosity about what he might have brought, and it did not take much more coaxing to draw her into the hall. Jane followed them, wondering what it would be like to have Mr. Dunkirk dote upon her as he doted upon his sister.

The front door of the abbey stood open, letting the sunlight stream in and gild the dust motes. Outside the door, framed in the perfect pastoral setting, stood a roan mare. Even to Jane’s unpracticed eye, she seemed the most graceful of beasts. Her mane blew in the gentle breeze, showing off her long, fine neck.

By chance, Beth was looking around the foyer instead of out the front door, and so did not see this elegant creature. Mr. Dunkirk stopped her in the hall. “Beth, stay a moment. Do you see nothing that you like?”

Jane held her breath, watching, waiting for the moment when Beth saw the mare. With a puzzled frown, Beth turned slowly, looking about the foyer for a parcel or some other small gift. Only when she had completed nearly a full circle did she face the door.

“Oh.” Deep in her eyes, a glow kindled. She turned to her brother, slowly, eyes still caught by the mare. “Is she . . . ?”

“Yours.” He put his hand over hers, squeezing with that careful tenderness which belongs to a loving family.

Jane stood outside the tableau, content to not be within the circle of excitement which went round the mare and the Dunkirks, and yet longing for someone in her own family who understood her as thoroughly as Mr. Dunkirk understood his sister. As one, Beth and her brother started forward; Mr. Dunkirk was full of particulars of the mare’s heritage and training. He talked of her height and her gaits, but Jane heard only his fondness for his sister.

At the threshold, Beth turned to look back. “Jane, aren’t you coming?”

“Yes! Please do. I saw your card when I returned, so I had another mare saddled for you.” Mr. Dunkirk kept possession of his sister’s arm, but turned his body toward Jane. “It would give me great pleasure if you would join us.”

“I—I am not a horsewoman. I would only hold you back from your pleasure in the ride.” On horseback, her stiff carriage showed itself even more clearly than on the dance floor.

“But, really, you must come. I do not doubt that I shall only want to go slowly.” Beth loosed her hand from her brother’s arm and reached imploringly to Jane. “I shall not want to go unless you come with us.”

“In that case, I would be delighted to accompany you.” Her dress did not suit, but neither was it one which she feared to injure; indeed, for the Dunkirks, Jane would have shredded her favourite gown with only a small pang of regret.