Shades of Milk and Honey (8 page)

The strawberry-picking party was delayed once because of weather and again because Captain Livingston had an engagement in town, but at last all the elements co-operated and the party gathered at Long Parkmead in anticipation of their outing.

Miss Dunkirk arrived on horseback, quite alone. As she alighted, her face was rosy and aglow with delight.

“Oh, Miss Ellsworth, you would not believe how beautiful it is this morning. I woke before the sun and thought I should never see such a morning. I begged Edmund to take me riding.”

“But where is Mr. Dunkirk?”

“Oh, his gelding is so slow.” She waved a
hand languidly behind her as Mr. Dunkirk appeared on the road. “There. See? He is only now coming. He would have stayed in Robinsford Abbey all day, but I made him go out. The sky was so glorious with colours. You would not believe such colors.”

“Then you must tell me all about them so that I may imagine them for myself.” Jane smiled and took her young friend by the hands. They had spent a great deal of time together of late. The girl had come to call at every opportunity, sometimes riding over without her brother to spend the afternoon learning some of the finer points of glamour from Jane. Other days they spent the afternoon rambling through the estate and talking of nothing and everything, for though their ages were separated by more than ten years, Miss Dunkirk had about her a combination of youthful exuberance and steadiness of manner which Jane found appealing. Too, Jane had to admit, she was often out of sorts with Melody these days, and Miss Dunkirk provided a welcome distraction.

In short order they heard the unmistakable sound of Lady FitzCameron’s coach-and-four arriving. Jane was not at all surprized to see Captain Livingston accompanying Lady FitzCameron and her daughter, but she was quite surprized to see the other gentleman who arrived with them.

“I do hope you do not mind extending your invitation to Mr. Vincent.” Lady FitzCameron indicated by her smile that of course they could not possibly mind her taking the
liberty. “He has expressed an interest in the view from your hill for quite some time.”

“But, Lady FitzCameron,” exclaimed Mrs. Ellsworth, “you had only to tell us. Mr. Vincent would have been welcome at any time. You only need let your wishes be known. We are too, too happy to oblige.”

“So kind,” Lady FitzCameron murmured, already losing interest in the conversation.

Mr. Vincent made a short bow and took up a station by the wall of the drawing room, looking as stiff and uncomfortable as it was possible for a man to be. Jane occupied herself on the far side of the room, leaving Mrs. Ellsworth to sweep over to him and try to engage him in conversation. His answers were short, almost to the point of rudeness, so much so that Jane almost mustered some empathy for her mother from where she conversed with Miss FitzCameron and Miss Dunkirk. Mrs. Ellsworth had attempted to ascertain something of Mr. Vincent’s family—specifically, which of the Vincents he was associated with—by asking where he was from, and only received the most cursory of answers: that he was from London.

As Mrs. Ellsworth remarked later to Mr. Ellsworth, there was no way to tell if he was related to Vincent the haberdasher or Vincent the M.P. She was quite vexed, and resolved to appeal to Lady FitzCameron for more intelligence at the first opportunity.

She next turned to the subject of art. “Have you seen our landscapes? Our eldest daughter did these.”

Jane wanted to sink through the floor. Instead, she kept her attention outwardly fixed on Miss Dunkirk, who was describing the delicate pearls of clouds she had seen on her ride.

Mr. Vincent turned to the nearest, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Indeed.”

Neither compliment nor condemnation, but simply a recognition of fact. Jane supposed she should be grateful for that.

Failing in her attempts to draw him out, Mrs. Ellsworth was relieved beyond expression when her especial friends Mr. and Mrs. Marchand arrived, sparing her the necessity of further conversation with Mr. Vincent. Jane was, if possible, more relieved than her mother.

With the party thus assembled, bonnets were donned and baskets picked up so that a sizable collection of wicker paraded through the drawing room and out to the shrubbery. Mr. Ellsworth was justly proud of the shrubbery on the south side of Long Parkmead and so led the party through there, though it was not the fastest route to the strawberry patch. Jane walked with Miss Dunkirk, which of necessity meant conversation with Mr. Dunkirk, an effect that Jane did not in the least regret. Melody walked with Captain Livingston and Miss FitzCameron, the three of them laughing and trying to outdo one another with wit.

Ahead of them strode Mr. Vincent, with his folding easel slung over his back. He soon left the party, disappearing around the bend of the shrubbery. By the time the larger
party rounded the bend at their more sedate pace, he was halfway across the lawn between the shrubbery and a copse of trees, on the opposite side of which stood the strawberry patch, in a spot best situated to take advantage of the sun. His carriage was easy, and the stiffness which he had displayed in the drawing room had relaxed into the long stride of a man most comfortable out-of-doors.

“Mr. Vincent seems anxious to reach the strawberries,” Jane remarked.

“He is often ill at ease in the drawing rooms, which is not a surprize considering his history,” Mr. Dunkirk said.

“Oh. Do you know his history then? Do not let my mother know, or she will be quizzing you for half an hour or more. She is overcome with curiosity about him.”

“Thank you for the warning.” He affected a grave countenance, but his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “I do. I researched his history before engaging him.”

“Edmund! You said you wouldn’t tell.”

He arched an eyebrow at his sister. “Nor have I, Beth. Though you are very nearly compelling me to do so, since it is rude to Miss Ellsworth to have a conversation from which she is excluded.”

Abashed, Miss Dunkirk looked down. Jane tugged at her bonnet and looked at Mr. Dunkirk with an overly innocent expression. “I am sorry. I heard my name, but I am afraid my bonnet kept me from hearing anything else. Did you address me?”

He laughed, a clean, pure laugh that came up from his
belly. Jane wanted above all else to make him laugh again, and to look at her always with such delight. Miss Dunkirk laughed with him, and for a moment, Jane felt a part of their family.

“Miss Ellsworth, I had asked Edmund not to tell you because I wanted it to be a surprize, but I will confess. He has engaged Mr. Vincent to tutor me in glamour. Is that not the most exciting thing you have ever heard?” Miss Dunkirk slipped her arm through Jane’s and leaned close to confide. “Edmund has such an admiration of your skills, and I envied them, so I pestered him for lessons until he agreed.”

Jane glanced at Mr. Dunkirk, but he was studying the landscape around them, having already lost interest in the conversation. Surely he could not admire her skills overmuch if he had engaged Mr. Vincent rather than letting Jane continue to help Miss Dunkirk discover her talents. Though, truly, to be tutored by a man of Mr. Vincent’s skills was enviable, and surely the best for the girl no matter what her feelings about the man’s manners might be. “Mr. Vincent is supremely talented.”

Miss Dunkirk wrinkled her nose. “He is so odd, though. You wouldn’t believe how droll he can be. He seems to love the visual arts to the exclusion of language. Outside of lessons, I do not think he has said more than five words at a time to me. Though when he is speaking of art and glamour, he can wax poetic.” She shook her head, laughing. “Really, he is very droll.”

They passed beneath the dappled shade that the copse
of trees provided before they came upon the strawberry mounds. The sudden cool was such a relief that conversation ceased for a moment, only to begin again when they emerged from the trees. Each group exclaimed as they saw the strawberry patches, which even from a distance shewed the heavy red berries nestled among the glossy leaves.

When Mr. Ellsworth had had the strawberries planted, he had instructed his gardener to make them seem a natural part of the landscape. They meandered along low hills and a cunningly contrived stone wall that seemed to be a picturesque ruin, yet raised the strawberry plants so that one did not have to stoop to pluck them.

On the hill above them, Mr. Vincent was unpacking his easel and his paints under the shelter of an ancient arching laurel.

Mr. Ellsworth stopped short and turned in some astonishment. “Where are the servants? I expressly told them to set the nuncheon under the laurel tree. Virginia”—he turned to Mrs. Ellsworth—“did you tell them to go elsewhere?”

“No, Charles, I did not.” She peered up the hill, and her brow furrowed. “I do not see them on the hill. They must be somewhere else.”

“Clearly they are somewhere else, if they are not here. The question is where.”

Mr. Dunkirk said, “Perhaps they are on the other side of the hill?”

“Ah. An excellent thought. I will check on just that.
Meanwhile, I urge you all to avail yourself of the strawberries.” Mr. Ellsworth started up the hill while the rest of the company fell to the strawberries with a will.

The conversations were simple and inconsequential, as all were distracted by the sweet succulent berries. It seemed that Lady FitzCameron had spoken with her nephew about his conduct at the ball, for Captain Livingston paid all the ladies equal attention, even going so far as to compliment Mrs. Ellsworth’s parasol. Without the monopoly on Captain Livingston’s attentions that she had no doubt expected after the ball, Melody turned to Mr. Dunkirk, and soon had him carrying her basket for her as she plucked strawberries from the mounds.

Mrs. Marchand was quite taken with the strawberries. She kept exclaiming over each one she found as if it were the largest she had ever seen—“Never have I seen the like!”—then devoured the berry before anyone else could ascertain the veracity of her claims. Her husband joked, “I declare, I wonder if you are even touching them, or if you are eating them straight from the plant.”

Mrs. Marchand laughed at that, and colored prettily, but her husband’s comment did not slow her enthusiasm for the strawberries.

In short order, Mr. Ellsworth returned, face as red as a strawberry from his climb up the hill and back down. He was laughing, his eyes wrinkled small with merriment. “You would not believe what clever Mr. Vincent has done.”

Jane looked up the hill, but Mr. Vincent was not there. “Has he finished his painting so soon?”

Mr. Ellsworth chuckled and shook his head. “He is still painting, I daresay. Shall I tell you, or shall you guess?”

Captain Livingston said, “He has received an appointment to the King.”

“No. Nor the Prince.” Mr. Ellsworth placed his hands on his waistcoat. “He made the servants and himself disappear, because they marred the view.”

“What?” “Did he?” “How clever!” The crowd quite forgot the berries. Each stared up the hill, declaring that they could see this sign or that of the servants’ location. Jane studied the hill, stunned both that he could have created such a complex and large fold of glamour in so short a time and that the folds themselves could be invisible, even with her vision attuned to the ether. Of course, many great halls used glamour folds to mask musicians at a ball, but they required constant attention, and were enormously detailed to create an exact duplicate of the room as it would have appeared were it empty. Mr. Ellsworth shook his head, laughing. “Not a one of you is looking in the right place. Come, I will shew you.”

As a group, they trooped up the hill, the strawberries quite forgotten, exclaiming all the while about the cleverness of Mr. Vincent and his faculty with glamour. As they neared the top of the hill with still no manifest sign of either Mr. Vincent or the servants, Captain Livingston remarked, “The Admiralty could use skills such as these.”

“Not at sea,” a rough voice proclaimed, and suddenly Mr. Vincent was before them, with easel and the first faint sketches of the scene below. His jacket was off and the top of his shirt was undone, but he gave no notice of the impropriety of either as he continued to paint, all but ignoring the gathered party. His countenance was easy and confident, with no trace of the strain upon it which one would expect from working so large an illusion. Jane turned away from his canvas, involuntarily looking for signs of the glamour that he had dropped in order to ascertain what folds he had used.

“But why not use this to hide our fleets from Napoleon?” Captain Livingston said. “It cannot take so much energy, or you would not be able to keep it up while painting.”

Mr. Vincent’s face shewed no expression, but he briefly glanced at Miss Dunkirk. Jane sensed that he was challenging her to remember her lessons.

Jane kept silent, watching the girl as she pieced the answer together. “It cannot be done because he tied the fold off. A fold tied off is stationary, but the sea is in motion.”

“Correct.” Mr. Vincent turned back to the easel and lifted his brush again.

Melody said, “But where are the servants?”

He pointed with the tip of the brush and gave no other answer.

Jane looked, but still did not see the folds masking the servants. Exasperated, she walked past Mr. Vincent, and then gasped as the servants appeared.

“Jane!” Melody cried, behind her.

The servants looked up, as startled by her sudden appearance, and yet, she could see the landscape around them clearly though she had expected it to be obscured by the glamour with which Mr. Vincent had hidden them. Certainly, all her prior experience with masking glamours indicated that the illusion would be visible even from the center. Jane turned to look back, but Mr. Vincent and the rest of the party had vanished again. It was most perplexing, for she could hear them exclaiming in wonder, but could not see them.

And then Miss Dunkirk was there, without even a ripple in the landscape; she simply appeared between one moment and the next. She, too, gasped in astonishment. The illusion was so seamless that Miss Dunkirk’s passage made no disruption in the ether. She had thought that Mr. Vincent had dropped the glamour when they saw him, but the truth seemed to be more interesting than that.