Shades of Milk and Honey (20 page)

Jane blinked her eyes clear and stared at her sister. No sign of jealousy clouded Melody’s face; no sign, indeed, of anything save bafflement at Jane’s behaviour. But Melody had said that she had a lover, and if it was not Mr. Dunkirk, it had seemed so clear that it must surely be Mr. Vincent. If not him, then who?

“I thought you had a fondness for Mr. Vincent, with all your inquiries as to his health.”

“Fie, Jane.” Mrs. Ellsworth sniffed. “Everyone in the countryside was asking after him. And why should we not be concerned with his health? I only wish that people would take half the interest in mine, for I am sure that I suffer as much as he does. More so, if truth be known, for my ailments have gone on for years and his
have only lasted for one week. Charles, you have not turned the carriage around yet.”

“Nor shall I. We are nearly home. I will walk over after dinner to fetch the book.”

“But we could go back now.”

“Yes. Or I can walk back in quiet solitude, which is my preference.”

Jane’s parents continued their small bickering until the carriage arrived on their own front sweep. As soon as it came to a halt, Jane bolted out of it and straight into the house. She could not bear another minute in her family’s company, or anyone else’s, for that matter. Racing up the stairs, she locked herself in her room and collapsed on the bed.

There, she gave way to angry sobs. Angry at her parents for noticing so little beyond that which went on in their own house. Angry at Melody for her selfishness, which was only enhanced by the way everyone petted her. And most of all, angry at herself for not being able to govern her own feelings. Nothing today had done her any real harm, yet she felt as though her nerves had been flayed and left out for the tanner.

Was this the state that Mr. Vincent wanted her in to create art? With her emotions so high, Jane could not see to manage glamour, let alone compose a piece of art. She rolled over on her back and stared at one of her watercolours, which hung on the wall next to her clothespress. It shewed the sea from one of their trips to Lyme Regis. The shore had been beautiful morning after morning, so Jane had set up
her easel on the ammonite pavement and tried to capture the glory of the sunrise. This one had come closest of all the sketches she had assayed.

But Mr. Vincent was right. Though her colours were correct, and her use of light and shading exacting, the whole of it was lifeless and dull. Jane grabbed the book and almost threw it at the painting, her arm already drawing back to throw before she thought better of her actions, bit the inside of her cheek, and fell back against the bed.

If he wanted to see emotion in her work, she would shew it to him. Jane opened his book and began to read.

When Nancy called Jane to dinner, her head was heavy with new ideas. The book was not laid out in any ordered way; it wandered from subject to subject as Mr. Vincent had thought of them. He sketched out notions for glamurals and spoke of the ideas underlying his plans.

With reluctance, Jane tore herself away and joined her family for dinner, but if anything was said of import, she did not hear it. Her head was too full.

Mr. Ellsworth reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “Where have you been, Jane?”

She started. “I beg your pardon.”

“I asked, what do you think about going to Bath?” Seeing Jane’s uncomprehending expression, he continued, “Melody has just proposed it for your mother’s health. Your mother, naturally, thinks this a splendid idea. What do you think?”

“I had not thought that the waters at Bath were considered a good curative for nervous complaints. I would rather think that the noise and crowding should be too much for Mama.” To go to Bath, no, Jane could not tolerate that. Its reputation as a place of healing only existed to justify its status as a retreat for society. One might speak of going to Bath to escape the crush of social obligations, but they were more numerous in Bath than anywhere save London during the social season. Then, too, if Jane were honest, she was worried that a move to Bath would force her into company with Lady FitzCameron and Mr. Vincent, and she needed more time to study before she saw him again.

“Charles, do not listen to that silly girl. Bath is quite the right thing for me, even if my nerves cannot improve, as the doctor says. I have so many other complaints for which it would do a world of good. Ask Melody, she will tell you. Only do ask her.”

“I am certain, Papa, that a removal to Bath would be the best. I worry so about Mama.”

Trying a new tactic, Jane said, “Perhaps we should ask Dr. Smythe. He knows Mama’s needs best, surely. Would it not be best to see if he thinks it will do Mama more harm or good?”

Mr. Ellsworth nodded at the reasonableness of her suggestion. “I shall ask him on his next visit.”

“I could perish by then. You know how my nerves are. Really. Charles, I should think that you did not care for me at all the way you are willing to let me suffer.”

“I let you suffer precisely as much as you wish.”

Jane pressed her hands against her temples. “Perhaps you should all go to Bath and leave me here. I have no stomach for the crowds.”

“What a splendid idea!” Mrs. Ellsworth perked up right away. “It is so much easier to manage having one daughter out than two, and the
ton
will be there at this time of year, so Melody will surely catch the eye of a beau in the fashionable set. Only think, Charles, how nice that would be.”

He harrumphed. “We cannot leave Jane here by herself. That would not do at all. And no one has asked whether
I
want to go to Bath.”

“Papa, do you want to go with us?” Melody laid her hand on his arm. “Say you do, please? It would be so lovely.”

He patted her hand. “But think of your sister. I will not leave her alone here. It is not right.”

“I do not mind, Papa,” Jane said, excited by the notion that she might have the house empty of all her relations. “Nancy would be here to look after me, and I could follow by post chaise if the solitude became too oppressive.”

At last Mrs. Ellsworth seemed to awaken to the proprieties of the situation. “No. No, it will not do to have you alone in the house. Unchaperoned! What would the neighbours think? You will have to come with us.”

“The neighbours would think that I am safe being left alone because I am an old maid. I am of an age and a character where I can serve as a chaperon more readily than needing one.” Jane put her utensils down on the table and
turned to her father. “Please, Papa. I do not want to go to Bath. If you feel you must take the family, then that is all well and good, but leave me here.”

He leaned back in his chair and laced his hands across his waistcoat, drumming one thumb against his belly. Tucking his chin in, he studied them each in turn. Jane felt his gaze on her as if she had just come in from hiding from her governess; she was not sure what she had done that made her feel vaguely ashamed, but she still flushed under his gaze. After a length, he snorted. “I will stay here with Jane and the two of you can go to Bath. I will contact our solicitor to see you settled there for a visit. Does that suit all?”

Jane shook her head. “You should not miss out on Bath on my account.”

“I would not stay home if I did not want to. I am well satisfied to miss Bath.” Mr. Ellsworth winked at her.

“I think it is a splendid idea. Don’t you, Mama?” Melody clapped her hands. “I can look after Mama in Bath and you can look after Jane here. How perfect.”

Jane had her doubts about the advisability of sending her mother and sister to Bath without anyone to check their behaviour. But without agreeing to go to Bath herself she could not see a way to convince her father, who patently did not want to go, to accompany them.

With that decided, the family resumed their evening rituals, finishing dinner and withdrawing to various places in the house. Mr. Ellsworth excused himself to fetch the book from Lady FitzCameron’s, but since he took his pipe, it was
clear that the errand merely offered him a reason to be out-of-doors.

Only Jane did not go to her accustomed place in the drawing room. As soon as she could, she went back to her room and once more took up the only book which could interest her: Mr. Vincent’s journal.

Jane spent the next morning lost in Mr. Vincent’s book, ignoring the bustle of activity that passed through the halls as her mother and Melody prepared for their departure on the morrow. They were, both of them, quite determined to travel with Lady FitzCameron to Bath. Jane so could not bear the constant repetitions of her mother’s delight at being able to travel in the company of a Viscountess that she hid in her room.

Mr. Vincent’s words by turns fascinated and frightened her as he spoke of the intersection between technique and passion. Never before had she had the opportunity to look this deeply into another person’s thoughts. While speaking
of the importance of expressing feelings without trapping them in societal expectations, he, at the same time, examined his own feelings in minute detail, breaking them down in an almost scientific study. Anger might be channeled into storms, or by contrast, turned to become the intricate detail of bark.

She turned the page. There, in a few exquisite lines, he had rendered Beth, with a note penned below her. “Remember what it was to be young.”

Only at the mention of Beth did Jane remember herself. She had not seen the girl since the night of Mr. Vincent’s collapse. Her conscience pricked at her now, knowing that Beth must surely be feeling the coming absence of Captain Livingston. It was so tempting to turn one more page, to read just a little farther, but if she did, Jane well knew that she would lose herself for the remainder of the day.

Jane tucked the book under her mattress to protect it from idle eyes while she was away at Robinsford Abbey, then set out. She pulled the pink shawl she had worn to Lady FitzCameron’s ball around her for warmth; the day was sunny, but she would not hold hope that it would stay warm all day.

The first signs of autumn were beginning to shew in the hedgerows and in the leaves on the hillside. As she walked to Robinsford Abbey, she collected a bundle of leaves from a field maple turned an early gold. Her eyes seemed to see new detail in everything she touched, such as the dark veins of the leaves standing out in sharp relief against amber. The
day was still warm from the sun, but the air carried more than a hint of the coming cool.

Down the lane, Mr. Dunkirk rode toward her, mounted on a black gelding that moved like a shadow under the golden trees. Jane imagined pulling wings out of the ether for the steed. As he neared, Mr. Dunkirk swung down. “Miss Ellsworth. How fortunate. I was on my way to see you.”

Jane blinked. “Me, sir? I confess you surprize me.”

Though attempting to be at his ease, Mr. Dunkirk’s face had a disturbed melancholy look. “Yes, well. May I accompany you for a short time? I would like a moment of your thoughts.”

“Of course. Though as I am headed to Robinsford Abbey, you have made a trip to see me in vain.”

“To see Beth?” He turned the horse around and began walking with Jane back the way he had come.

“Just so.” Jane walked beside him, waiting for him to convey whatever intelligence he had.

The leaves crunched under their feet, sending spicy scents of loam and bracken up to tickle her nose. In her mind, she wove the folds of glamour it would take to re-create such a scent, but even with that distraction, her skin was aware of how close Mr. Dunkirk stood to her.

Finally, he made a soft anguished cry. “I do not know how to broach this. I believe you to be an honourable woman, and so I cannot ask you to betray any confidence that my sister might have given you, and yet—” He broke off and Jane glanced at him. The mask of ease had swept away, and
all his worry lay naked on his face. Jane’s heart seized in her chest, knowing with a certainty that he would ask her about Captain Livingston. She kept her features calm with effort.

Mr. Dunkirk twisted the reins in his hand and said, “It might be best if you heard Beth’s history, so that you would understand why I ask you to—why I ask what I will ask. You might remember that Beth had not learned glamour as part of her studies. It was my parents’ intent that she learn that as a matter of course, along with the other finer arts, and so they engaged a tutor. I doubt that you will remember this conversation, given everything else that happened the evening of Mr. Vincent’s collapse, but I made reference to Beth’s first tutor in glamour.”

“I do. Your discomfort made it stand out in my mind.”

He nodded and continued. “Mr. Gaffney came to us with excellent letters of reference. Though young, he was a man of great skill. My father had no reason to doubt his skills or his character. Ah! But how I wish he had doubted. Even the most cursory of inquiries . . . But I get ahead of myself.”

Mr. Dunkirk paused for a moment of reflection. Sighing a bit, he continued. “I was away at school, as was my brother, Richard. I like to think that I might have noticed if I had been home. She was always a dreamy child, given to romantic fantasies. Once, she sent me a story she had written in which a clockmaker created an automaton of a monkey as a means of winning the love of his fair lady. Such fancy! It was only natural that my father should want to engage an
excellent tutor, believing that Beth would shew an aptitude in glamour. Mr. Gaffney settled in our house and was engaged to work with Beth daily to improve her skills beyond the schoolroom glamour which every girl learns. I believe that he did start in this manner. When I came home from Oxford for the holidays, Beth shewed me what she had been learning and I thought, even at the time . . .”