Shades of Milk and Honey Read online

  As Jane took her seat between Mr. Dunkirk and Mr. Buffington, she glanced across the table at Melody. Her sister had been brought in by the aging vicar who had the living at Banbree, and was seated next to Mr. Marchand. To her credit, she gave the vicar the courtesy of her attention, though her eyes did wander down the table to the head, where Captain Livingston did the honours as the host. His attention was engaged by his dinner partner, yet he somehow contrived to include Miss FitzCameron in the conversation as well. Jane could not see how Miss FitzCameron’s partner was taking this monopoly of conversation, but suspected that with Captain Livingston’s natural charm he would not feel ill-used.

  When all the guests were settled, Lady FitzCameron raised her glass to Mr. Vincent, who had been accorded the seat on her right as the honoured guest this evening. “Dear friends: Mr. Vincent is a glamourist beyond compare, as his work here testifies. Let us raise a toast to his work and to his health.”

  They all raised their glasses with a will, even Mr. Buffington agreeing that he had never seen the like. Mr. Vincent rose and bowed, and then, before their acclaim could die away, he reached out and twisted his hand once, releasing a flock of doves which flew up and disappeared against the night sky in a rain of stardust.

  Everyone applauded at that, and Mr. Vincent sat down again. His hand shook as he reached for his wineglass. Though Jane longed to know how he had accomplished the illusion, she kept her faith with him by not peeking behind the scenes. Resolutely, she turned her attention away from his end of the table, and back to Mr. Buffington.

  For the whole of the first three courses, Jane endured his conversation, smiling when she must and giving his unceasing discourse about hunters, pointers, and pheasants such attention that it unfortunately encouraged him to talk all the more. It was fortunate that he did not require much response beyond, “Oh, my,” and “Is that so?” for it left Jane free to soak in the ambiance of the glamour which Mr. Vincent had wrought.

  The area she studied most lay past Mr. Buffington’s shoulder. A grove of delicate laurel trees trembled in the light breeze. Rendered in far greater detail than Mr. Vincent had employed in the scenery for his shadow-play, Jane could still sense his hand in the graceful line of the trunks. It was apparent that they were inspired by the laurel tree above Long Parkmead’s strawberry patch, but none of his trees slavishly copied the original.

  When the fourth course began and the table was turned, Jane was at last freed from the dinner partner on her left and could address the one on her right. To talk with Mr. Dunkirk would give her much pleasure as she felt certain he would share her enthusiasm for the forest glade around them. Once they had moved past the pleasantries which convention dictated, Mr. Dunkirk asked, with brow raised, “May I ask for your opinion on Mr. Vincent’s work?”

  “I have never seen such exquisite attention to detail or sophistication in rendering.” Jane bit her lip, aware that she had spoken of the technical rather than the artistic merits of his work. “It quite makes me feel as if I am out-of-doors and at peace. I would not have thought a dinner party could be so restful as this.”

  With the barest look beyond Jane at her dinner partner, Mr. Dunkirk said, “Some conversations may be more taxing than others.”

  “Indeed. I wonder how Mr. Vincent is faring with my mother.” She glanced past Mr. Dunkirk to the glamourist, who was gazing at her mother with a glazed expression. From the back of Mrs. Ellsworth’s head, it seemed clear that she was discussing something with great animation. “What conversation did she favour you with? Was it the weather or the price of silk?”

  “Neither. We discussed the art in your home at length and she told me about as many pieces as she could. I believe we had just finished with the south wall of the drawing room when the table turned, so I will have to call to see what the west wall holds. It is a pleasure to which I look forward.”

  Jane blushed. “I fear that there are no new pictures in the drawing room, so your visit will find only that which you have seen before.”

  “I expect that I will have a new appreciation for what I find in your home. This is often the way with things which have been seen, but overlooked by circumstance.” He took a drink of his wine. “Your mother has been so gracious as to invite my sister and I for tea tomorrow.”

  “How wonderful.” Despite the cooling breeze that Mr. Vincent had generated, the room was suddenly too hot. “But if we are going to discuss art, let us turn to something worthy of discussion. What is your opinion of the room?”

  “I find it quite astounding. Beth’s first tutor was a man of talent, but would never have been capable of something such as this.”

  “I had understood that Beth had not studied glamour before arriving here.”

  Mr. Dunkirk’s eyes widened. He looked down hurriedly to examine the dish in front of him, stammering the start of three different sentences at once. She had clearly said something that inadvertently opened a subject painful to him. To relieve him of whatever discomfort he felt, Jane changed the subject by affecting to drop her napkin.

  He retrieved it, clearly grateful for the reprieve, but she still puzzled over this. Could this mysterious first tutor be the key to Beth’s dark moods and all of her pining over a muse? A muse who, according to the girl, was not Mr. Vincent, but seemed somehow to bring him to mind?

  After they changed topics, Jane and Mr. Dunkirk were able to speak quite amiably of taste and art for the remainder of the meal until it was time for the ladies to withdraw.

  Jane regretted not being able to prolong her conversation with Mr. Dunkirk, but comforted herself with the promise of tomorrow’s visit. In the drawing room, the women divided into clumps and began to discuss the particulars of the meal; specifically the merits of the bachelors present.

  Miss Emily Marchand went to the pianoforte and began to play a simple air, faintly tinting the space above the instrument with colours reminiscent of the dining room. Jane contrived to avoid a rubber of casino, leaving such card games for Mr. Buffington and Lady FitzCameron, and joined Beth by the French doors overlooking Banbree Manor’s garden. Though she wanted to find out how the girl had fared during her conversation with Mr. Marchand, Jane recognized in herself another motivation: when Mr. Dunkirk entered the room, he would seek the company of his sister.

  Beth was out of sorts, however, and the enthusiasm she had shown before dinner seemed to be smothered under a layer of melancholy.

  “Are you well?” Jane asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” Beth sighed, but seemed unwilling to continue the conversation. Jane stood by her in silence, reminded of her mood at Robinsford Abbey. In this silence, Jane’s mind turned to the aborted conversation with Mr. Dunkirk about his sister’s mysterious first tutor. Perhaps he had died from too much glamour and Beth was tragically reminded of him by Mr. Vincent. Or, more romantically, perhaps they had had an illicit liaison, but that was a silly thought given Beth’s youth.

  Jane shook off her fancies by excusing herself from Beth and asking Miss Emily Marchand if she might take a turn at the pianoforte.

  By losing herself in song and glamour, Jane was able to put most of these thoughts out of her mind, though they continued to bubble under the surface. She had just begun on the second movement of Beethoven’s Quasi una fantasia when the door to the drawing room opened and the gentlemen joined them.

  As she had expected, Mr. Dunkirk went to his sister’s side. Jane played, attempting to do justice to the music without shewing off. The folds which she worked around her were simple things of color and light, which represented the elements of the music, rather than literally interpreting it. After Mr. Vincent’s display in the dining room, Jane felt that the farther she stayed from realism, the more successful her chances of satisfying her audience.

  At the end of the song she looked up to find Mr. Vincent standing by the pianoforte, staring baldly at her. Jane did not know what to say to him, so she let her fingers drift idly over the keys, waiting for him to say something. He finall
y said, “What did you think?”

  “Your work is beautiful.” She winced at the banality of her compliment. “It made me forget where I was.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Did you see her?”

  Jane lifted her hands from the piano. “Her? I do not know what you mean.”

  “Look again.” Before she could ask him to explain, he bowed and left the pianoforte.

  Curious now, Jane stood and ceded her place back to Miss Emily Marchand; then she slipped across the hall into the dining room. The servants had already done their duty, clearing the plates, cutlery, and linens from the table, leaving only the massive wood structure in the middle of the apparent glade.

  Jane paced around the perimeter of the room, looking for a “her” among the trees and flowers of the glamural. On her second perusal, she suddenly spotted a face in the bark of a tree and understood who “she” was. The tree was a laurel, and the face, nearly obscured by the bark closed around her, was Daphne, as Jane had rendered her during their tableau vivant, or viewed another way, Mr. Vincent had rendered Melody in glamoured wood. Jane stopped, transfixed by the tree and its subtle compliment, though she could not say with any certainty if the compliment was intended for her or for her sister. She stared at the face, at the mix of relief and fear which he had captured in the features, and felt as if the nymph might open its eyes and observe her at any moment. The breeze that Mr. Vincent had placed in the room moved the tree, giving the nymph the illusion of breath. Jane watched until she became worried that she would be missed in the drawing room.

  At the threshold of the drawing room, she stopped, arrested by the sound of her own name. Mr. Buffington was laughing and said, “Plain Jane? I should judge her fortunate if she were only plain!”

  This provoked a round of merriment from his listeners, so near the door that it was impossible for Jane to enter without notice. Her cheeks burned and tears pressed against her eyes. If she had taken Melody’s advice and played with glamour, he would not say such things. It did not matter; she knew it did not; and yet, she could not bring herself to cross that threshold and face their attempt to conceal the conversation. Jane stumbled back, her sight dimmed by tears, and retreated to the dining room.

  Twelve

  Beast and Beauty

  Decrying herself as a weak and vain girl, Jane struggled to restrain her emotions. It did not signify that Mr. Buffington found her less than plain. He was not a man whose attentions she wanted, and so his opinion of her did not matter.

  However little she thought of Mr. Buffington’s opinion, or of his unseemly attitude in mocking her, some part of her insisted that it was true, and that he must not be the only one who held that opinion. Was it not likely that Mr. Dunkirk also thought she would be lucky to be “only plain”? Had not Jane herself indulged in vanity by using glamour to shorten her nose? Miss FitzCameron did so regularly, and it had done her no harm in the eyes of her suitors, but Jane, plain Jane, in her honesty and integrity, was mocked for an accident of birth over which she had little control.

  Footsteps caught her ear as someone approached the dining room. The tears on her cheeks burned their tale of upset on her skin. Spinning in place, Jane sought another exit, but Mr. Vincent’s art had hidden the other doors.

  Rather than let herself be seen in this state of violent emotion, Jane pressed herself back into a corner, and used the light from the room to blow a bubble of glamour around herself in the manner which Mr. Vincent had shown her.

  Trembling lest she be discovered, Jane held herself as still as possible, trying to hold her breath even. Silently, she blessed Mr. Vincent for giving her the ability to hide.

  First through the door was Beth, followed by Captain Livingston. He looked behind him as he came through the door and pulled it closed behind him.

  And then she nearly lost her ability to keep still, for Captain Livingston placed his arm around Beth in a manner reserved for lovers. “Now, dearest. What troubles you?”

  Beth shrugged his embrace off. “How can you pretend to not know? You must know what torment it is to watch you pay such attentions to Miss FitzCameron.”

  He laughed. “Is that all? She is my cousin. Further, I was seated with her during dinner, and so could hardly fail to attend her.”

  “But then you all but ignore me!”

  Captain Livingston said, “Dearest, you must understand that if we are to keep from under my aunt’s notice, I must share my attentions with others. I have no wish to hurt you, but my aunt, though good, is a jealous woman. She expects me to engage myself to Livia.”

  “Why can you not tell her that you are engaged to me?”

  At Beth’s words, Jane pressed her hands against her mouth to hold her shock inside.

  “Because I am poor. Until I am assured of her good graces, I do not want to risk a breach. So I must broach the subject carefully. Trust me, dearest; let me proceed as I feel I must. If it were within my power . . .”

  “I know, truly I do.” Beth lowered her gaze. “But it is hard to wait.”

  “For me as well. But for now, we should rejoin the party so that no one misses us.” He patted his jacket pocket and winced. “Buffington expects me to sit in on the next round of rubber. Dearest, I told him I was going to fetch my wallet, but my room is in the east wing. I don’t suppose . . .”

  “Oh! Of course.” Beth opened her reticule and pulled out a handful of bills. “Father just posted my allowance to me, so I feel quite flush.” She pressed the bills into his hand. “You go first. I should like a moment to collect myself. Besides, it would not do to be seen alone together.” Her back was to Jane, and hid her expression, but her voice was resolute.

  Captain Livingston smiled and kissed her on top of her head. “Thank you, dear.” Without further word, he slipped from the room.

  Jane clung to the wall, at a loss for what to do. She had not been intended to overhear this conversation, but was it worse to explain her presence, or conceal it? It was clear that Beth and Captain Livingston had an engagement, but what sort of engagement was this that required secrecy and, worse yet, flirtation with others to conceal?

  Standing alone in the middle of the forest glade, Beth seemed as fragile as a deer. Jane could not stand the thought of seeing her on the morrow and pretending that she knew nothing of this odd engagement. It was best to reveal herself at once.

  Thankful that the girl’s back was to her, Jane released the folds which tied her bubble of safety in place. “Beth?”

  As if a hunter’s shot had resounded, Beth leapt and spun, her eyes wide and staring. “Oh! Jane! I did not hear you enter. Heavens, you gave me such a fright. I have come to look at Mr. Vincent’s fine work once again. I find it quite entrancing.” Her face slowly changed as she looked around at the trees and grasses in the great room and came to the realization that there were no other doors visible. “But where did you come from?”

  Jane faltered, even before she began to speak. Her mouth would not form the words.

  Beth frowned. “Are you quite well?”

  Swallowing, Jane tried again. If she could make Beth understand that she had not intentionally eavesdropped, then perhaps her intrusion would be more readily forgiven. “I had a small upset earlier and came here to collect myself.”

  Before she could continue, Beth had crossed the space between them, all solicitousness. “Oh, you poor thing. Do tell me, if you may, what has upset you.”

  Jane waved her hand to brush that aside; her own embarrassment did not matter in this conversation, save that it caused her to be in place to overhear the lovers. “It does not matter, so much; simply know that I had been somewhat upset, and took refuge in the—”

  “No. No. You may not tell me that someone upset you without telling me who and how.”

  “But it does not matter.”

  “It matters to me.” Beth took Jane’s hands in her own. “Dear Jane, what upset you? Tell me that, and then you may continue with your story.”

  Knowing that she woul
d get no farther with Beth until she satisfied the girl’s curiosity, Jane conceded. “I went to look at the glamural again, and as I was returning to the drawing room, I heard a group of men standing together. One of them made a comment which—”

  “What did they say?”

  Even now, the words were still burned into her mind. “ ‘Plain Jane? I should judge her fortunate if she were only plain.’ ” Jane faltered for a moment, angry at herself that the words should still carry any power.

  A vein pulsed at Beth’s temple. “Who said this?”

  “I did not see the speaker.” True, though she had recognized Mr. Buffington’s voice; but she did not want Beth to be distracted by such a small injury. “It is not important now. What is important is that I went to calm myself in the dining room, and—”

  “Oh! And then you found me there when you sought solitude.”

  “One might say that you found me, and I must beg your forgiveness for that. You see, I was here first, and too distraught to bear company, so when I heard voices I wove one of Mr. Vincent’s bubbles around me in a moment of panic. You must believe that I had no intention to overhear any private conversation, but once—”

  “Do you mean to say you have been here since—since I entered?” Beth’s voice trembled with sudden understanding.

  Jane nodded.

  “And you heard . . . ?”

  “Everything. Yes. Forgive me. When you came into the dining room, I was too startled to say anything, and then there did not seem to be a good moment to stop you. But I thought it best to tell you what I had heard.”

  Beth left Jane’s side and paced the room, her hands twisting in restless agitation so their fine bones stood out in sharp relief. “I hardly know what to say. I am equal parts angry and dismayed and, to some measure, relieved, for I have had no one to whom I could unburden my heart. And then, too, I am frightened. Oh, Miss Ellsworth. I beg you. Do not tell anyone; you do not know what the consequences could be.”