Shades of Milk and Honey Read online

  “But surely you would not enter into a liaison of which your family would disapprove.”

  Beth laughed with a bitterness far beyond her years. “They would approve of Henry, but my brother’s sense of honour would not permit him to allow the engagement to continue unannounced, and, if it is to continue, then it needs be kept secret for Henry’s sake. Please. I beg of you. Tell no one. Will you promise me that? Oh, Jane, will you promise? I do not know what I should do if anyone knew.”

  Beth’s posture spoke of desperation, and Jane was reminded of the sadness she saw sometimes in the young woman’s eyes. Though it was not a conversation to which Jane should have been privy, she felt uneasy at contributing to the subterfuge of Beth and Captain Livingston’s engagement.

  From without the dining room, voices drew closer. Beth turned to the door. “It is my brother. You must promise. Please, Jane, or we are undone.” She gripped Jane’s hand with such impassioned strength that it left Jane little choice but to blurt, “I will not tell.”

  At once, an ease swept over Beth’s features, and she was able to greet her brother with admirable aplomb. Jane was not so easy in her manner. Two upsets so close to one another left her nerves frayed to their very centers.

  Mr. Dunkirk and Mr. Vincent entered, discussing in animated detail the touches he had placed within the glamural. Mr. Dunkirk alone perceived Jane’s agitation and raised an eyebrow. “Is anything troubling you?”

  At his side, Beth’s eyes widened in entreaty, but Jane kept her faith. “No. Thank you.” Still, Jane’s voice shook so much that even Mr. Vincent noticed her state and inquired again.

  Jane struggled to master herself. “Truly, I am fine. I only wanted a respite from the crowded drawing room.” She turned away to study the trees in an effort to regain her composure. “I find your work so very, very restful, Mr. Vincent.”

  “Good.” He glanced across the room and said, “Did you see her?”

  Jane stammered before realizing that he meant only the dryad, which was close at hand, and not Beth. “Oh yes, I did. It is a fine subtlety. You should be proud of your work, though I am not sure that Lady FitzCameron will appreciate having a tribute to my sister in her dining hall.”

  “What? What tribute is this?” Beth turned on her heels, as if nothing troubled her save for the mystery which Mr. Vincent presented.

  He grimaced, which made the gauntness of his face become more severe. “Look carefully. I think you will find my bit of play. As for Lady FitzCameron, I doubt she will notice—it is for more perceptive eyes. In any event, she was impressed with the tableau vivant we performed, so I may always pretend that it was in homage to her taste in liking it.”

  “It is not?”

  Mr. Vincent turned to regard the dryad, and his face softened more than Jane thought possible. “It is not.”

  A less perceptive individual might have missed the softening. Another might have seen it and mistaken it for regard for Jane’s talents, but Jane believed that it was to the art itself that his heart belonged. The art that was embodied in her sister.

  “Oh! I see her now.” Beth ran to the dryad and exclaimed. “Do look, Edmund. It is so clever of Mr. Vincent to include her. Such a wonderful reminder of our strawberry-picking party. So delightful.”

  As the others admired the dryad, Jane longed to escape their company; to flee to her home, where she might have the luxury of reflection and calm. But that was not a choice she was granted, so she returned to the drawing room, walking behind the others with Beth as a guard against idle words. The Dunkirks at least valued her for something, however small that may be. Lady FitzCameron looked up as they entered and beckoned, at which point Mr. Vincent excused himself, leaving Jane to Mr. Dunkirk’s attentions. Though this was something to be desired above all, Jane could not quite give herself to the conversation.

  “I wonder if you might—” Mr. Dunkirk’s query went unfinished as a shout broke the idle chatter in the room.

  Captain Livingston flung down his hand of cards, his face flushed quite red. At his side, Mr. Buffington leaned back in his chair with the beneficent smile of a weasel.

  “I did warn you that I wasn’t bluffing.”

  Scowling, Captain Livingston drew forth the bundle of bills so recently given to him by Miss Dunkirk.

  At that moment, Mr. Vincent arrived by her side. His face was grave and his lips tight with some repressed emotion. “Lady FitzCameron requests your attendance.”

  Baffled, Jane followed him to the Viscountess’s side and awaited her pleasure. Smiling, as if already in anticipation of Jane’s response, Lady FitzCameron said, “Your tableau vivant with Mr. Vincent gave us so much pleasure that, considering our cause for celebration, I wonder if we might prevail on you to amuse us again this evening.”

  If the performance on the hill had been something to be avoided, how much more so was this, where her own small skills would be put into contrast with the genius beside her? Add to that the anxiety she felt from the overheard “plain Jane” comment and the knowledge of Beth’s secret engagement, and it is no wonder that she at once began making her excuses.

  But Lady FitzCameron would have none of it. “Nonsense. Let us not hear of your false modesty; we all know how talented you are.” She turned to the assembly, which had crowded close to hear the conversation. “My friends, do tell Miss Ellsworth that she has the talent to more than adequately fulfill such a small plea.”

  The gentlemen and ladies, thus entreated, could do nought but praise her talents, but as her distress and confusion continued, Mr. Dunkirk said, “My lady, as Miss Ellsworth has not had time to prepare, it is understandable that she doubts her abilities, great though they be. Perhaps if she and Mr. Vincent might retire to a room to practice, her mind would rest easier?”

  Jane saw this press of misplaced compliments as her best chance. “An opportunity to plan would ease my mind considerably. But if we are not both perfectly satisfied with what emerges, may we then offer our apologies to you, Lady FitzCameron? I would rather disappoint you in this manner than disappoint you with a lackluster performance.”

  Lady FitzCameron agreed to this plan with very little protestation, though—and Jane surely must have imagined this—her manner suggested that she was in fact somewhat eager for one of them to fail. But which one, Jane was uncertain.

  They were shewn to the library, with Jane’s mother accompanying them as chaperon, and considered their scheme. After discussing several choices as being uninteresting, too cliché, or too low for the company, Mr. Vincent said, “Would you consider Beauty and the Beast?”

  Jane understood why he recommended this story, but her pride twisted at the ways in which this would open her to the mockery of Mr. Buffington and his friends. She could already imagine them saying that it was a pity that she had to release the glamour which created Beauty, but then a delightful thought occurred to her, one which she was sure would amuse their companions. “Certainly, but may I suggest that we switch roles? That I portray the Beast, if your honour will permit you to be Beauty?”

  Jane’s mother gaped and said, “Jane! What will our neighbours think? You, a Beast? It will never do. You must suggest sweetness and good temper if you are to find a husband.” She continued on in this manner, but was unheeded as Mr. Vincent slowly nodded.

  “Yes. Further, I shall portray Beauty as Miss FitzCameron. With amended teeth, of course.”

  Once agreed upon, they needed only to decide the point in the story to represent and the pose for the tableau. With due consideration, they settled upon the moment when Beauty first sees the Beast as the most dramatic.

  Mr. Vincent started by creating the illusion of Miss FitzCameron, but held it for only moments. When he released the folds, even after so short a time, his breath was laboured and his hands shaking. Jane questioned him with a look, but he shook his head.

  “I need nothing more than to sit for a moment, if I may.”

  “Are you certain you are well?”

 
“Quite.” His teeth bared as he snapped his reply. Jane did not feel the urge to query further after his brusque response. Surely he knew his own limits.

  Jane pulled the folds around herself, manipulating them until she was satisfied with the arrangement. The cleverness of her plan lay in that, after her audience became accustomed to the face of the Beast, she was certain that her own countenance would appear less severe by comparison.

  At one point, Mrs. Ellsworth said, “Oh, I cannot stay in this room for a minute longer. You are too terrible, Jane. Too, too terrible. Some of the weaker ladies might succumb to fright when they view the monster you have created.”

  Jane laughed at her mother’s fears and for a time was able to forget the upset she had experienced earlier.

  Mr. Vincent said, “I dream of a day when it is possible to move images from one location to the next without the human effort of clasping tight to keep the folds from unraveling. Were that possible, then a gallery could be created so that arts such as these were not only the provenance of the wealthy, but that all men might be lifted up by exposure to this, the most ephemeral of arts.”

  “Is glamour truly the most ephemeral? I would have thought music vied for that place since the notes come into being and are gone as swiftly as they arrive. Each sound exists only in the now, whereas a glamural such as the one you created for Lady FitzCameron will continue on.”

  “Perhaps, but it is possible to record a piece of music in a fold of glamour. Where is our system for recording the use of folds and threads of glamour? There are papers and treatises on it, but they are as dull and dry as the description of a painting, doing no more to shew the power of a piece or how to re-create it than saying that Sir Joshua painted a sky blue. Someday, mark my words, it will be possible to create a copy of a glamour, and the explosion of possibilities will drive the art to new heights. I imagine a day when it will be possible to create an image in one place and have it be seen instantly in another.”

  Jane thought of Beth’s remarks that Mr. Vincent was passionate only about his art, and reflected that, with such passion, he did not need a human muse to drive him. With these thoughts, she accompanied him and her mother to the drawing room. They presented themselves to Lady FitzCameron, who looked as if she had almost forgotten her request. Jane had a split sensation of relief that she might be released from this burden, and indignation that they had practiced solely for the pleasure of the Viscountess, who did not care. She had no time for more than that, as Lady FitzCameron remarked, “I am most grateful to you.”

  As Jane and Mr. Vincent took their place in the door of the drawing room, planning to use its great doors as a curtain while they prepared the tableau vivant, Jane looked about for Beth and Captain Livingston.

  Beth was engaged in conversation with Mr. Dunkirk. On the opposite side of the room, Captain Livingston’s attention was captured by a game of cards. Jane pushed their relationship away from her mind as something to concern her later. First she must get through this ordeal of public spectacle.

  Jane gathered the folds around herself and created the towering Beast above and around her own form, giving his form all the power of Madame de Beaumont’s story. Beside her, Mr. Vincent gave Beauty’s dress the style of an older period and put a rose in her hand. When they were ready, a servant flung the doors open and stepped quickly out of the way.

  As Mrs. Ellsworth predicted, one or two of the ladies, including Jane’s mother herself, screamed at the sight of the Beast. Mr. Ellsworth patted his wife’s hand distractedly while she leaned back in her chair fanning herself, even though she, at least, should have been accustomed to the beast by now. Jane blessed the obscuring glamour of the Beast, for it allowed her to smile behind her mask at her mother’s silliness.

  Then a second shriek, followed by a welter of excitement, echoed through the room. Mr. Dunkirk rushed toward Jane, his face dark with concern and his eyes fixed on the ground beside her. Jane turned and dropped her folds.

  Mr. Vincent lay prostrate on the ground, twitching.

  Thirteen

  The Beast Upset

  Mr. Vincent’s collapse caused the room to overturn itself in a chaos of emotion. Ladies who had pretended to fright when they saw the Beast conjured from glamour now sank, senseless, under the conviction that Mr. Vincent was dying. Lady FitzCameron fell back in her chair, face as pale as Mr. Vincent’s, unable to speak for the horror.

  Mr. Dunkirk knelt by the ailing glamourist and held his shoulders firmly against the tremors that quaked through his body. He looked up and his eyes found Jane. “What do we do?”

  At his words, those closest turned to her. With horror, Jane realized that she was the most experienced glamourist in the room. “A surgeon. Someone must fetch a surgeon.”

  Captain Livingston was out of the room in a moment, shouting for his horse.

  If Dr. Smythe, the closest surgeon, were out on a call, it could take hours for him to return. Meanwhile, something must be done; but the home remedies were so paltry. “We must cool him.” Jane pulled folds of glamour out of the ether and wrapped a cooling charm around Mr. Vincent. She took deep breaths, her ribs pressing against her stays as she worked the folds. Without taking her attention from Mr. Vincent, she asked, “Is there a cold-monger?”

  In a house such as this, there must be.

  In short order, the cold-monger was summoned. Working together, he and Jane traded the folds of chill between them as Mr. Vincent was carried to a guest room. Once he was established in the bed, Jane passed all control of the folds to the cold-monger and watched as he used his exquisite and specific control over the folds to create a layer of cold air around Mr. Vincent. She placed her hand in the cool air and instructed the cold-monger to bring it to a point that was cold enough to bring the fever raging through Mr. Vincent’s body under control, but not so cold as to damage him. That done, the cold-monger tied the folds off. Jane herself took a cloth dipped in water and dribbled it into Mr. Vincent’s mouth, knowing that next to overheating, dehydration was the greatest danger.

  She had never overexerted herself with glamour this severely, but she well remembered the cautionary tales with which her tutor had frightened her. Like a horse run too long and too hard, Mr. Vincent’s heart could burst if they could not cool him down sufficiently.

  With the application of the cold-monger’s craft, Mr. Vincent’s spasming grew less severe, but his breath was still ragged and his pulse too fast. It seemed forever before the surgeon arrived. When he did, he strode straight into the room, without so much as taking off his greatcoat.

  Dr. Smythe felt Mr. Vincent’s pulse and his face turned grave. Surveying the folds of chill surrounding Mr. Vincent, he said that they had probably saved his life, but whether he would regain his senses was beyond the surgeon’s power to judge. Then, Jane was forced to quit the room as the surgeon decided to remove Mr. Vincent’s shirt to try him with leeches.

  Once outside, beyond the immediate stresses of caring for Mr. Vincent, Jane’s own anxiety caught up with her. It was only by placing a hand against the wall to steady herself that she was able to make her way down the hall. She was determined not to faint and add to the doctor’s burden. So young a man, struck down in his prime by such a trifle. The illusion should have been well within his grasp, but it was obvious that he had pushed himself too hard finishing the glamural for Lady FitzCameron. Jane should have tried harder to convince him not to do the tableau vivant when she saw his hands shaking after holding the illusion for so short a time.

  She reached the drawing room, where many of the guests remained, anxious about the fate of Mr. Vincent. By their faces, she could see that some worried for the man himself while others cared only for the gossip. Mr. Dunkirk came to her straightaway and, taking her arm, guided her to a seat. “Your father had to see Mrs. Ellsworth home. He asked me to see you back to Long Parkmead.”

  Letting Jane regain her equilibrium, he did not ask the question that must surely be on everyone’s mind.

&
nbsp; Lady FitzCameron was not so patient.

  “We saw the surgeon arrive. What has he said about dear Mr. Vincent?” The cold glitter in her eyes belied her words. Jane could almost believe that Lady FitzCameron would be pleased if the man died, for it would increase the value of her glamural.

  Jane straightened in the chair and told them all that had passed. When she explained that he might not regain his senses, Beth burst into tears and turned to her brother for comfort. Mr. Dunkirk looked as though strong emotion would overcome him.

  Then the party must discuss the shock and horror of the case. Each avowed that they had either known he was too weak and should have advised him not to attempt any more glamour for a fortnight at least, or that they had absolutely no idea anything was wrong with him. Someone—Jane did not remember who—had pressed a glass of cordial into her hand, and she sipped it reflexively as person after person came to ask her to repeat some detail of Mr. Vincent’s collapse. At last, Mr. Dunkirk said, “You can do nothing for Mr. Vincent here. Let me take you home, and in the morning we shall inquire.”

  Though Jane was loath to leave while Mr. Vincent was still so much in danger, she had to concede the intelligence of Mr. Dunkirk’s proposal. During the carriage ride home Jane did not have the strength to speak to Beth, who kept repeating a litany of her upset. Her words invoked the horror of the moment when Jane had first seen Mr. Vincent lying on the floor. She replayed it in her mind as surely as if she had caught it in a loop of glamour. His heels drummed endlessly, and he grunted as his breath was forced out of his body each time it arced backwards. Jane pressed her face against the carriage window for the feel of the cool glass, but it did nothing to drive the image from her mind.