Shades of Milk and Honey Read online

  Mr. Dunkirk said, “Hush, Beth. We are all of us upset.”

  Grateful for his intervention, Jane roused herself. “Yes, but you are closer to him than I.”

  “But the stresses of the event involved you more intimately. I would be astonished if you felt nothing.”

  His assurance did little to soothe Jane’s worn nerves.

  Shortly after that, Mr. Ellsworth and Melody met them in the front hall. Melody’s pale face shewed her tension. “How is he?”

  Mr. Dunkirk said, “According to the surgeon, your sister’s efforts may well have saved Mr. Vincent’s life. He is less sure if his senses will survive intact.”

  Melody swayed at these words, and would have fallen if Mr. Ellsworth had not leaped forward to catch her. Mr. Dunkirk helped him bring Melody up to her room.

  What right did Melody have to faint, when Jane had tended the man? If anyone deserved to be overwrought with emotion, it was Jane, but now she had the task of tending to her sister as well. When Mr. Dunkirk had taken his leave, Jane’s father asked her to rouse Melody sufficiently to undress her for bed, though Jane was sorely tempted to let her sleep in her gown. Melody had no right to use Mr. Vincent’s fate to seek further attentions from Mr. Dunkirk.

  With effort, Jane stifled these feelings until she was alone in her room.

  There, in the darkness of her bed, Jane surrendered to tears. That such talent, such art, might be unraveled like a skein of glamour tore at her soul. Jane sobbed, muffling her cries in her pillow, until she fell asleep.

  In the morning, Captain Livingston brought news that Mr. Vincent had a steadier pulse, but that he had not regained his senses. Jane left him to console Melody while she took the news to her mother, who pressed her hand to her heart and said, “To think that I almost lost you! My darling girl. I always knew you should not practice glamour. Have I not said that you should take care? And to think that you could be lying senseless even now!”

  “Mama, I was never in any danger.”

  “I remember how you fainted when the Dunkirks were here. If I had known then how close to death you were, I would have been in hysterics. It is not to be borne. You must give up glamour at once. Promise me you will.”

  “I have never been close to death.” Unwilling to continue the subject, Jane picked up the book she had been reading and said, “Shall I resume the story? Sidonia is facing a Laplander with an enchanted drum in the next chapter.”

  Mrs. Ellsworth cried, “What do I care of Sidonia and drums!” and then lost herself in her ravings.

  In some measure, Jane welcomed her mother’s overexcited mind, for soothing it kept her own mind off the events of the previous evening. She went down for dinner and learned from her father that Captain Livingston had called again and that Mr. Vincent’s condition continued unchanged.

  When they went to bed that evening, Mr. Vincent was still unconscious. On the second day, Captain Livingston brought them word that he had opened his eyes once, but had not seemed to see anything, and then closed them again.

  That evening, as Jane, Melody, and their father sat in the drawing room, they heard a horse arrive and then a sharp rap at the front door.

  They all sat frozen by the same thought: that this could only be news of Mr. Vincent. There were footsteps in the front hall, and then at the door, and then Captain Livingston strode into the room. At the happy expression on his face, Jane pressed her hands to her mouth, still afraid to hope.

  “He is awake,” Captain Livingston said, without preamble.

  Melody squealed and threw her sewing into the air. Mr. Ellsworth closed his eyes and murmured a fervent prayer of thanksgiving.

  But Jane waited, knowing that though Mr. Vincent might be awake, his mind might yet be disordered. Her fingers lost their feeling as she clutched the arms of her chair. “Is he—is he alert?”

  “Yes. Thanks to you. The surgeon declares that if you had not asked for the cold-monger, Mr. Vincent would not have survived the night. He is weak yet, and must be kept quiet, but he is out of danger.”

  Jane let out a breath she had not realized she was holding as all the fear of the past two days left her body in a great rush. She pressed her hands over her face and wept with relief.

  Mr. Ellsworth patted Jane awkwardly on the back. “Captain Livingston, you have our profound thanks for bringing us the news so faithfully. I believe this calls for a celebratory brandy.”

  Jane lifted her head, wiping her eyes. “Yes, indeed. Please join us.”

  “I must decline, as I need to continue on my rounds. Aunt Elise has charged me to deliver the news to all our neighbours, and if I celebrate at each, I shall be unable to complete my rounds.”

  “Where are you off to next?”

  “The Marchands.”

  Melody laughed. “Then you should fortify your strength beforehand.”

  “I fear you have the right of it. But after the Marchands, I proceed to the Dunkirks, and I would prefer to have a clear head when I greet them.”

  Jane looked for some sign of self-consciousness in his manner when he mentioned the family of his secret fiancée, but saw nothing untoward. His ease of carriage gave no hint that Beth had spoken of Jane’s unwitting participation in their tête-à-tête. Nor was this surprising upon reflection, for when would the couple have had time to meet?

  “I hope Miss Dunkirk is well. It must be hard on her to see her instructor struck down thus,” Melody said.

  “Ah. Well, you know how excitable young girls can be. Miss Dunkirk is not half so steady in her thoughts as I remember you and Miss Ellsworth being when younger yet than she.”

  Melody nodded judiciously. “It is true that I have often remarked to myself that her interest in the arts was too keen for such a delicate mind. I am surprized that Mr. Dunkirk encourages such fancies as hers.”

  Jane could not let this betrayal of her friend stand. “I believe that the arts allow one a safe outlet for passions which could not otherwise be borne. We women have no recourse to the distractions available to men. Is it not better to spend one’s excess energy in the act of creation than to allow oneself to become overwhelmed?”

  Captain Livingston shook his head. “I think, rather, that the steadying influence of discipline does more to build a level mind.”

  “Such as one finds in the service of His Majesty?” Melody said.

  “Just so.” Captain Livingston bowed to her.

  Jane could hardly credit his behaviour; to shed such disdain on one to whom he was affianced was beyond understanding. She could only suppose that he hid his attachment to Beth behind the mask of he who “doth protest too much.”

  “Well, regardless of your feelings,” Jane said, “may I ask you to convey my regards to the Dunkirks?”

  Captain Livingston readily agreed, but for some time after his departure, Jane was troubled by a sense of unease. Now that her concern for Mr. Vincent’s health had decreased, the anxiety she had first felt upon overhearing Beth and Captain Livingston was renewed.

  She feared what might come from such a secret.

  Fourteen

  Curiosity Unrequited

  With the news of Mr. Vincent’s recovery, the neighbourhood had lost a subject upon which to speculate. Now that it appeared as though he would not die, certain parties returned their attentions to their own health. And so, the morning after Captain Livingston brought word of Mr. Vincent’s improving health, Mrs. Marchand arrived to compare her declining state with Mrs. Ellsworth’s, who received her friend with all the warmth and cordiality which Jane could not. Jane could be civil and pay Mrs. Marchand the attention due to her by position and common courtesy, but knowing that she was about to embark upon a recitation of her ills, Jane could not be warm.

  Melody sat in the corner of the room, safely engaged in making a new fringe, the working of which apparently required all of her concentration. That left Jane to be drawn in by the notice of Mrs. Marchand and their mother.

  Mrs. Ellsworth started the recit
ation. “Oh, dear Joy! You would not believe the agony I have suffered. I was very nearly done in by poor Mr. Vincent. I thought my heart would burst. Poor Charles had to take me home straightaway, insensible. Is that not how it was, Jane?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “As to that . . .” Mrs. Marchand sniffed. “As to that, I had to tend to all three of my daughters as well as fight off the trauma of the unhappy event, which nearly oppressed me completely. It is only this morning that I was able to venture from bed, and then only by my deep, deep concern for you. I had heard that you were suffering from chronic neuralgia, that you had been unable to bear either light or sound, so of course I came straightaway, though I had to drag myself from my bed to do so. It was only by a steady exertion of will that I was able to carry my arthritic limbs as far as the door to call for our carriage. I am certain that I do not need to speak to you of the effort. You understand me perfectly well.”

  “Oh, yes. The doctor was quite certain that I had suffered an irreparable harm at the fright. I remember quite clearly: he said, ‘Madam, your nerves will never be sound, no matter what I do.’ My only hope is that I live to see my girls married. Preparing for a wedding will do my poor nerves in, but I would do anything for my girls.” She dabbed at her eyes with the tiniest, most delicate scrap of handkerchief. “Only imagine: my nerves will never be sound.”

  “I am surprized that the doctor said that; to me your nerves have always seemed so strong. But then, to one who suffers as I do, anyone with greater health is to be admired.”

  Melody set her fringe down suddenly. “I have just remembered that a tonic of rose petals is supposed to provide comfort for injured nerves.”

  “May I help you with that?” Jane stood at the chance to escape the unvarying conversation which their mother had with Mrs. Marchand, one which revolved only around their various ailments and the marriage prospects for their daughters.

  “Thank you, yes. I will definitely need your help, and of course, we would both do anything for our beloved mother.” So saying, Melody retreated through the drawing room door with Jane close behind her, neither girl giving either of the older ladies time to voice a word of protestation.

  As soon as they were out the front door of the house, Melody lifted her skirts and ran for the Long Walk. Laughing, Jane ran after her, feeling as if their governess were chasing her with a tonic. In truth, the combined forces of her mother and Mrs. Marchand were almost as bad.

  Turning into the maze, she chased her sister to the center, where a few blossoms still clung to the rosebushes. Melody collapsed onto the bench, laughing and breathless. Jane tumbled down beside her.

  In the blush of their narrow escape, they were only capable of laughter. Anyone passing the maze would have thought a gaggle of schoolgirls had gotten lost in its midst. By gasps and hiccups they caught their breath again, only to look at one another and burst into laughter anew.

  Jane knew that only a small part of this was hilarity at the supposed escape. More of it was a release of the tension which both had been under for days.

  Throwing her head back and exposing her swanlike neck, Melody laughed anew. “I could not remain there for a moment longer.”

  “We will have to go back, eventually.”

  “Then let us delay as long as we might.”

  “But if we stay too long, Mama will think that we have become lost in the maze, or, worse, that wild beasts have ravaged us.”

  “Let her!” Melody sprang to her feet and ran to the roses. “Perhaps if I tear my gown on the roses, she will imagine wolves and tigers stalking the maze; then it will always be a place to which we can retreat.”

  Melody’s suggestion of tearing her gown reminded Jane too much of her faking another injury. She lost some of her levity. “I think Mama has quite enough imagination on her own.”

  “Feh. She only imagines horrible things. I can imagine wonderful things happening in this garden.”

  “Indeed? Mama imagines wolves; I imagine governesses; Miss Dunkirk imagines lovers. What do you imagine?”

  Melody blushed and turned away. “I do not need to imagine lovers between these walls.”

  “Melody Anne! Is there—oh, but it is too much to expect me to remain incurious with a statement like that. Do tell. Oh, do.” She had been so distracted by Beth’s engagement that she had paid no attention to Melody’s state. Of course, after the incident with her ankle, Mr. Dunkirk had paid Melody every attention, so it was only natural that an attachment had formed. Jane’s heart was steadier than she feared it might be at the thought, but she still had to rally herself to be as gracious as a sister ought.

  With a flutter of her hands, Melody said, “There is nothing to tell.”

  “Nothing! If you wish me to believe that, you will have to stop your blushing. I would rather believe that in a week or two I will be offering you sincere felicitations. Surely it will not take more time than that? But I will be patient.” Jane bit her lip and then continued. “Only tell me that you are not keeping this a secret from only me. Tell me that you are not keeping your silence because you do not trust me.”

  “I . . . Honest, Jane, there is nothing for me to tell.” She bowed her head and stroked the petals of a rose. “I wish that there were, but I am not certain of his regard, and so I will say nothing until I am.”

  Agitated, Jane stood and paced the perimeter of the garden, thinking. It would be better for her to know than to merely guess and fear. “Has Mr. Dunkirk said nothing?”

  “Mr. Dunkirk?” Melody’s laugh was sharp. “Yes. He has said nothing, and that is no surprize, in that he cares nothing for me. But there are others who value me for myself, not for my accomplishments. Now I would not have Mr. Dunkirk even if he asked the question tomorrow.”

  “But you were so—”

  “Yes! Yes! I know. But I mistook esteem for love. That his manners are elegant, that his carriage is easy and his understanding superior; these things conspire to make me feel that I ought to love him, and so I imagined that I did. But now, now I know what it is to have that esteem returned. To be regarded—oh, Jane, I would that I could tell you all.”

  “Why can you not?” Jane shook her head. “I thought you said that you were not certain of the gentleman’s regard.”

  “No. He has given me every assurance, but because he is not at liberty to court me openly, he must spend time in the company of others, which makes me doubt him. I know that he loves me, but then I fear that he does not.” Melody plucked the petals from the closest rose, dropping them onto the path, murmuring, “He loves me; he loves me not.”

  Too shocked to gather her thoughts into words, Jane stared with sightless eyes at the petals tumbling down. The conversation so nearly mirrored that which she had had with Beth that it was only with difficulty that Jane could gather her senses enough to speak. “Am I to understand that you have—that you are seeing this gentleman alone?”

  Melody threw the denuded rose stem on the path. “Jane, I have done with answering your questions. They always lead to lectures, and I have no wish to indulge in your careful thoughts. La! From your manner anyone would think you are my mother.”

  “I do not mean to. I only worry for your happiness. On my honour, I only saw that you were happy and wanted to know why. Nothing more.”

  Melody broke a rose from its stem and changed the subject baldly. “The danger from Mrs. Marchand should be past now, I think. We should have thought to bring scissors with which to cut the roses.”

  Though Jane begged and wheedled Melody, she could get no further intelligence from her. Melody would only speak of roses and Mrs. Marchand, demurring from any other inquiries. The camaraderie which had rejoined them on the flight from Mrs. Marchand had fled, and the distance between them grew as they returned to the house. Despite her efforts, Jane was shut as completely out of Melody’s thoughts as if she were not there at all. Only when she followed Melody’s suggested conversational path and talked of trivial things did her sister engage with h
er.

  Jane struggled with her own feelings of pride, hating herself for playing this game, but afraid that if she did not do so then she would have no contact with Melody at all.

  How had their relationship come to this?

  Fifteen

  A Book and a Gift

  A week after the party, Lady FitzCameron decided to remove to Bath, taking Mr. Vincent and the rest of her household with her so that he could better recover in the healing waters. At this announcement, Melody’s spirits took a sudden downturn. Could it be—was it possible that Mr. Vincent was Melody’s lover? Certainly, with his homage to her in the form of the hidden dryad, it seemed that he harbored some feelings for Melody, and yet Jane could scarcely credit the notion. She could see how his artist’s eye would be drawn to her sister’s unrivaled form, but Melody had too little love of the arts to be drawn to so rough a man. Jane had only recently begun to see his merits herself. But if not Mr. Vincent, then who?

  Melody’s spirits brightened only briefly, when the Ellsworths went to pay their respects to the FitzCamerons before their departure. Jane watched her shrewdly for clues. Melody peered around the drawing room as if looking for someone, but then subsided to a bland form of politeness.

  Lady FitzCameron received them most graciously, paying special attention to Jane and praising her for saving Mr. Vincent’s life.

  “My dear, I do not know what we should have done without you. It is unimaginable.” She gestured languidly to the table and to a book lying upon it. “I want you to have this as a token of my very real affection for you, and for what you have done for poor Mr. Vincent.”

  “Lady FitzCameron, no thanks are needed.” Jane curtsied, almost thrown off balance by the jab in her back which her mother gave her.

  “Please. I insist.” The jewels on her fingers sparkled as she waved Jane forward to receive the book.

  It was a handsomely bound edition of Gothic tales with illustrations by the famous member of the Society of Lady Etchers, Alethea Harrison. Such a gift was far more beautiful than any book in her father’s library, though its subject matter was more to Mrs. Ellsworth’s taste than Jane’s. Still, she thanked Lady FitzCameron very prettily, and the Viscountess seemed to think that the business was done.