Shades of Milk and Honey Read online

  Caught by the words of her family and neighbours, Jane tried to find a way to politely refuse. Her every interaction with the man had only angered him. She was certain that only the desire to avoid being paired in tableaux vivants united them. “I would only hamper Mr. Vincent’s efforts.”

  “Nonsense.” Mr. Vincent bowed to Melody. To Jane’s deep astonishment, he said, “I think your sister has hit upon a splendid plan.”

  Seven

  Nymph on the Hill

  Trying to mask her dismay and astonishment, Jane rose and went to where Mr. Vincent stood by his paints. So quickly that she could not see him do it, he raised and thinned a fold of glamour. She was at first uncertain as to what he had done because she could still see the party, but it became apparent from their actions that they could not see her. Then he cast another fold around them and the sounds of the party vanished. Both tricks were astounding enough in themselves, but the speed and ease with which he did them was more so. Even if Jane could understand how he had quieted the world around them, she could never match his speed.

  “My apologies, Mr. Vincent, I—”

  “They cannot hear us, Miss Ellsworth.” He shrugged, rolling his shoulders under his coat. “You need not be civil to me.”

  Stunned, Jane stopped speaking and stared at him. “I do not understand your meaning.”

  His jaw clenched and he seemed about to say something, but the moment passed and his anger subsided. “What tableau vivant shall we do?”

  “No. No, you may not start such a conversation and pretend that you did not. Tell me my offense so that I might apologize.” Even as she said this, Jane remembered her brusque conversation with him on the lawn at Robinsford Abbey. “I am sorry that I did not take the time to view your painting when we last saw one another.”

  He snorted and shook his head. “I was grateful that you did not, but your behaviour today shows that is not your usual wont.”

  “My behaviour!”

  “I am a glamourist, Miss Ellsworth. I create illusions in an effort to transport my viewers to another place. So I do not like it when people expose how my illusions work. Each person who looks at what I do takes my work away from me.”

  “But you are teaching Miss Dunkirk. How can you complain about others knowing your secrets if you are teaching them?”

  To her surprize, he lifted his hand and pressed it to the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “You mistake my meaning. I should learn to keep my thoughts to myself, as I rarely express what I mean.” He sighed. “It is not the knowledge of glamour which I guard; it is the art created by it. Illusions should be entrancing without someone looking behind the scenes to see how they are made. Would you enjoy a play where you saw the mechanicals exposed? For me, it is much the same. I want the illusion to remain whole. If someone thinks about how it is done, then I have failed in my art.”

  At last Jane apprehended his meaning and how she had transgressed at the ball and then again here, but her own principles were different. “I have always thought that an educated audience could more fully appreciate the effort which went into creating a piece of art.”

  “The effort, yes, but I want to transport the audience to another place; I do not want them to think of effort or technique.”

  Jane was silent. She did not agree with him, but knowing now his feelings on the matter, she resolved to avoid offending him in the future. “I can enjoy both, Mr. Vincent. I assure you, your art is compelling. I nonetheless apologize for looking behind the curtain, as it were.”

  He regarded her for a moment, then looked away, his face expressionless. Without accepting her apology, he said, “They must wonder why we are taking so long to prepare the tableau vivant.”

  Jane started, having forgotten entirely why she stood, seemingly alone, with this man. She looked at the silent party, who had begun gesturing animatedly in their direction. “Have you one prepared? I can pretend to lend my support, or—”

  He smirked. “You are quite good, Miss Ellsworth; I have no doubt that you have a tableau vivant of your own prepared.”

  “And you are a faster glamourist than I, so can follow my lead.” She took his meaning. “Could you create an Apollo to my Daphne?”

  He glanced at the laurel tree arcing over them and said, “An apt choice.”

  Quickly they sketched out the play. Then, working faster than she knew she could, Jane tugged folds over her to create a mask of Daphne, and the delicate garments such an ephemeral nymph would wear as she fled the sun god. She also worked one set of folds into a slipknot, intending to create a surprize at the end of this tableau vivant. Mr. Vincent might be faster than she, but Jane would prove her worth as a glamourist.

  She sensed the ether trembling beside her as Mr. Vincent worked Apollo into being. When all was ready, he untied the folds that masked them from view.

  As soon as Daphne was brought into view, the spectators gasped in delight. It was only when her friends began to glance at Melody did Jane realize that, in her haste, she had modeled the figure on her sister. Daphne’s golden hair tumbled in the same ringlets, and although her cornflower blue eyes were wide with apprehension and each element was purified for the glamour, they undeniably had their base in Melody’s form.

  Appearing taller than he was, and glowing with the light of the sun, Mr. Vincent embodied Apollo, his hands outstretched to reach for the frightened nymph. As their guests studied the tableau vivant with exquisite fascination, Jane released the slipknot she held, and hidden folds slid around her into a laurel tree. She was gratified by the gasps of surprize and pleasure from their viewers. It was no small thing to change a detailed glamour so smoothly.

  Then, to her surprize, Apollo dropped to his knees and embraced the laurel tree, weeping with such conviction that Jane very nearly released the folds masking her within the laurel tree; but to have done so would have made the unbidden intimacy more apparent, so she bore it until the party’s applause indicated it was time to end the tableau vivant.

  Mr. Vincent stood and became himself, his broad chest heaving from the effort of maintaining the folds while he was moving. As Jane dropped the folds masking her in the laurel tree, she strove to pretend that the trembling in her hands and the shortness of her breath was from the glamour. Nothing could explain away the flush on her cheeks, though.

  Mr. Vincent excused himself as soon as he could, saying that he must clean his brushes, despite all begging him to stay and telling him the afternoon would be lost without his company. Lady FitzCameron did not join in these pleas, seeming to know exactly how far she could command his loyalties, and waved her acquiescence when he expressed his earnest wish to return to Banbree Manor. Bowing shortly to Mrs. Ellsworth and Lady FitzCameron, he took his leave and walked down the hill.

  The party remained under the shade of the laurel until the sun began to set; then they wandered back to the house, each carrying a basket of strawberries.

  Jane walked beside Captain Livingston and Miss Dunkirk, feeling more like a chaperon than a maid herself. The good captain reached for both of the ladies’ baskets, refusing to let either one keep hers, despite the fact that both had carried them while picking the fruit. As Jane released hers, she said, “I recall that we were safest when your hands were full.”

  He laughed and said, “And I recall that I was safest when you did not have your thimble.”

  “My thimble? What can you mean by that?”

  “I mean that you thumped me soundly on the head whenever I came in reach. I still have a lump from one of your beatings.” He bent his head to Miss Dunkirk. “See if I don’t.”

  “I am certain that if Miss Ellsworth thumped you upon the head, you deserved it.”

  “Oh! I am wronged. What have I done to provoke such mistrust?”

  “It is not that I mistrust you, but Miss Ellsworth is so trustworthy and elegant that I am certain she would never do something that was not proper. Therefore, it must have been proper to thump you on the head with a thimb
le.”

  “I was the sweetest boy imaginable, I assure you. I have it on the greatest authority; you need only ask Aunt Elise how kind and gentle I was.” He spun, looking for Lady FitzCameron, but they had entered a copse of trees and were shielded from the rest of the party. “Well, when we emerge, she will tell you. See if she doesn’t.”

  Jane laughed. “Captain Livingston, I would say you are as much of a rogue now as you were then, but your methods have altered.”

  “Wronged! Oh, the ignominy. The wretched—” His words were cut off by a sudden pained cry behind them.

  Recognizing her sister’s voice, Jane’s heart leaped to her throat, lodging there with sudden fear. She hurried back from whence they had come, moving as quickly as she could over the twisting path, but was soon passed by Captain Livingston.

  Beyond the copse, her mother called, “What is it?” and other members of the party cried their queries. Jane rounded a tree in time to see Captain Livingston and Mr. Dunkirk lift Melody off the ground between them. Their arms were clasped together, creating a makeshift sedan chair. Melody leaned, pale as death between them.

  Her slipper lay on the ground.

  Miss Dunkirk came up behind Jane and grasped her arm. “What has happened?”

  Her brother replied, “Miss Melody has stumbled on a root. I fear she has twisted her ankle badly. Run along, Beth, and tell Mr. Ellsworth.”

  Jane stayed by their side as they picked their way through the copse of trees. Even with care, Melody’s foot bumped against odd branches, eliciting moans from her lips. When they were out of the trees, Jane led them across the field to the back of the house, knowing that they could get Melody to comfort soonest by entering through the breakfast room and avoiding the shrubbery, whose twisting paths would be sure to pain her sister further.

  They were halfway across the field when Mr. Ellsworth joined them, puffing from exertion. After a hurried conference, he preceded them to the house to help set things to rights for Melody.

  Once inside, they carried her through the hall to the drawing room, and laid her upon a sofa. A whimper escaped as they set her down, and her eyelashes fluttered upon her cheeks.

  Seeing her daughter’s state, Mrs. Ellsworth immediately sank into a chair, needing smelling salts and air in order to retain her senses. Jane urged her mother to take to her bed so she would not have two invalids to care for.

  Mr. Dunkirk offered to ride for a doctor, but as there was little swelling, Mr. Ellsworth declined. The party disbanded, each member promising to call the next day to see how Melody fared.

  Eight

  Flowers and Novels

  Good to his word, the following day Captain Livingston called as early as decency would allow. He brought with him a bundle of peonies gathered from Lady FitzCameron’s garden by the very hand of the Viscountess, who sent her concerns and her fond wishes for Melody’s full recovery.

  Melody lay propped on the sofa in the drawing room, her hair unbound and tumbling about her shoulders, with her ankle wrapped in bandages and propped on a pillow. Fortunately, there had been little swelling. Melody only stayed on the couch at the repeated insistence of their mother; otherwise she would have hobbled to the breakfast table with the rest of the family. While she said there was no pain, she gasped at the slightest touch upon her injured extremity.

  Jane had been reading to her from Cowper when Captain Livingston arrived with a bundle of posies. Jane set the book on the side table to greet him. While he was courtesy itself to Jane, it was clear that his attention lay solely with Melody.

  “How is the invalid this morning?” he said, seating himself in a chair opposite them.

  “I am quite well, thank you; only mortified to have caused so much trouble yesterday.” She colored becomingly and looked down at the flowers in her lap. “It was so kind of the Viscountess to think of me and to send you with such beautiful flowers. Jane, dear, may I trouble you to put these into water for me? I would hate to have them wilt.”

  “Of course.” Jane took the flowers from Melody. She tried not to look at the bell which had been placed within Melody’s easy grasp so she could summon Nancy if she needed anything.

  It was clear that Melody wanted a moment alone with Captain Livingston, and Jane was willing to grant her that. He was not as cultured a man as Mr. Dunkirk, but his youth and lively humor seemed more suited to Melody. Jane carried the flowers out of the room and found a vase, taking time to arrange them before returning to the drawing room. She made certain to generate adequate noise to announce her imminent arrival. Captain Livingston was seated in his chair still, but Melody’s cheeks were a trifle rosier than when Jane had left the room.

  “Where shall I put them?”

  Melody gestured to the small occasional table at the end of the sofa and said, “There, so that I may gaze at them without effort and think fondly on the kind nature which brought them to me.”

  Jane set the flowers down and returned to her chair, taking up the volume of Cowper once more. They talked idly of the day before, hashing over the events and doubling their enjoyment by examining each happy moment in minute detail. A rap sounded at the door, and Nancy shewed Mr. Dunkirk into the room shortly after.

  Upon seeing Captain Livingston, he said, “I see that we came on similar errands.” Thereupon he drew forth from his pocket the three slim volumes of The Italian by Mrs. Radcliffe. “My sister thought you might wish something to read while you recovered.”

  Melody’s face blossomed in delight. “Radcliffe! I adore Mrs. Radcliffe’s work beyond all measure!”

  “I am afraid, then, that I have not brought you anything new with which to amuse yourself.”

  “But you have, for I do not have The Italian. I have only read The Mysteries of Udolpho, which I thought so compelling, so very interesting. Do you not think so, Captain Livingston?”

  “You have the better of me. I have not read any of Mrs. Radcliffe’s works. There’s precious little time for reading aboard ship, especially when facing the Monster’s navy.” He straightened as he said this and looked the slightest bit down his nose at Mr. Dunkirk, who raised an eyebrow as if he understood what Captain Livingston was suggesting and was not in the least perturbed by it.

  “That is unfortunate. I find that reading greatly improves one’s mind.” He smiled, very civilly, and Jane was hard-pressed not to laugh as he turned back to Melody, effectively cutting Captain Livingston out of the conversation. “And how is your ankle, if I might inquire?”

  “Much better, thank you. I am only lying here because Mama makes such a fuss when I try to stand.”

  “That is understandable, having hurt the same ankle twice so close together. You must take care that it is fully mended this time,” Mr. Dunkirk said.

  Melody’s eyes flashed to Jane with a silent plea, then back to Mr. Dunkirk. She assured him that she would take care, but Jane had seen that moment, and it was more than a simple entreaty. The look alone might have simply indicated that Melody did not want Jane to reveal that she had not sprained her ankle when she had chased Mr. Dunkirk, but the manner in which her face went pale and then red said more.

  Jane recalled that Melody’s ankle had not swollen last night.

  A horrible conviction seized her that the injury was a sham, that Melody had not injured herself last night at all. As these thoughts went through her head, she was thankful that neither gentleman was looking at her, for she felt unable to govern her countenance in the slightest. Melody saw her unguarded expression and paled further.

  Jane longed for the gentlemen to leave so that she could confront Melody directly. It was not possible; it could not be possible that her sister had lied to secure the attentions of Mr. Dunkirk. How much of the injury had been a sham? Had Melody truly stumbled, or had even that been part of her tableau vivant to draw Mr. Dunkirk in? For surely he, and not Captain Livingston, was the target of her play, else she would have enacted it while with Captain Livingston.

  The morning passed in a torm
ent for Jane as she struggled to conceal her suspicions from the men, and Melody strove to detain them.

  Jane could scarce believe the preening and strutting that they performed for the benefit of Melody.

  If Mr. Dunkirk mentioned his hunter, then Captain Livingston had to tell of his, and of how high a fence the horse could leap, which then caused Mr. Dunkirk to relate an anecdote about a previous hunt.

  They went on in weary circles, Jane pretending to listen, while Melody seemed positively enraptured by their efforts, though Jane knew she loathed hunting. It was clear that Melody did not want to be alone with her sister, and so she encouraged the men to stay as long as they would.

  Once, when Captain Livingston remarked on how fine the day was, Melody remarked, “Ah. I wish I could go outside, but I shall hope that it is as fine tomorrow.”

  Then, nothing would do but for each man to offer to help her outside. Placing her in a chair, they each took an arm of it and carried her out onto the lawn. Jane followed in her role of chaperon, wishing that her mother or father would emerge so that she could retire and be done.

  Though she knew that she should aid her sister in making a match, Jane could not stomach the games that Melody played. When at last Nancy came out to let Jane know that their tea was laid, the gentlemen carried Melody back inside and excused themselves. Mr. Dunkirk had promised Beth that he would be home to take her riding, and Captain Livingston had business to attend to for Lady FitzCameron.

  As soon as the front door had shut and the men were safely away, Jane turned to Melody, having spent the afternoon deciding on the best course to take in questioning her sister. If she were wrong about Melody, the damage of her suspicion would not be borne, but she did not have an opportunity to exercise her plans, for as soon as she turned, she saw that Melody was sitting up with both feet upon the ground and tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, Jane, forgive me.” Melody put her head on her hands and gave way to her feelings in a manner that shocked Jane. “I did not mean to—I do not know why I did it—but once done, I did not know how to undo it. It’s wretched, I know, but don’t tell.” She raised her head, eyes red with anguish. “Please do not tell.”