Shades of Milk and Honey (13 page)

She followed them out onto the front steps. Another groom stood with two other horses to the side of the door. Mr. Dunkirk saw his sister safely onto the new mare and then walked with Jane to a placid gray beast. She knew that it was placid, and yet she could only see its size, and remember the exhilarating fear she experienced every time she was on horseback. Before that memory of fear could overwhelm her, Mr. Dunkirk was handing her up to the horse and helping her settle in the saddle. His hands were strong; his movements sure.

He handed her the reins, seeming to sense the fear in the line of her back. “Her name is Daisy. She will follow my horse, and I will be certain to keep the pace slow. Beth may forget her promise and want to run her new mare, but I will stay back with you.”

“No, you must not. You must stay with her.”

He shook his head and looked down, resting his hand on Daisy’s neck. “Do not protest, unless it is to truly and honestly declare that you love to gallop. I rely on your honour, Miss Ellsworth.”

Closing her mouth, Jane sighed. “No, I will be happiest at a walk. It is true.”

“Then we understand each other.” Mr. Dunkirk swung into the saddle of his tall black gelding. “Shall we?”

As Mr. Dunkirk predicted, Beth enjoyed the walk for about a quarter of an hour before she succumbed to the need to gallop her new mare. “I cannot name her until I do. It is quite impossible, and she must have a name which suits her.” Beth wrinkled her nose. “Bacon? Who would name a dainty mare that?”

“I think it is the pattern in her sock. The area where the roan blends down to the white does look very much like the marbling in bacon.”

“Well. My horse will not be called Bacon. It is utterly ridiculous. She is grace and elegance itself, but I must know how she runs to know her name. I must know if she yearns for it or is a more timid creature.”

Mr. Dunkirk glanced sideways at Jane with understanding
before suggesting that Beth ride to the fencerow ahead of them, and then come back to join their more sedate pace. She agreed at once.

Without waiting a moment, she urged her mare forward and widened the distance between them so suddenly that it seemed to Jane as if her own mount had begun to move backwards.

Mr. Dunkirk sighed. “I am glad to see her in such high spirits about the mare. I worry that she suffers in my absence. I cannot thank you enough for the kindnesses you have shown her.”

“You must believe that spending time with Beth is my pleasure.”

“She is a good girl.” He sighed again and watched the distant figure of his sister. “She has friends in the city whom I could invite to visit. Do you think that would be a good course?”

“Perhaps . . . or perhaps you might take Beth up to town with you on some trip.”

Beth turned back, her horse quickly depleting the distance and time in which Jane could have private conversation with Mr. Dunkirk.

“That is a thought. The families of some of Beth’s friends must be in town. Although our mother will have a fit if she is not allowed to bring Beth out in grand London style. I think Beth is too fragile for that.”

Though Jane longed to know why he thought Beth was fragile, she merely said, “Being in town does not mean she
must be out. Numerous good people do not count such things as important.”

“Really?” Mr. Dunkirk said. “I am not certain I have met a young lady who is not vitally concerned with the minutiae of ‘out’ and ‘not out.’ I thought it was all that women talked of.”

“Oh yes, certainly. Of a certainty. Just as all men are only concerned with their pointers. Indeed, Mr. Dunkirk, I am surprized that you have been able to restrain yourself from giving me the distinguishing features of your pointers for so long as you have.”

He laughed, a deep and glorious laugh. “Ah, Miss Ellsworth. It is no wonder that you have done Beth so much good.”

And in the space where Jane’s answer would have been spoken, Beth thundered up to them, reining in her horse with enviable ease. “Llamrei! Her name is Llamrei, after King Arthur’s mare! And she is the most wonderful horse ever. We reached the hedgerow and I could feel that she wanted to jump, but we did not, though
I
wanted to as well. Oh, Edmund. She is glorious. I could not ask for a finer horse.”

Mr. Dunkirk affected a frown. “Beth, you will hurt poor Daisy’s feelings.”

“Poo! She is a nursemaid, not a horse.” Beth clasped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Jane, I did not mean to suggest . . .”

Jane laughed and forced herself to remove one hand from the reins so she could pat Daisy on the neck. “A nursemaid
is precisely the horse for me. I am not the horsewoman that you are.”

“Should we go back?” Newly aware of her friend’s unease on horseback, Beth was anxious to guard her comfort.

“No, the day is pleasant yet. And though it surprizes me to admit this, I am enjoying the ride. My nursemaid is taking splendid care of me.”

“Are you certain?

Jane said that she was. Mr. Dunkirk turned his horse’s head to ride along the side of the hedgerow. For a time, the three of them ambled together, talking idly of the sorts of easy topics which a pleasant day inspires.

As the hedgerow turned, they spied Mr. Vincent sketching under a shaded patch on the far side. A quicksilver of unease flourished through Jane’s joints. They had come upon him while he was engaged in the very activity in which he least appreciated company.

Mr. Dunkirk hailed the glamourist, who, much to Jane’s surprize, smiled upon spying him. By the word “smile,” make no mistake that Mr. Vincent bared his teeth or in any other way effused, but the slight upturn of his lips warmed his face and gave ample evidence of a sincere pleasure at their presence.

Or, rather, at the Dunkirks’ presence, for Jane detected a slight compression in his jaw when he spied her. No doubt he had wished to see her sister. Nonetheless, he bowed correctly and shewed no other sign of displeasure.

Beth said, “What a fine day for drawing. You must be in
raptures about the light. Truly I can think of nothing that mars the day.”

“If you discount the bugs and the heat, then yes, it is a fine day.” He returned his attention to his sketchbook and continued drawing, as if expecting them to leave shortly.

Laughing, Beth said, “You would find something to complain about in Paradise.”

“I do not complain about flaws; I merely note them.” His gaze lifted from the page for a moment to look at Jane. “I believe this is a trait belonging to all artists. Do you agree, Miss Ellsworth?”

Her heart sped unaccountably at the challenge in his gaze. “In part, which I suspect proves your point. I think it is difficult for an artist to view something without an eye to improving it.”

Mr. Dunkirk said, “So would you then also find the flaws in Paradise?”

“I do not know. One would think that by its very nature, Paradise must embody perfection. Thus if one were to find flaws, it must not be Paradise. But I have often thought that the juxtaposition of the perfect with the flawed is the only thing which allows us to appreciate perfection.”

Mr. Vincent nodded but said nothing; his pencil continued to move across the page. Jane cast about, looking for the thing which held his interest so completely. Beyond them, a gnarled apple tree twisted in a most picturesque manner, the
branches seeming to have been pruned by a heavenly gardener into a pleasing shape.

Beth wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Vincent, I do not notice you enjoying the day any more because of the bugs and heat.”

He snorted in response. “The heat allows me to enjoy a cooling breeze more than I would were the temperature merely pleasant.”

“Then do you introduce imperfections deliberately in your own work?” Mr. Dunkirk sidled his horse next to the hedgerow, leaning over as if to see what Mr. Vincent drew.

“No.”

“No? You surprize me.” Mr. Dunkirk turned to Jane. “And you, Miss Ellsworth?”

“I do not. Were I ever to achieve perfection, my opinion might differ from Mr. Vincent’s, but it is a theory I am unlikely to have the opportunity to test.”

“Oh, but Jane, your portrait of Miss Melody is a perfect likeness. You have captured her in every way imaginable; even the glamour that you placed on the portrait makes her hair move in just the right way. Oh, Mr. Vincent, have you seen this portrait? Do you not agree with me?”

Mr. Vincent stopped with his pencil held over the page for a long moment. His tongue wet his lips. “Perfection is different to every viewer. I will agree that the portrait is a remarkable likeness.”

“But not perfect?”

Jane could stand no more of this. “You flatter me, Beth,
but it is not perfect. Do not press Mr. Vincent any further. I assure you that I know of several answers that he could make to explain how it is lacking, and we have kept him from his drawing quite long enough.”

Mr. Vincent closed his sketchbook. “Not at all. This has been a stimulating conversation.”

In response, Mr. Dunkirk bowed his head. “It has indeed. If you are finished here, then perhaps you would care to join us at Robinsford Abbey to continue it?”

“Thank you. I accept.”

Jane twisted the reins in her hands as Mr. Vincent clambered over the fencerow. “Alas, I am afraid that I must decline. I am expected at home and have left my mother alone too long.”

Though the Dunkirks protested, Jane felt that spending another minute as a subject of comparison to the talented Mr. Vincent was intolerable. She kept her face placid, though, and focused on her concern for her mother. Mr. Vincent agreed to meet the Dunkirks later, after they saw Jane back to Long Parkmead.

Leaving Mr. Vincent at the fence, they turned the horses to Long Parkmead, impressing Jane with the speed by which they were able to cover the distance between their two estates. It felt as if no time had elapsed between her stated interest in returning home and when they arrived at the sweep.

Mr. Dunkirk dismounted to hand Jane down from Daisy. She felt as light as an infant as he almost lifted her from the
saddle and set her on the ground. Standing on her own, she felt heavy and stiff.

“I trust we did not discomfit you.” Mr. Dunkirk pressed her hand, his voice low. “My sister is too forthright at times.”

“You need have no concern.” The sound of her heartbeat rang in her ears. Jane turned to Beth, lest she be overcome by his closeness. “May I call tomorrow?”

Receiving assurances from them both that she was always welcome in their home, Jane said her good-byes and went inside.

Some weeks later, Jane returned from a walk and found the house in a frenzy of activity. The Ellsworths had received an invitation from Lady FitzCameron to a dinner celebrating the completion of Mr. Vincent’s glamural in the dining room.

Mrs. Ellsworth was trying to persuade Mr. Ellsworth that they must go at once to order new gowns for the occasion, to which her husband replied, “If our friends and neighbours do not understand and value our daughters’ talent and beauty by this point, then a new gown will not increase their estimation.”

“But what of Captain Livingston?” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “Surely he has not been in our
company long enough to form an opinion. Surely we must impress him.” She looked here at Melody. Jane kept the placid expression on her face only by long practice.

Mr. Ellsworth said, “As Captain Livingston has not had time to see the innumerable dresses hanging in your wardrobes, I doubt that he will be more impressed by a new gown than by one which he merely has not seen. Besides, I do not think there is enough time for the modiste to outfit all of you.”

Mrs. Ellsworth was forced to concede his point, so she turned the talk to exactly which of the gowns she and Melody would wear. Jane was included in the conversation, but more as a consultant than as a participant, since the chief purpose of Mrs. Ellsworth’s enthusiasm was to bring Melody to the forefront of Captain Livingston’s attention.

Mr. Ellsworth stood and drew Jane away from the conversation to the side of the room. Looking out the window, he sighed several times before speaking. At last he came forth with, “Will you walk with me, Jane?”

Jane followed her father out of doors, surprized at his request for her company. They proceeded down the Long Walk for some minutes before he ventured to speak. When he did, the topic did not seem one which merited a solitary walk.

“Will you wear the white dress? The one with the pretty”—he waved his hands at his chest in a vain effort to supply the right word—“the pretty green things.”

Her white sprigged chemise, with its sash of delicate
green ribbon, which Mr. Dunkirk had once said reminded him of spring. It would be a suitable dress to wear to the FitzCameron dinner. “Of course. I had no idea you took such an interest in my wardrobe, Papa.”

He chuckled and tucked his fingers into his vest. “I take an interest in my daughters’ welfare.” So saying, he was quiet for some time as they continued down the Long Walk, leaving Jane to ponder what it might be that so troubled her father. At last he continued, “I shall trust to your discretion, Jane, but I do worry, as any right-thinking father would. And so I ask what might not be seemly to ask. Does it seem to you that Melody might have shifted her affections? To be precise, have you observed a growing attachment between her and Captain Livingston?”