Shades of Milk and Honey (14 page)

Jane was so taken aback by this query that they walked on for some feet before she felt herself equal to answering. “I hardly know what answer to give, sir. My sister has not confessed her heart to me, and if she did, I would feel obligated to preserve her trust.”

He nodded. “But you told me when you thought she had developed an attachment for Mr. Dunkirk, did you not? Does this query represent any less of a concern for your sister’s well-being? I will not require you to answer, only think: does keeping your silence help your sister, or will it ultimately harm her?”

“I cannot think that you believe Captain Livingston capable of harming my sister.” But Jane wondered if her own
motive in exposing her sister’s regard for Mr. Dunkirk had been less a concern for her sister’s reputation and more from a wish to separate and halt a relationship which she had no reason to desire. “Is there some reason you ask me this?”

“Only that I notice that he calls more frequently and that in their excitement to be ready for the dinner, Melody and your mother spoke only of Captain Livingston.” He paused in his walk and fingered the branch of a shrubbery as if it were an aid to his thoughts. “
You
do not speak of Captain Livingston.”

His emphasis left little doubt of his meaning, and his next words removed all uncertainty. “Is there one of whom you do speak, or wish to speak?”

Jane thought of Mr. Dunkirk and of the happy hours in Beth’s company, which had afforded Jane time to closely judge his character and to find it in every way as good and honest as it had appeared from a distance. She had not hitherto allowed herself to hope, but if Melody’s affections had truly transferred to Captain Livingston, that would remove the most immediate obstacle to Mr. Dunkirk. It left her plainness and her awkward carriage, but to a man such as him, might these things be overlooked in favour of her talent?

But these were idle fancies, not suitable for voicing even to herself, much less to her father, howsoever much she honoured him for his concern on her behalf. Jane said merely, “There is no one to speak of.”

Her father broke off his study of the shrubbery and turned to her. Jane kept her composure under his gaze, knowing that she had told nothing but the truth.

The small hope in her heart was nothing of which she could speak.

The night of Lady FitzCameron’s dinner party, Mr. Ellsworth presented each of his daughters and his wife with a posy which he had picked with his own hands from the rose garden in the middle of the maze. Though he had needed Nancy’s aid in turning them into something other than an odd assortment of flowers which he had wrested from the rosebushes, the final effect was so pleasing that the Misses Ellsworths and Mrs. Ellsworth lost no time adding the corsages to their toilette for the evening.

Jane stood before the mirror in her room, attempting to find the most pleasing arrangement of the pale pink blossoms with which her father had gifted her. Left alone for a moment as her mother and sister fussed over their toilet in the next room, Jane indulged in something which she had never before considered.

She worked a small glamour on herself.

It was a tiny thing, but she was suddenly struck by a curiosity as to what her face would look like if her nose were not quite so long. By twists and turns, she gave her nose an appearance more suited to her face. Her breath quickened
only a little as she turned her head to examine the glamour, while keeping tight control over the strings holding the folds in place over her nose. Without its prominence, her eyes seemed softer. Her chin, though still sharp, no longer seemed ready to pinch someone.

The sudden reappearance of Melody made Jane drop the folds hastily.

“Jane! What are you doing?”

She colored and busied herself with the roses. “Merely amusing myself.”

“I saw.” Melody crossed the room. “Do it again.”

“No. I was only playing to pass the time.”

It was apparent that Melody did not believe her. “Well. You should consider playing more often.”

The casual cruelty of Melody’s statement almost undid Jane. She turned her head away to hide the sudden burn of tears, but Melody saw her upset nonetheless. “Oh, Jane, no. Forgive me. I only meant that you are so clever, and, well, if Miss FitzCameron does it, surely there can be no harm. Is it so much different from chusing a dress which is flattering, or a hairstyle which makes one’s neck look longer?”

For a moment Jane let herself be lured by Melody’s words. Who would it harm, save her own health? But her conscience scratched at the thought. “Imagine if I did attach a man who believed me to have a shorter nose. Imagine then the day when I must let the glamour drop. He would be more appalled by the sudden change in my appearance than if
he had become used to me over time.” She shook her head to push the temptation away. “I will not do it again. It was only a passing fancy.”

Melody watched her with narrowed eyes, measuring what she had said. “I sometimes wish, for your sake, that you were not so nice with your opinions.”

Mrs. Ellsworth bustled in before Jane could reply. The chill between Melody and Jane went unnoticed by their mother, who was too concerned with the placement of her roses. Once she was happy with it, they descended to the carriage and thence to Banbree Manor.

Lady FitzCameron was known to pride herself on the elegance of her table, but took no joy from entertaining. On the occasions when the Ellsworths had been invited to sup with her, she had always received them with the utmost grace, yet remained reserved in attitude. She knew her duty to her neighbours and paid attention to them gladly, but it went no deeper than that: she seemed to care only for her own. However, her attentions to Captain Livingston were gracious to the point of being solicitous, which made Jane wonder if Lady FitzCameron might still have thoughts of arranging a match between Miss FitzCameron and the young captain.

Entering the drawing room, Jane was at once greeted by Beth, and after paying her respects to the Marchands, spent the remainder of the time until dinner was called in conversation
with her. They both shared a deep fascination and curiosity about the finished state of Mr. Vincent’s glamural.

“You know, he was working on it night and day for the last week. He still came to ours for lessons, but he fell asleep as soon as he sat down. I let him, of course, and he said almost nothing upon waking up. I let him think that he had closed his eyes for only a few moments, but I think he was asleep for a good half an hour at the least. Did you know that he snores? It’s such a tiny, such a sweet snore as one might imagine a small cat making.”

“I cannot imagine a cat snoring,” said Jane.

“Oh, indeed. I had a kitten which always slept with his head tucked upside down between its paws. Mr. Vincent snores just like it. It’s such a wee sound to be coming out of a great bear of a man like Mr. Vincent that it is quite droll.” As she spoke, her eyes darted about the room in the manner of one whose attention was engaged by another. It never rested for long on any one person, but Jane began to think that Beth was watching Captain Livingston. Since he stood with Mr. Dunkirk, it was possible that she had merely a nervous concern as to her brother’s presence. Though Beth was at ease with Jane, she often suffered from an excess of nervous energy when in a crowd. That the people present at Lady FitzCameron’s were all known to her did not allow her much peace.

As they stood talking, Mr. Vincent, whose appearance betrayed his fatigue, entered the room and was graciously received by his hostess. His cheeks were sunken and his hair
wild; the ruddy glow of health had fled his complexion. Jane could not altogether hide her shock at his change in appearance, and she was not alone in that respect. He affected not to notice, and must have been used to such startled looks as Jane bestowed upon him, for he bowed low to Lady FitzCameron and said, “At your pleasure, my lady.”

By this, Jane realized that he had been working up until the moment when he walked into the room. She wondered at Lady FitzCameron’s composure and nerve in scheduling a dinner party without knowing if the glamural would be finished. Betraying none of this, Lady FitzCameron assigned each gentleman to escort in a lady. Mr. Marchand came to take charge of Beth, nearly frightening the poor girl with his old-fashioned gallantry. And then, before Jane could stand too long alone, Lady FitzCameron had introduced her to Mr. Buffington, a friend of Captain Livingston’s, who was to escort her into dinner.

Mr. Buffington was shorter, with the florid expression of one given to pleasure, but graceful when he bowed his head upon greeting Jane. He was charmed; he was delighted to meet her, having heard so much from Captain Livingston about her. Jane could not help but wonder if he had heard about her, or about Melody. Nonetheless, she accepted his arm graciously and followed him to the dining room.

The couple in front of them paused on the threshold with an intake of breath, then proceeded slowly through the door, their heads turning about in constant amazement.
For her part, Jane nearly stumbled with her own astonishment when she entered the dining room, though the wonders of the room seemed to have no impact on Mr. Buffington. When she had seen the unfinished room at the FitzCameron ball, she had marveled at its artistry and elegance, but she had not imagined how complete, how perfect, the illusion would be upon completion.

The room had vanished, its walls replaced entirely by arching trees; the ceiling, a sky overhead which shimmered with the light of stars and the moon. The trees rustled in response to a conjured breeze, which carried with it hints of jasmine and the pleasant, spicy scent of loam. The brook, which had so entranced her at the ball, continued its babbling, but now it was accompanied by birdsong from a nightingale that sat on one of the tree branches, singing its melody at exactly the right volume to be unobtrusive in a gathering.

They walked on a floor of soft grass that seemed to cushion their feet beyond what any glamour should be able to do.

In the midst of this glade, the mahagony clawfoot table, rather than jarring with all the plates and silver necessary for a dinner of forty, seemed as if it were something out of a tale of enchantment. The crystal and silver gleamed in the glamour and its formal lines were juxtaposed against the wild beauty of the trees to create a careful elegance.

Though the sky shewed nighttime, the room did not lack for light, as the table abounded with candles which gleamed against the silver and crystal assembled there. Mr. Buffington led Jane to her seat while chattering about how
it was a shame that this was not a real forest, for there was sure to be good hunting in a wood such as this. He no doubt took her hushed reverence as a sign of her interest in his hunters.

Jane now well understood Mr. Vincent’s fatigue. She had imagined after seeing the early steps of the glamural at the ball that he had little remaining to do, but she had not understood how complete his vision would be. Already at the table, Mr. Dunkirk stood behind the chair next to hers, waiting for all the ladies to be seated. He had escorted Mrs. Ellsworth, who chattered to him with the same ambivalence to the surroundings as Mr. Buffington. Jane wanted to apologize to Mr. Dunkirk for her mother, but until the table turned, she was bound to pay attention to Mr. Buffington, leaving poor Mr. Dunkirk to the banalities of her mother’s conversation.

She admired the room, resisting the temptation to delve beneath the surface of the illusion. The ambiance of the room soothed her, and she let herself relax into it, without worrying about how it had been created. As she took Mr. Vincent’s advice to experience the art without struggling to see behind the scenes, she felt the impact of the piece manifest in an unexpected yearning. The vitality of the room extended beyond the mere execution of glamour and into palpable emotion; Jane could not imagine creating so rich an environment.

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.