Shades of Milk and Honey (7 page)

“Oh, he is not like that at all. Whenever he has been away, Edmund always brings me a present to make up for my time alone.”

Jane trailed behind them and settled on a mahogany Sheraton chair next to the sofa. The drawing room might
better be called a library, for one wall was almost entirely given over to books. The mahogany furniture reflected strong masculine tastes, even down to a pair of crossed sabres on one wall and a set of dueling pistols in a rosewood box on the mantel. A neatly rendered glamour created the illusion of fire in the fireplace, lending the room a coziness it might have otherwise lacked. For all his professed admiration of glamour, Mr. Dunkirk indulged in little other display of it. Not even the prints on the walls, which tended to hunting scenes or architectural studies, shewed any enhancement.

Small talk followed, detailing the weather, then the quality of the tea which the butler brought as well as praises of the china it was served in, which was an exquisite example of Delft bone china. During all of it, Melody held Miss Dunkirk’s attention with ease while Jane resigned herself to the background. Only two years separated Melody and Miss Dunkirk’s ages, while Jane, at eight and twenty, was a good ten years older than her sister. It was small wonder that the two young women found so much to discuss.

Jane occupied herself by gazing out the window at the expanse of lawn and the woodlands beyond, not paying full attention to their discussions of fashion and novels, only nodding or laughing occasionally as the subject warranted.

Then a man stepped out of the woods. Though he wore the garments of a laborer, the easel on his back clearly marked him as Mr. Vincent. For a moment, he seemed to stare directly at Jane. She stiffened in her chair at the challenge on
his face, then relaxed as she remembered the way the light had reflected off the leaded glass; he could not see her. Indeed, when he set his easel down and placed a canvas upon it, his intent became clear.

Jane turned her attention back to Miss Dunkirk and Melody and cleared her throat. “It appears that we have an admirer.”

Both girls exclaimed and turned to follow her gaze. “Who? Where? Well, I never! Is that Mr. Vincent?”

They fairly flew off the sofa, running to the window to look out at him. Melody leaned against the casement. “Is he painting us?”

His easel angled slightly away from them, and to Jane’s eye, their window was not the subject of his attention. “I do not believe so.”

Miss Dunkirk said, “I wonder if Edmund has asked him for a study of Robinsford Abbey?”

“Perhaps that is his present to you.” Melody squinted. “I do wish I knew what he was painting.”

“The abbey, surely,” Jane said, though she too wanted to see the canvas.

Melody spun, her face glowing with delight and mischief. “Shall we go out to see?”

Jane recalled Mr. Vincent’s forbidding expression when she had studied his work at Banbree Manor. “Oh, no. I do not wish to disturb him. Were I him, I should hate to have someone watch me.”

“La! Jane, you are too nice in your sensibilities. You
spent an afternoon with the Dunkirks watching you play piano and work glamour. How can you think that Mr. Vincent would object to us calling on him when he is on Miss Dunkirk’s lawn?”

Miss Dunkirk bit her lower lip. “Did we trouble you, Miss Ellsworth?”

“Not in the slightest,” Jane said, “but those were pieces which I had practiced and were intended for performance. Mr. Vincent has barely laid brush to canvas, so to come upon him now would be the same as coming upon me while I am practicing a new piece. No matter his talent, he cannot enjoy having someone look upon an unfinished piece.”

Melody wrinkled her nose. “You always think you know how other people feel, but really, Jane, we saw an unfinished piece at Lady FitzCameron’s ball, and he did not seem to mind then.”

Miss Dunkirk took Jane’s side. “I am afraid I think Miss Ellsworth has the right of it.”

“Poo. Let us ask him rather than guessing.” Melody unlatched the casement, threw it wide open, and leaned out. “Mr. Vincent!”

He turned his head sharply, and a deep frown creased his face. Jane backed away from the window and stepped into the shadows, praying that all he saw was the two young women leaning out toward him, not her.

He nodded once, then returned his attention to his canvas.

“What are you painting?” Melody called.

The glamourist did not respond. Jane put her hand on her sister’s arm. “Let him alone, Melody.”

Miss Dunkirk looked from one sister to the other, concern drawing a line between her brows. Moving away from the window, she said, “Seeing Mr. Vincent reminds me of a question about glamour, Miss Ellsworth. Might I impose on you?”

Grateful for the distraction, Jane followed her, leaving Melody at the window. “Of course.”

“I want to surprize Edmund and add some of the enhancements that you have in your home—you can’t think of how often he speaks of it. But I am having some trouble with the folds you showed me, simple though they were.”

Mr. Dunkirk had spoken of her work? Jane flushed so that she might have blamed the fire if it had not been glamourous in nature. “I would be delighted to help, if I may.”

Without turning from the window, Melody said, “To be sure, Jane is frightfully clever with glamour.” Her voice was all that was sweetness, but Jane knew well that she was irked.

“What sort of effect did you have in mind?” Jane looked about the room, evaluating possibilities.

“I hardly know. My parents—that is, I have had little opportunity for study, so I am not certain what is possible.” Miss Dunkirk straightened a picture on the wall. She seemed to be overly conscious of her lack of schooling in glamour. It was hardly her fault, though. A young woman had little control over whom her parents selected as a tutor.

“Perhaps if you told me what folds you were having difficulty with?”

Miss Dunkirk flushed and gestured at the painting—an oil of a stag in a forest clearing. “I wanted to start with something small, so I thought to make the trees move in the wind, as you did with Miss Melody’s hair. My brother was most taken with that effect.”

Looking at Melody, framed in the window as if she were art, Jane thought that it was rather as likely that Mr. Dunkirk was taken with the subject matter as with the technique. “I am afraid that effect is more complicated than it appears. Though it is small, one must stitch together many tiny folds to create the illusion of movement.”

“Oh.” Miss Dunkirk looked crestfallen.

Jane thought back to her first lessons. “Perhaps a simple enhancement of light would serve? Near the books, shall we say? I think it might add some warmth and play well off the gilt on the binding.” It was also a simple glamour that did not require very subtle manipulation. Melody’s attention was still held by the scene outside. To draw her back in, Jane said, “Melody, perhaps you could help me demonstrate?”

Her sister turned around, clearly startled to be addressed.

“Oh, Miss Melody!” Miss Dunkirk clapped her hands together in delight. “I did not realize that you were also a glamourist.”

“I do not claim the accomplishments of my sister, but we did have the benefit of the same tutor.” Melody glided toward
the bookcase with a poise and voice that suggested more comfort with the art of glamour than Jane had yet seen her demonstrate.

“Here, I think.” Pulling a fold of glamour from the ether, Melody stitched it across the bookcase with large, awkward threads. The fold was bulky and wrinkled; light careened across the gilt titles. “You see how simple it can be.”

“Indeed.” Jane came to stand by Melody, suppressing a wince at the clumsy effect. “And with only a little effort you may adjust the folds to the brightness or shade you desire.” She plucked Melody’s stitches free and shook the folds out so that the wrinkles dropped away. “You see how I can stretch the fold to change the degree of brightness? Thinning any fold in this manner will mute its effect.”

“You make it look so simple.” Miss Dunkirk studied the air with the abstracted gaze so indicative of an absorption of glamour.

“Here.” Jane plucked the fold from the shelf and held it out to Miss Dunkirk, the light dripping in strands of gold that would have made Rumpelstiltskin proud. “Hold it so that you can feel its weight, and then I will show you how to thin it.”

Eyes widening, Miss Dunkirk accepted the sheer fabric of light from her. At first it wrinkled in her hands, sending rainbows of color at odd angles across the surface. But with gentle prompting, she was eventually able to straighten the fold so it gleamed evenly.

Laughing together, they pulled and twisted the fold,
exploring the many possibilities inherent in a single fold of glamour. Miss Dunkirk displayed a greater aptitude than Jane had expected. In the end, she was able to create the effect of sunlight glancing across the books, and if it were not as subtle as Jane might have managed, neither was it as inept as one might expect from someone who had never studied glamour.

Breathing rapidly and somewhat flushed, Miss Dunkirk stepped back from her last carefully placed stitch.

Jane nodded in approval. “Very nicely done.”

Turning from the bookcase, Miss Dunkirk said, “Miss Melody, what do . . . Oh.”

From Miss Dunkirk’s tone, Jane fully expected her sister to have slipped the room again, and in this she was correct.

Somewhat more unexpected was the view through the window, wherein Melody conversed amicably with Mr. Vincent. Or, rather, she conversed. He drew.

He had turned aside from his easel and picked up a leather notebook. Judging from the angle of his gaze, he was probably sketching Melody.

They were quite alone. Jane compressed her lips. Would Melody never learn the bounds of propriety?

“Miss Dunkirk, will you excuse me? Melody and I should return home for dinner.”

“Of course.” The girl’s face was paler than Jane would like, but they had not done so much glamour that she felt cause to worry. “I have kept you too long.”

With a minimum of farewells and a promise to see each
other soon, Jane left Robinsford Abbey and went round to the side of the house where Mr. Vincent painted and Melody watched.

As Jane walked across the neatly trimmed lawn, a breeze carried Melody’s voice to her. “Ah, you see. My sister comes to be my nursemaid and chaperon, as I told you she would.” She waved and raised her voice. “Jane! Do look at what Mr. Vincent is drawing.”

Noting that her sister made no move to perform introductions, and was unlikely to do so, Jane halted in front of the pair. “I am afraid that we need to return home for dinner.”

Mr. Vincent shut his slim, leather notebook and stood waiting for Melody to introduce them. His eyes were a warm brown, but they studied Jane without a hint of emotion—no compassion, disdain, or condescension marred his visage. Indeed, Jane had detected more interest in his expression when he was painting Robinsford Abbey than when he looked at her.

Melody wrinkled her nose. “Oh, do be reasonable, Jane, or you’ll have Mr. Vincent thinking that we dine unfashionably early.”

“I trust that Mr. Vincent, whom I have yet to meet, will understand.”

“La! He is standing right here. Don’t pretend you don’t know him.” She leaned toward Mr. Vincent and lowered her voice. “Jane spotted you out here first and was quite mad with curiosity about what you were painting. Don’t
mind her concerns with propriety. She can sometimes be over-nice.”

Jane burned with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. She had to hold herself quite still to control the urge to turn and march away, leaving Melody alone with this man.

“Miss Ellsworth, I am afraid that is all the introduction we are likely to receive.” His voice, which Jane only just realized she had never before heard, rumbled in his chest at the lower end of baritone. “What about my work made you curious?”

“Nothing, I assure you. My sister has confused my remarking on your presence with an interest beyond the commonplace. By the angle of your easel and the direction of your gaze, I surmized that you were painting Robinsford Abbey. I will defer any further interest until the piece is ready for showing.”

“And yet you had no compunctions about looking at my glamural at Banbree Manor.”

“I was invited to view it. I had no way of knowing it was in progress when I agreed.”

“And when you returned?”

Jane compressed her lips and raised her chin. “Clearly, I was in error to do so. If you will excuse us, Melody and I must be going.”

“I have no wish to detain you.” Mr. Vincent inclined his head in the briefest of bows, then returned his attention to his canvas as if they had already departed.

Without waiting to see if Melody was following, Jane
gathered her skirts and crossed the lawn in the direction of Long Parkmead. She heard a few more words behind her; then Melody was by her side, breathless and laughing.

“I do not know that I have ever seen such a pair as the two of you.”

Jane kept her gaze fixed on the path, letting her bonnet hide her expression. Had she lifted her head, the fury on her face would have been enough to make Medusa envious. “I am glad I could amuse you.”

Melody’s renewed laughter did nothing to improve Jane’s spirits.