Shades of Milk and Honey (9 page)

“Do you know how he is doing this, Miss Dunkirk?”

The girl shook her head. “I am afraid that we are still working on basic colours and shapes. I had hoped you could tell me.”

“I do not know either. Every vanishing charm I know is more cumbersome than this, and leaves traces in the ether. I am most curious.” Jane sank onto the nearest blanket and studied the place where Miss Dunkirk had appeared. She let her view of the physical world dissipate and concentrated on the glamour. At first, she saw nothing, and then, as Miss
FitzCameron and Captain Livingston stepped through, she saw a slight shimmer. Focusing on that, she let her vision go deeper as the rest of the party entered. Each entrance gave her a clue about the nature of the glamour, but the fold was so thin that it was almost invisible.

The last to appear was Mr. Vincent.

He instantly saw what she was doing and smirked, as if certain that she could not discern his craft. Jane would not tolerate that and, in a rare moment of pride, was determined to prove herself the equal of this haughty, silent man. She saw now the fold; a single gossamer cloth of glamour creating a canopy that stretched to the ground, covering the group.

He was manipulating light itself.

Jane began to work backwards to understand how it had begun. It twisted just so. When she thought that she understood Mr. Vincent’s methodology, Jane cupped her hand around a glamour of pure light, tied off a fold of it, and attempted to create a tiny bauble which sunbeams skittered around. Then, working carefully, she stretched the light out to a fine thin weave until it enveloped her. Most remarkably, by tying the fold off before she began stretching it, it took no more effort than working with a minuscule fold. The sunbeam continued on its happy journey, detouring around her so that no one observing her would be able to discern that it had veered from its course. It was a monstrously clever illusion.

“Oh, well done, Miss Ellsworth, well done!” Miss
Dunkirk clapped. “I knew you could understand it. I was certain you could.”

In the protection of her bubble, Jane allowed herself the luxury of a smile of pride. That man thought she was incapable of following his trick, did he? But as her vision returned to the physical world, and she saw the others clapping for her, and the look of illness on Mr. Vincent’s face, she lost some of her pleasure in her accomplishment. What purpose had assaying to match his feat in front of the others served beyond stroking her own vanity? It would have been better if she had let him have his triumph, rather than making it seem as if anyone could do this pattern by simply sitting down and copying him. She had played a churlish trick.

Jane released the ties on her bubble and feigned breathlessness as though it took more effort than it had. “I do not think I have the right of it, Mr. Vincent.”

If anything, her subterfuge made his sneer deepen. “You did.” Without a word more, he strode out of the group and into his own bubble, vanishing back to his paints. As the others continued their exclamations, Jane stared after him, perplexed beyond all measure.

When she returned her attention to the group, she found Mr. Dunkirk staring at her. For a brief moment his face was unguarded, but Jane hardly knew how to read what she saw there before it vanished. He had already turned away and begun a conversation with Miss FitzCameron before Jane could be certain that she had seen anything at all.

Then her attention was taken by Miss Dunkirk, who wanted to know all of the particulars of how the disappearance had worked. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of simple pleasures as they enjoyed the meal set out for them by the servants. Mr. Vincent appeared only once more, quite suddenly, as he released the ties on the folds masking them. He had donned his coat and packed his box of paints and his easel.

“Oh, Mr. Vincent, you are not leaving us, are you?” Lady FitzCameron said from her place on the blankets. “I had hoped you would join us.”

He hesitated. Some of the tension came back into his shoulders as his patroness made claims upon his attention. “Of course, Lady FitzCameron.”

“Oh, good.” She smiled, well aware of her power. “What I should like most to complete this enchanting afternoon is a
tableau vivant
.”

Mrs. Marchand looked up from her strawberries. “What a marvelous idea, Lady FitzCameron.”

Mr. Ellsworth said to Captain Livingston, as if they were discussing a horse and how well it trotted, “Jane is uncommonly good at
tableaux vivant
s.”

“I do remember that, and can only imagine that her talents have improved with the passage of time.”

From where she was sitting, between Captain Livingston and Mr. Ellsworth, Melody said, “Oh! They should do a
tableau vivant
together.”

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 vivant
s 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.”

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 thimble.”

“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.”