Shades of Milk and Honey (13 page)

“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?”

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.