Shades of Milk and Honey (28 page)

His hand dug into the soft flesh of her arm. “My cousin, of course, as I am betrothed to her.”

Beth’s anguished cry cut through the dark. “You said you loved me!”

“I do not know what I said to make you misunderstand so, but I am profoundly sorry for it.” Captain Livingston sounded so genuinely regretful that he made a mockery of sincerity.

“Scoundrel. Knave!” The hard metal of the pistol pressed against Jane’s jaw with each syllable she spat out. She hardly cared now what he did to her, so angry was she at his lies.

“Have a care, Miss Ellsworth. I should advise you not to engage in any more slander. Think carefully before you speak again.”

Of a sudden, the darkness around them vanished and the day spasmed back into being. Jane flinched from the light burning into her wide eyes. The pistol pulled away from her face as Captain Livingston, cursing, tried to shield his eyes from the sudden assault of light.

Jane twisted away from him, taking advantage of that momentary lapse of his attention. She grabbed at the pistol, clutching his hands in an effort to stop him from using it.
His handsome face twisted into a sneer, and he almost lifted her off the ground in the struggle.

“Where are they?” Mr. Dunkirk turned on his heel, looking around the field.

Mr. Buffington shouted, “Livingston?”

Yanking her close, so that her arm contorted painfully behind her, Captain Livingston chuckled as he realized the same thing as Jane; her
Sphère Obscurcie
was still intact, though the darkness she had made had come unraveled by some means. Jane squirmed, trying to escape his vicious grip.

He squeezed her hand painfully, and the gun went off.

The sound echoed through the field, so loud that it came from everywhere at once. Behind her, Beth screamed. Jane waited for the pain which must surely come, but gradually realized that the gun had not been aimed at her.

Captain Livingston released her suddenly and pressed the pistol, its single shot expended, firmly into her hand.

Mr. Dunkirk ran past Jane. “Beth!”

Following Mr. Dunkirk, Captain Livingston dashed past her and out of the
Sphère Obscurcie.
He shouted as he ran, “My God! Miss Ellsworth, what have you done?”

Jane turned. Mr. Vincent had dropped his hold on Beth, and was crumpled in the grass. Blood spattered Beth’s dress. Mr. Dunkirk took his sister by the shoulders, looked her over for signs of injury, and then swept her into an embrace.

Tremors of anguish shook Jane; that Mr. Vincent should
be struck down by the errant bullet undid her. Had she made no effort to escape, the gun would not have fired.

Livingston stopped short of the group. At his feet, Buffington clutched his middle and writhed. Blood stained his middle. Jane did not understand. There had been only one shot; was it possible that it had hit both men? She staggered forward, trying to understand what she had done.

Beth’s scream grew louder. Jane looked at the pistol still in her hand. Madwoman indeed! But Beth was staring over her brother’s shoulder at the captain, not at her. A knife flashed in Captain Livingston’s hand, where he held it against Mr. Buffington’s throat. Jane ran forward and brought the butt of the pistol down on Captain Livingston’s head, as she had used to do with thimbles in their youth.

This had a very satisfying result. He moaned once and pitched forward.

“Miss Ellsworth! Move away from my nephew!” Lady FitzCameron’s commanding voice rolled across the field.

Mr. Dunkirk turned and saw Jane standing over the captain and Mr. Buffington, holding the pistol in her hand. His face grew sad. “He told the truth, then! . . . Did you need revenge so much?”

Lady FitzCameron’s footman grabbed Jane by the arms, holding her tightly. Jane dropped the pistol on the grass and sagged into the footman’s grip. She shook her head, too aware of how damaging the appearance must look. “Captain Livingston fired the gun. Not me.”

But Dunkirk was already being won over. “Please, let us
be done with these tales. Why would Captain Livingston threaten his friend?”

Buffington coughed on the grass. “He owes me money. Lots. He is likely trying to pin it on Miss Ellsworth. Discredit her. Marry a rich girl.” He looked down at the blood pooling about his hands. “May not last long enough to care.”

His words galvanized Mr. Dunkirk to action. Shouting, he called for the footmen to carry Mr. Buffington to Lady FitzCameron’s carriage. After a moment of hesitation, the footman holding Jane released her and helped his fellows carry Captain Livingston and Mr. Buffington to the carriage. Beth called for them to aid Mr. Vincent.

His gruff voice rebuffed her. “I am not in need of aid.”

The sudden relief that flooded through Jane swept her legs out from under her. She dropped to her knees in the grass. Mr. Vincent sat up, staring at Beth’s bloody dress, and asked, “Miss Dunkirk! What has happened? Are you injured?”

Half laughing and half sobbing, Beth explained to him what had occurred since the darkness lifted. Jane, feeling as if she were in a cocoon far removed from the action around her, watched his rugged face bleach paler than she thought possible. Mr. Vincent turned his head sharply and saw Jane kneeling in the grass.

Surging to his feet, Mr. Vincent crossed the grass and dropped to his knees in front of Jane, pulling her into an embrace. Stroking her hair and rocking her in his arms, he murmured, “You are safe. Praise God, you are safe.”

Jane clung to him, weeping.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I thought to lift the darkness only long enough to see if you were safe; your voice sounded wrong. But I underestimated my fatigue and lost control of the threads.”

Jane shook her head, which was buried in his coat. “My fault.”

“No.” He lifted her head and tilted it back, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “You know full well that of all the participants, you are the least to blame.”

Under his gaze, which seemed to see through every layer to her soul, Jane’s heartbeat thundered through her and grew louder, until it merged with the sound of her family’s carriage. As her father rode across the grass towards them, Mr. Vincent released her. Jane wanted nothing more than to sink back into his embrace, but he helped her to rise, then stood at a proper distance from her. He became the model of propriety when she least wanted it.

Mr. Ellsworth swung down from his horse. “Jane!”

In the distance, Mrs. Ellsworth cried aloud, declaiming the horror of the scene, though she could not properly know what had happened. Melody caught sight of Captain Livingston as his prone body was lifted into Lady FitzCameron’s carriage. Screaming in terror, she ran toward him.

Mr. Vincent grimaced. “I believe Miss Melody needs your attention, sir.”

In unison, Jane and her father ran across the field to
restrain Melody. Jane looked back once. Mr. Vincent stood where she had left him, his gaze still fastened on her.

She fondly wished to turn back, but Melody needed all her attention. Incoherent with grief and rage, her sister flung herself at the Viscountess’s carriage. “Henry!”

Mr. Ellsworth, running ahead of Jane, caught Melody by the waist and turned her about. She screamed, “He’s dead! My love is dead!”

Jane led them toward their carriage as Melody craned her neck, trying to see behind her. “Calm yourself, Melody. He is not dead. It is only a blow to the head.”

Not heeding her sister, Melody continued trying to get out of Mr. Ellsworth’s arms, but he held fast. Together, he and Jane managed to get her back into their carriage.

Jane’s mother, to Jane’s great surprize, calmed herself and set about tending Melody.

She patted Melody’s wrists and temples with rosewater, her movements surer and more capable than Jane could remember. Mrs. Ellsworth only spared Jane a glance. “Tell your father to take us home.”

Jane did not need a second urging.

For the ride back to Long Parkmead, Melody filled the carriage with her upset, declaring her wrongs to all who listened. Jane spoke only once, when Melody said, “This is your fault!”

Jane did not turn her gaze from the countryside that passed them by, but said simply, “I know.”

Met by this acceptance, rather than the confrontation
she sought, Melody subsided into silence for a moment, until her mother demanded her attention again.

Despite Mr. Vincent absolving her of blame, Jane could not shake the sensation that she should have done something differently. Though she loathed Mr. Buffington, she had no wish to see him dead, nor could she forgive herself for the very real upset felt by Melody and Beth and Miss FitzCameron. Even Lady FitzCameron was touched by this torrid affair, as her favourite nephew’s treachery was revealed.

Too late to change her course now, Jane’s mind nonetheless filled itself with what-ifs and played the events over and again with different choices.

When they arrived home, Jane excused herself and went straight to her room. The glamour trees stood where she had left them. Mr. Vincent’s book lay open on the floor. She stood, breathless on the room’s threshold, all the emotion accompanying thoughts of
him
nearly suffocating her.

Jane shut the door behind her, closed the book and set it on the shelf. Without undressing, she crawled into bed and shut her eyes, praying for the forgetfulness of sleep.

During the week that followed, Jane stayed in her room, unwilling to confront the results of her actions, but small touches of the outside world crept in to trouble her attempts to regain her calm as the motives of Captain Livingston became clearer. From Nancy, she heard that his hopes of paying off the gambling debts he had accrued had been dashed when he learned, after his betrothal to Miss FitzCameron, that her estate was nearly bankrupt. His desperation was so great that he had wooed two women at once, planning on wedding whichever had the largest dowry. The neighbourhood gossip had it that he had eluded justice and fled to America.

From her father, she learned that Mr. Dunkirk had called and asked for her, but what conversation could they have had that was not filled with pain? Nothing would be served by speaking of events past. Her opinion of him could not be repaired, nor was she willing to listen to the empty apologies which his
honour
would demand.

Her mother told her that Mr. Vincent had parted from Lady FitzCameron’s company the afternoon of the duel and that none had seen him since. Dr. Smythe visited once, at her mother’s insistence, and told Jane that she was in good health, but needed sunlight. He also said that Mr. Buffington would live. That gave Jane her only measure of relief.

And then a knock sounded on her door. Jane roused herself enough to say, “Enter.”

Her astonishment was almost overwhelmed by her fear when Melody slipped through the door. Her sister, eyes dark and haunted, looked as if she wanted to flee, despite her recent arrival. “I will understand if you would rather not see me.”

“No, please.” Jane stood, and gestured for a chair, too surprized to do more.

Melody sat at the edge of her seat and held out a small packet of paper. Jane stared at it for some moments before understanding that Melody intended her to take it.

The packet was so light as to feel almost empty. She folded back the paper to reveal a stem of delicate currants cunningly wrought in glass.

“I know they aren’t cherries, but I thought you might like them.”

“Thank you.”

A silence filled the room between them for some time before either ventured to speak again. Jane considered several of the usual conversational openings, but all seemed too banal to overcome the events that had passed between them. Wetting her lips, she finally said, “I am sorry I followed you.”

“Oh! Do not apologize! Not to me. Oh, Jane. I thought of nothing this past week but of how I was wronged. But then—la! you will think it so silly!—then I was in the drawing room and was caught by one of your paintings. The one of me at Lyme Regis, do you remember? I cannot tell you what it was that I saw there, but it reminded me how you have always treated me with such devotion, and I realized that all my anger at you was misplaced, because I
knew
. I must have known that Hen—Captain Livingston was engaged to Miss FitzCameron, and yet I was too foolish to admit it.” She stopped and looked at the handkerchief in her lap, wringing it into a tight cord. “So I have come, though I have no right, to beg your forgiveness for being selfish and awful and—”

She got no further, for Jane flew across the room and hugged her sister, weeping with her. We shall leave them there as they exchange many heartfelt words, intermingled with tears and laughter.

That afternoon, Jane let Melody coax her down to the drawing room. Though it was not as easy as before, the old
routine gave her enough measure of comfort that after dinner, when her father said, “Jane, will you favour us with some music?” she was willing to comply.

Rising from her seat by the fire, Jane said, “What would you have, Papa?”

From the sofa, her mother said, “Something cheerful. None of these newfangled songs of doom and gloom. A nice gavotte or a rondo would suit. There has been entirely too much moping, if you ask me, which of course none of you have, and yet, I will tell you that it is not good for you to be so much absorbed with yourself. You must think of others and not dwell so much on past injuries.”