Shades of Milk and Honey (29 page)

Melody and Jane exchanged glances at this sudden reversal of their mother’s opinions. Melody hid a smile behind the fringe she was making. “Play what you like, Jane.”

The keyboard felt strange under her fingers. Had only a week passed since she had last played? It seemed like a lifetime. Jane began by sketching idle notes upon the keys, accustoming herself to music once more. She pulled glamour out to match the notes she played, but the dark purples and twilight colours gave too large a hint of the turmoil still buried in her heart.

Of all the things she did not understand, she did not know why Mr. Vincent had left. It gnawed at her, and the uncertainties shewed in her art.

Mindful of her mother’s request for something cheerful, Jane began Beethoven’s latest sonata. The ache in her breast played underneath the happy refrain. Jane let her feelings
bleed out under the cover of this joyous song and into the glamour, so that as the colours frolicked over the pianoforte, a yearning lurked between them.

The sound of a carriage rolled up the sweep.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Ellsworth said, peering fretfully at the windows from the sofa.

Jane continued to play as Melody peeked out, frowning. “I do not recognize the equipage.”

Moments later, Nancy appeared at the door of the drawing room. Jane let her song end and waited to hear who had come to call. Nancy’s face was red, and she kept looking over her shoulder. “Mr. Ellsworth, there’s a solicitor here who wants a few moments of your time.”

“A solicitor?” Mr. Ellsworth folded his paper. “Certainly, shew him in.”

“He would like to see you privately in your study, if he may.” Nancy curtsied, waiting for an answer.

The family exchanged glances, and Mr. Ellsworth harrumphed. “Well. I’ll see what the fellow has to say.” He tossed his paper on the side table, leaving them to wonder what a solicitor would be doing at Long Parkmead. Their curiosity was further raised when their father barked with laughter upon exiting the drawing room. He shut the door behind himself so they could only discern sounds of great cordiality receding into the distance, until at last the voices vanished into the study.

At a loss for what to do, Jane began playing again. Her mother pretended to read, and Melody made a few halfhearted
adjustments to the thread of her fringe. Jane had barely begun the second movement when her father flung open the doors of the drawing room with such suddenness that she jerked her hands from the keys in surprize.

He was accompanied by a tall man with a crop of curly brown hair, who carried a leather binder tucked under his arm. “Mr. Sewell, this is my wife, Mrs. Ellsworth, and our daughters Jane and Melody.”

Mr. Sewell bowed appropriately to each of them, but his eyes lingered on Jane. The hair on the nape of her neck stood quite on end.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Mrs. Ellsworth pressed her hand against her chest. “Lady FitzCameron is suing us for defaming Captain Livingston—I knew it. Jane, this is your fault.”

Melody stood abruptly. “Leave Jane alone! You know I would have run off with him if she had not stopped me.”

“Well, I never!” Tilting her small nose up in a sniff, Mrs. Ellsworth dabbed at her eyes with a square of lace. “We did not raise you to speak so to me.”

Mr. Ellsworth cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, Mr. Sewell has some things to discuss with us. Jane, may I ask you to wait in my study? This will be but a moment.”

Clammy dread gripped her. “Of course, Papa.” Her eyes stung with suppressed tears as she left the room, berating herself for bringing such trouble on her family.

Nancy stood in the hall, watching her with wondering eyes. Jane was determined not to crumble here. She entered
her father’s study, grateful for the brief sanctuary she would be granted to gather herself.

Mr. Vincent stood at the window.

At her startled cry, he spun. “Miss Ellsworth. Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

In the week since she had last seen him, a remarkable transformation had occurred. His features had lost some of their gauntness and once again had a healthy colour. His cheeks were smoothly shaven; his hair clipped neatly. Every aspect of him spoke of ease, and yet there was a hesitancy in his manner.

Jane spoke first. “I—I did not know you were here.”

“Did your father not tell you?”

She shook her head. “I only saw the solicitor.”

He grimaced. “I apologize for that. It may not have been necessary, but I wished to take no chances on my errand.”

“What errand is that?”

“You may recall that I lack the gift of words.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Did you finish my book?”

“Yes.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “I shall fetch it for you.”

Mr. Vincent held his hand out, with a deep entreaty written on his face. “No. No, it is for you. Did you—did you understand it?”

No longer trusting her legs to support her, Jane sank into the nearest chair. “I think I did.”

Steepling his fingers together, Mr. Vincent pressed them against his lips and nodded. He studied her, looking for
an answer in her form. Then, as if he could not stand the pain of wondering, he turned from her to the globe on her father’s desk. Spinning it idly, he said, “Perhaps then, you understand—no. I will not play at guessing games.” Stopping the globe, he turned back to her. “I have given you no reason . . . and yet. Miss Ellsworth, I have come here tonight to ask for your hand in marriage. Will you—will you say yes?” His voice cracked on the last word.

Jane opened her mouth, but the joy, where she had expected nothing but fear, stopped her breath with a single sob.

Mr. Vincent’s face dropped. In that moment of vulnerability, she realized that he was younger than she had taken him for.

He nodded and stepped back, his mask of gruff distance returning. “Of course. My apologies. I will not trouble you further.”

“Wait!” Jane stood, realizing that he had mistaken her pause for a refusal. “Yes! Oh, please, yes.”

Slowly, as if glamour were being stripped away to reveal a true dawn, his face brightened. “Do you mean it?”

Jane nodded. She reached out, wanting to enfold this gruff bear of a man in her arms and comfort him, to make magic together, and to watch the world grow old with him. He met her halfway, and the last reservations fell away as they embraced.

Though he denied a skill at words, everything Mr. Vincent said in that tender moment brought Jane unbearable joy. She sighed and pressed her head against his broad
chest. He tucked his chin over her head, and they fit together as neatly as a puzzle. “There is one more thing you should know.” His words rumbled and vibrated through her being.

“Yes?”

She could feel the tension come back into his frame. “Vincent is not my surname.”

“I know.”

“You do?” He held her at arm’s length, all astonishment.

“Beth told me.”

He frowned. “What did she say?”

“That Mr. Dunkirk had investigated you and that Vincent was not your real name. Nothing more.” Jane cocked her head. “Is that why your journal has the initials V. H.?”

“Indeed. Does that bother you? That I have lied about who I am?”

“No. Your art tells me everything I need to know.” Her mind went to the glamural in her room. She itched to shew it to him.

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “You should know that Vincent is my given name. My surname is Hamilton; I brought Mr. Sewell to verify that I am who I say so that your father might have no reservations about the match.”

“It would not matter if he did.”

“It flatters me that you say so.” Mr. Vinc—No, Mr. Hamilton led her back to her chair and seated her in it. “I changed my name because my family was embarrassed by my artistic interests. I promised them that I would work in anonymity
to protect their honour, such that it is. My father is Frederick Hamilton, the Count of Verbury. I am his third son. There is no fear of having to suffer the intricacies of court life, as my brothers are both in good health, but it does mean that we can live in comfort, without having to suffer the pains of an itinerant glamourist’s life.”

Jane heard only one thing in his explanation. “You will not give up your art to return to them!”

“I already have.” He kissed her hand. “I found something more important.”

“No!” Jane stood, and took him by the hand. She could not explain her own thoughts as she ran up the stairs to her room, Vincent close behind her. Jane flung open her door and pushed him through. He stopped at the sight of the glamural.

He was silent for a long moment.

She waited, not afraid of his judgment, because she knew well that the glamural was better than anything she had ever attempted, but for him to understand what she meant by shewing it to him. In the lines of the trees there was a surety that she had not known she possessed. The leaves trembled with her as if attuned to the passion she felt for Vincent. A breeze caressed them, and through the glamour she could imagine his touch on the wind.

“Jane . . .” He trailed off, lost in the forest she had created.

“You gave me this.” Pressing his hand between her palms, Jane willed him to understand. “It belongs to both of us
now, and I will never forgive myself if you give up art. Not for me.”

Vincent laid his free hand against her cheek. “Promise me that you will always be my muse.”

“I will.”

His eyes creased in a smile, and he bent down to kiss her with gentle lips.

In the hall below them, Mr. Ellsworth cleared his throat.

Vincent straightened, turning a remarkable red. “Ah.” He almost levitated out of her bedchamber with embarrassment. “Mr. Ellsworth. Your daughter was just shewing me her glamural.”

“Yes . . . I see that. We were wondering if there were any answers to any questions?” Mr. Ellsworth had his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat, and looked far too innocent for his own good.

“Yes, sir.” Vincent took Jane’s hand and led her down the stairs. Mr. Ellsworth beamed when he saw them holding hands. Suddenly, Vincent stopped on the stairs. “Wait. I forgot this.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a ring set with a sapphire and ringed with black pearls. The dainty thing looked lost in his strong hands.

Jane trembled as he slipped it on her finger. His face was bright with unspoken sentiment, and Jane lost herself in his gaze. He raised his eyebrows, sighed, and nodded his head toward where her father waited at the foot of the stairs.

She laughed and followed Vincent down the stairs.
Mr. Ellsworth stood with his back carefully to them until they arrived. “Well? Where will you be living?”

Jane squeezed her betrothed’s hand and lifted her chin. “We shall be traveling where his work calls him.”

Mr. Ellsworth laughed and punched Vincent on the arm. “See, I told you she would not let you give it up. My daughter is too clever to stop a talent such as yours.” He turned to the drawing room. “Come. Melody and Virginia are standing at the door listening. I do not want to strain their ears.”

The evening passed in merriment, though Mrs. Ellsworth could not stop proclaiming her astonishment. When the lovers parted for the night, Jane’s heart left Long Parkmead with Mr. Vincent Hamilton, but she was not separated from it for long.

Denying her mother the excitement of a lavish wedding, Jane prevailed on her father to grant her a small private one. She and Vincent were married by Mr. Prater on the Friday after his proposal.

Jane packed her trousseau and traveled with Vincent, working at his side to create glamurals. Such were their combined abilities that they came to the notice of the Prince Regent and worked a commission for him which inextricably linked the Vincents’ name to good taste.

In turn, their frequent visits to the great houses led to Melody finding a love as true as the Vincents’ was for each other. With this marriage, all of Mrs. Ellsworth’s desires
for spectacle were met as Jane and Vincent created the wedding glamour for Melody.

And Mr. Ellsworth, who desired nothing more than to see his two daughters happily wed, lived to enjoy his grandchildren, whom he took on rambles through the maze at Long Parkmead and fed strawberries to and spoiled as much as he was allowed.

Though the Vincents’ latter career might seem strange for a pair of glamourists, its path led them always in pursuit of perfection. In that way, they created their own paradise through their works of artistry and passion. But those details belong in other volumes. All that is required for an understanding of their love is this small scene from their declining years.

When asked by a young glamourist for advice, Jane looked at the now white-haired Vincent and smiled. “Find your muse. After that, all else will follow. Meanwhile, your technique on weaving folds could use some refinement.”

Vincent looked up. His eyes twinkled in their map of lines. He mouthed, “Muse.”

Jane pursed her lips to hide her smile. She was content with her role; she had a muse of her own.

Allow me first to acknowledge the enormous debt I owe to Jane Austen, who not only inspired this novel but has taught me much about the importance of small details. My husband, Robert Kowal, deserves much praise for his patience and encouragement. He is my Mr. Vincent.