Shades of Milk and Honey (17 page)

She had never overexerted herself with glamour this severely, but she well remembered the cautionary tales with which her tutor had frightened her. Like a horse run too long and too hard, Mr. Vincent’s heart could burst if they could not cool him down sufficiently.

With the application of the cold-monger’s craft, Mr. Vincent’s spasming grew less severe, but his breath was still ragged and his pulse too fast. It seemed forever before the surgeon arrived. When he did, he strode straight into the room, without so much as taking off his greatcoat.

Dr. Smythe felt Mr. Vincent’s pulse and his face turned grave. Surveying the folds of chill surrounding Mr. Vincent, he said that they had probably saved his life, but whether he would regain his senses was beyond the surgeon’s power to judge. Then, Jane was forced to quit the room as the surgeon decided to remove Mr. Vincent’s shirt to try him with leeches.

Once outside, beyond the immediate stresses of caring for Mr. Vincent, Jane’s own anxiety caught up with her. It was only by placing a hand against the wall to steady herself that she was able to make her way down the hall. She was determined not to faint and add to the doctor’s burden. So young a man, struck down in his prime by such a trifle. The illusion should have been well within his grasp, but it was obvious that he had pushed himself too hard finishing the glamural for Lady FitzCameron. Jane should have tried harder to convince him not to do the
tableau vivant
when she saw his hands shaking after holding the illusion for so short a time.

She reached the drawing room, where many of the guests remained, anxious about the fate of Mr. Vincent. By their faces, she could see that some worried for the man himself while others cared only for the gossip. Mr. Dunkirk came to her straightaway and, taking her arm, guided her to a seat. “Your father had to see Mrs. Ellsworth home. He asked me to see you back to Long Parkmead.”

Letting Jane regain her equilibrium, he did not ask the question that must surely be on everyone’s mind.

Lady FitzCameron was not so patient.

“We saw the surgeon arrive. What has he said about dear Mr. Vincent?” The cold glitter in her eyes belied her words. Jane could almost believe that Lady FitzCameron would be pleased if the man died, for it would increase the value of her glamural.

Jane straightened in the chair and told them all that had passed. When she explained that he might not regain his senses, Beth burst into tears and turned to her brother for comfort. Mr. Dunkirk looked as though strong emotion would overcome him.

Then the party must discuss the shock and horror of the case. Each avowed that they had either known he was too weak and should have advised him not to attempt any more glamour for a fortnight at least, or that they had absolutely no idea anything was wrong with him. Someone—Jane did not remember who—had pressed a glass of cordial into her hand, and she sipped it reflexively as person after person came to ask her to repeat some detail of Mr. Vincent’s collapse. At
last, Mr. Dunkirk said, “You can do nothing for Mr. Vincent here. Let me take you home, and in the morning we shall inquire.”

Though Jane was loath to leave while Mr. Vincent was still so much in danger, she had to concede the intelligence of Mr. Dunkirk’s proposal. During the carriage ride home Jane did not have the strength to speak to Beth, who kept repeating a litany of her upset. Her words invoked the horror of the moment when Jane had first seen Mr. Vincent lying on the floor. She replayed it in her mind as surely as if she had caught it in a loop of glamour. His heels drummed endlessly, and he grunted as his breath was forced out of his body each time it arced backwards. Jane pressed her face against the carriage window for the feel of the cool glass, but it did nothing to drive the image from her mind.

Mr. Dunkirk said, “Hush, Beth. We are all of us upset.”

Grateful for his intervention, Jane roused herself. “Yes, but you are closer to him than I.”

“But the stresses of the event involved you more intimately. I would be astonished if you felt nothing.”

His assurance did little to soothe Jane’s worn nerves.

Shortly after that, Mr. Ellsworth and Melody met them in the front hall. Melody’s pale face shewed her tension. “How is he?”

Mr. Dunkirk said, “According to the surgeon, your sister’s efforts may well have saved Mr. Vincent’s life. He is less sure if his senses will survive intact.”

Melody swayed at these words, and would have fallen if
Mr. Ellsworth had not leaped forward to catch her. Mr. Dunkirk helped him bring Melody up to her room.

What right did Melody have to faint, when Jane had tended the man? If anyone deserved to be overwrought with emotion, it was Jane, but now she had the task of tending to her sister as well. When Mr. Dunkirk had taken his leave, Jane’s father asked her to rouse Melody sufficiently to undress her for bed, though Jane was sorely tempted to let her sleep in her gown. Melody had no right to use Mr. Vincent’s fate to seek further attentions from Mr. Dunkirk.

With effort, Jane stifled these feelings until she was alone in her room.

There, in the darkness of her bed, Jane surrendered to tears. That such talent, such art, might be unraveled like a skein of glamour tore at her soul. Jane sobbed, muffling her cries in her pillow, until she fell asleep.

In the morning, Captain Livingston brought news that Mr. Vincent had a steadier pulse, but that he had not regained his senses. Jane left him to console Melody while she took the news to her mother, who pressed her hand to her heart and said, “To think that I almost lost you! My darling girl. I always knew you should not practice glamour. Have I not said that you should take care? And to think that you could be lying senseless even now!”

“Mama, I was never in any danger.”

“I remember how you fainted when the Dunkirks were
here. If I had known then how close to death you were, I would have been in hysterics. It is not to be borne. You must give up glamour at once. Promise me you will.”

“I have never been close to death.” Unwilling to continue the subject, Jane picked up the book she had been reading and said, “Shall I resume the story? Sidonia is facing a Laplander with an enchanted drum in the next chapter.”

Mrs. Ellsworth cried, “What do I care of Sidonia and drums!” and then lost herself in her ravings.

In some measure, Jane welcomed her mother’s overexcited mind, for soothing it kept her own mind off the events of the previous evening. She went down for dinner and learned from her father that Captain Livingston had called again and that Mr. Vincent’s condition continued unchanged.

When they went to bed that evening, Mr. Vincent was still unconscious. On the second day, Captain Livingston brought them word that he had opened his eyes once, but had not seemed to see anything, and then closed them again.

That evening, as Jane, Melody, and their father sat in the drawing room, they heard a horse arrive and then a sharp rap at the front door.

They all sat frozen by the same thought: that this could only be news of Mr. Vincent. There were footsteps in the front hall, and then at the door, and then Captain Livingston strode into the room. At the happy expression on his face, Jane pressed her hands to her mouth, still afraid to hope.

“He is awake,” Captain Livingston said, without preamble.

Melody squealed and threw her sewing into the air. Mr. Ellsworth closed his eyes and murmured a fervent prayer of thanksgiving.

But Jane waited, knowing that though Mr. Vincent might be awake, his mind might yet be disordered. Her fingers lost their feeling as she clutched the arms of her chair. “Is he—is he alert?”

“Yes. Thanks to you. The surgeon declares that if you had not asked for the cold-monger, Mr. Vincent would not have survived the night. He is weak yet, and must be kept quiet, but he is out of danger.”

Jane let out a breath she had not realized she was holding as all the fear of the past two days left her body in a great rush. She pressed her hands over her face and wept with relief.

Mr. Ellsworth patted Jane awkwardly on the back. “Captain Livingston, you have our profound thanks for bringing us the news so faithfully. I believe this calls for a celebratory brandy.”

Jane lifted her head, wiping her eyes. “Yes, indeed. Please join us.”

“I must decline, as I need to continue on my rounds. Aunt Elise has charged me to deliver the news to all our neighbours, and if I celebrate at each, I shall be unable to complete my rounds.”

“Where are you off to next?”

“The Marchands.”

Melody laughed. “Then you should fortify your strength beforehand.”

“I fear you have the right of it. But after the Marchands, I proceed to the Dunkirks, and I would prefer to have a clear head when I greet them.”

Jane looked for some sign of self-consciousness in his manner when he mentioned the family of his secret fiancée, but saw nothing untoward. His ease of carriage gave no hint that Beth had spoken of Jane’s unwitting participation in their
tête-à-tête
. Nor was this surprising upon reflection, for when would the couple have had time to meet?

“I hope Miss Dunkirk is well. It must be hard on her to see her instructor struck down thus,” Melody said.

“Ah. Well, you know how excitable young girls can be. Miss Dunkirk is not half so steady in her thoughts as I remember you and Miss Ellsworth being when younger yet than she.”

Melody nodded judiciously. “It is true that I have often remarked to myself that her interest in the arts was too keen for such a delicate mind. I am surprized that Mr. Dunkirk encourages such fancies as hers.”

Jane could not let this betrayal of her friend stand. “I believe that the arts allow one a safe outlet for passions which could not otherwise be borne. We women have no recourse to the distractions available to men. Is it not better to spend one’s excess energy in the act of creation than to allow oneself to become overwhelmed?”

Captain Livingston shook his head. “I think, rather, that the steadying influence of discipline does more to build a level mind.”

“Such as one finds in the service of His Majesty?” Melody said.

“Just so.” Captain Livingston bowed to her.

Jane could hardly credit his behaviour; to shed such disdain on one to whom he was affianced was beyond understanding. She could only suppose that he hid his attachment to Beth behind the mask of he who “doth protest too much.”

“Well, regardless of your feelings,” Jane said, “may I ask you to convey my regards to the Dunkirks?”

Captain Livingston readily agreed, but for some time after his departure, Jane was troubled by a sense of unease. Now that her concern for Mr. Vincent’s health had decreased, the anxiety she had first felt upon overhearing Beth and Captain Livingston was renewed.

She feared what might come from such a secret.

With the news of Mr. Vincent’s recovery, the neighbourhood had lost a subject upon which to speculate. Now that it appeared as though he would not die, certain parties returned their attentions to their own health. And so, the morning after Captain Livingston brought word of Mr. Vincent’s improving health, Mrs. Marchand arrived to compare her declining state with Mrs. Ellsworth’s, who received her friend with all the warmth and cordiality which Jane could not. Jane could be civil and pay Mrs. Marchand the attention due to her by position and common courtesy, but knowing that she was about to embark upon a recitation of her ills, Jane could not be warm.

Melody sat in the corner of the room, safely engaged in making a new fringe, the working of which apparently required all of her concentration. That left Jane to be drawn in by the notice of Mrs. Marchand and their mother.

Mrs. Ellsworth started the recitation. “Oh, dear Joy! You would not believe the agony I have suffered. I was very nearly done in by poor Mr. Vincent. I thought my heart would burst. Poor Charles had to take me home straightaway, insensible. Is that not how it was, Jane?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“As to that . . .” Mrs. Marchand sniffed. “As to that, I had to tend to all three of my daughters as well as fight off the trauma of the unhappy event, which nearly oppressed me completely. It is only this morning that I was able to venture from bed, and then only by my deep, deep concern for you. I had heard that you were suffering from chronic neuralgia, that you had been unable to bear either light or sound, so of course I came straightaway, though I had to drag myself from my bed to do so. It was only by a steady exertion of will that I was able to carry my arthritic limbs as far as the door to call for our carriage. I am certain that I do not need to speak to
you
of the effort. You understand me perfectly well.”

“Oh, yes. The doctor was quite certain that I had suffered an irreparable harm at the fright. I remember quite clearly: he said, ‘Madam, your nerves will never be sound, no matter what I do.’ My only hope is that I live to see my girls married. Preparing for a wedding will do my poor
nerves in, but I would do anything for my girls.” She dabbed at her eyes with the tiniest, most delicate scrap of handkerchief. “Only imagine: my nerves will never be sound.”