Shades of Milk and Honey (18 page)

“I am surprized that the doctor said that; to me your nerves have always seemed so strong. But then, to one who suffers as I do, anyone with greater health is to be admired.”

Melody set her fringe down suddenly. “I have just remembered that a tonic of rose petals is supposed to provide comfort for injured nerves.”

“May I help you with that?” Jane stood at the chance to escape the unvarying conversation which their mother had with Mrs. Marchand, one which revolved only around their various ailments and the marriage prospects for their daughters.

“Thank you, yes. I will definitely need your help, and of course, we would both do anything for our beloved mother.” So saying, Melody retreated through the drawing room door with Jane close behind her, neither girl giving either of the older ladies time to voice a word of protestation.

As soon as they were out the front door of the house, Melody lifted her skirts and ran for the Long Walk. Laughing, Jane ran after her, feeling as if their governess were chasing her with a tonic. In truth, the combined forces of her mother and Mrs. Marchand were almost as bad.

Turning into the maze, she chased her sister to the center, where a few blossoms still clung to the rosebushes. Melody collapsed onto the bench, laughing and breathless. Jane tumbled down beside her.

In the blush of their narrow escape, they were only capable of laughter. Anyone passing the maze would have thought a gaggle of schoolgirls had gotten lost in its midst. By gasps and hiccups they caught their breath again, only to look at one another and burst into laughter anew.

Jane knew that only a small part of this was hilarity at the supposed escape. More of it was a release of the tension which both had been under for days.

Throwing her head back and exposing her swanlike neck, Melody laughed anew. “I could not remain there for a moment longer.”

“We will have to go back, eventually.”

“Then let us delay as long as we might.”

“But if we stay too long, Mama will think that we have become lost in the maze, or, worse, that wild beasts have ravaged us.”

“Let her!” Melody sprang to her feet and ran to the roses. “Perhaps if I tear my gown on the roses, she will imagine wolves and tigers stalking the maze; then it will always be a place to which we can retreat.”

Melody’s suggestion of tearing her gown reminded Jane too much of her faking another injury. She lost some of her levity. “I think Mama has quite enough imagination on her own.”

“Feh. She only imagines horrible things. I can imagine wonderful things happening in this garden.”

“Indeed? Mama imagines wolves; I imagine governesses; Miss Dunkirk imagines lovers. What do you imagine?”

Melody blushed and turned away. “I do not need to imagine lovers between these walls.”

“Melody Anne! Is there—oh, but it is too much to expect me to remain incurious with a statement like that. Do tell. Oh, do.” She had been so distracted by Beth’s engagement that she had paid no attention to Melody’s state. Of course, after the incident with her ankle, Mr. Dunkirk had paid Melody every attention, so it was only natural that an attachment had formed. Jane’s heart was steadier than she feared it might be at the thought, but she still had to rally herself to be as gracious as a sister ought.

With a flutter of her hands, Melody said, “There is nothing to tell.”

“Nothing! If you wish me to believe that, you will have to stop your blushing. I would rather believe that in a week or two I will be offering you sincere felicitations. Surely it will not take more time than that? But I will be patient.” Jane bit her lip and then continued. “Only tell me that you are not keeping this a secret from
only
me. Tell me that you are not keeping your silence because you do not trust me.”

“I . . . Honest, Jane, there is nothing for me to tell.” She bowed her head and stroked the petals of a rose. “I wish that there were, but I am not certain of his regard, and so I will say nothing until I am.”

Agitated, Jane stood and paced the perimeter of the garden, thinking. It would be better for her to know than to merely guess and fear. “Has Mr. Dunkirk said nothing?”

“Mr. Dunkirk?” Melody’s laugh was sharp. “Yes. He has
said
nothing
, and that is no surprize, in that he cares nothing for me. But there are others who value me for myself, not for my accomplishments. Now I would not have Mr. Dunkirk even if he asked the question tomorrow.”

“But you were so—”

“Yes! Yes! I know. But I mistook esteem for love. That his manners are elegant, that his carriage is easy and his understanding superior; these things conspire to make me feel that I ought to love him, and so I imagined that I did. But now, now I know what it is to have that esteem returned. To be regarded—oh, Jane, I would that I could tell you all.”

“Why can you not?” Jane shook her head. “I thought you said that you were not certain of the gentleman’s regard.”

“No. He has given me every assurance, but because he is not at liberty to court me openly, he must spend time in the company of others, which makes me doubt him. I know that he loves me, but then I fear that he does not.” Melody plucked the petals from the closest rose, dropping them onto the path, murmuring, “He loves me; he loves me not.”

Too shocked to gather her thoughts into words, Jane stared with sightless eyes at the petals tumbling down. The conversation so nearly mirrored that which she had had with Beth that it was only with difficulty that Jane could gather her senses enough to speak. “Am I to understand that you have—that you are seeing this gentleman alone?”

Melody threw the denuded rose stem on the path. “Jane, I have done with answering your questions. They always
lead to lectures, and I have no wish to indulge in your careful thoughts. La! From your manner anyone would think you are my mother.”

“I do not mean to. I only worry for your happiness. On my honour, I only saw that you were happy and wanted to know why. Nothing more.”

Melody broke a rose from its stem and changed the subject baldly. “The danger from Mrs. Marchand should be past now, I think. We should have thought to bring scissors with which to cut the roses.”

Though Jane begged and wheedled Melody, she could get no further intelligence from her. Melody would only speak of roses and Mrs. Marchand, demurring from any other inquiries. The camaraderie which had rejoined them on the flight from Mrs. Marchand had fled, and the distance between them grew as they returned to the house. Despite her efforts, Jane was shut as completely out of Melody’s thoughts as if she were not there at all. Only when she followed Melody’s suggested conversational path and talked of trivial things did her sister engage with her.

Jane struggled with her own feelings of pride, hating herself for playing this game, but afraid that if she did not do so then she would have no contact with Melody at all.

How had their relationship come to this?

A week after the party, Lady FitzCameron decided to remove to Bath, taking Mr. Vincent and the rest of her household with her so that he could better recover in the healing waters. At this announcement, Melody’s spirits took a sudden downturn. Could it be—was it possible that Mr. Vincent was Melody’s lover? Certainly, with his homage to her in the form of the hidden dryad, it seemed that he harbored some feelings for Melody, and yet Jane could scarcely credit the notion. She could see how his artist’s eye would be drawn to her sister’s unrivaled form, but Melody had too little love of the arts to be drawn to so rough a man. Jane had only
recently begun to see his merits herself. But if not Mr. Vincent, then who?

Melody’s spirits brightened only briefly, when the Ellsworths went to pay their respects to the FitzCamerons before their departure. Jane watched her shrewdly for clues. Melody peered around the drawing room as if looking for someone, but then subsided to a bland form of politeness.

Lady FitzCameron received them most graciously, paying special attention to Jane and praising her for saving Mr. Vincent’s life.

“My dear, I do not know what we should have done without you. It is unimaginable.” She gestured languidly to the table and to a book lying upon it. “I want you to have this as a token of my very real affection for you, and for what you have done for poor Mr. Vincent.”

“Lady FitzCameron, no thanks are needed.” Jane curtsied, almost thrown off balance by the jab in her back which her mother gave her.

“Please. I insist.” The jewels on her fingers sparkled as she waved Jane forward to receive the book.

It was a handsomely bound edition of Gothic tales with illustrations by the famous member of the Society of Lady Etchers, Alethea Harrison. Such a gift was far more beautiful than any book in her father’s library, though its subject matter was more to Mrs. Ellsworth’s taste than Jane’s. Still, she thanked Lady FitzCameron very prettily, and the Viscountess seemed to think that the business was done.

“I am so very, very sorry that Mr. Vincent is not able to
receive you, being still confined to his bed. Of course, he sends his best wishes and fondest thanks.”

Jane had wished to see him herself, to ascertain that he was quite well. The last image she had of him was lying insensible on the bed with the cold-monger’s weaves shrouding him.

Melody put her worries into words. “How is he? Is he much improved? Captain Livingston has been so good as to bring us tidings daily.”

“When I saw him—was that yesterday?—he seemed quite well, though he is not able to rise yet, and bright light pains him. Still, I think that you could not ask for him to be in better condition. I know that he would be terribly disappointed to not greet you himself if he knew you were in the house, but of course he is too, too grateful for your aid.”

So they were not to see him. This troubled Jane, who had wanted to drive the horrible image of his collapse out of her head. “I wonder at your moving him to Bath if he is still confined to bed.”

“Dr. Smythe thinks it is quite the best thing. The waters, you know, and the air there will be so much better for his recovery. Of course, he will be in my carriage, not one of those horrid post carriages, and we will keep the shades drawn. My nephew will accompany us, and he will help terribly with the journey.” She paused, and her eyes briefly rested on Melody before returning her bland gaze to Mr. Ellsworth. “Your family will miss Henry terribly, I am certain. He seems so much more in residence at Long Parkmead than at Banbree
Manor. But he is a young captain, after all, and you know how they like to
wander
. I do
try
to keep him under control, but it is so terribly difficult.”

It seemed that Lady FitzCameron had her suspicions that Captain Livingston had formed an attachment, but she chose the wrong target for his affections. Jane refrained from glancing at Melody in an effort to not give Lady FitzCameron a false confirmation.

Mrs. Ellsworth, oblivious to the hints that Lady FitzCameron cast that she did not approve of the possibility of an attachment between her nephew and Melody, said, “Oh, he is such a good young man. It’s so kind of you to loan him to us. I’m sure I don’t know how we should have gotten along when Melody turned her ankle if not for him. You might almost say that Jane’s helping with Mr. Vincent was a repayment for your nephew’s aid with our poor Melody.” She blinked, clearly pleased with the analogy she had drawn between two vastly different events.

Only with effort did Jane keep the incredulity from her countenance. Even had Melody’s injury been real, her life had never been threatened. Jane cleared her throat and sought to change the subject. “And have you found a home in Bath?”

Lady FitzCameron said that they had. They had taken a house on Laurel Place, an establishment which she had occupied in years past and had even thought of purchasing so that they might always have a residence in Bath. “If you ever have reason to be in Bath, you must call on us. I insist.”

As they issued promises that they would visit, Banbree
Manor’s butler crossed the room and leaned down to murmur in Lady FitzCameron’s ear. Her mouth tightened and her gaze flicked to Jane. She nodded once and waved the butler back. “Miss Ellsworth, would you be so good as to oblige Mr. Vincent with a visit?”

The butler must have misunderstood—surely Mr. Vincent had meant to ask for Melody? “I do not wish to trouble him, if his health is too fragile to admit visitors.” Jane kept her gaze fixed on Lady FitzCameron. She wanted to look at Melody to see what effect this invitation had on her, but she could not without drawing attention to her sister.

Lady FitzCameron examined a ring on her right hand. “I am informed that he will not rest easy until he has had an opportunity to thank you personally.”

With that, there was nothing for it but for Jane to follow the butler abovestairs. The walk down the hall seemed longer than when she had last taken it, and the air grew thick with apprehension as they neared the bedchamber where she had last seen Mr. Vincent.

The curtains within were drawn tight and the lights low, which lent the room a sense of gloom. All glamour had been stripped from the chamber. It was a meaner, less substantially furnished room than Jane had thought. She could not contain her surprize that Banbree Manor needed glamour to maintain an illusion of wealth.