Shades of Milk and Honey (19 page)

“Perhaps you might guess at the real reason Lady FitzCameron hired me.” The dry voice at last brought Jane’s attention to the man she had come to see.

Mr. Vincent lay propped in bed. His skin was drawn and waxen with a translucence that almost let her see through his bloodless skin to the skull below. His hair lay lank against his scalp, and a gray coating of stubble masked his cheeks, though not enough to disguise the gauntness beneath. Had his health really been spent on creating the illusion of a profitable estate? “I would not presume to guess at the Viscountess’s affairs. I would rather inquire about your health.”

He smirked. “Always proper, Miss Ellsworth. My health is as you see it. Bright light pains me, as do harsh sounds and any scrap of glamour.” He nodded at the bare walls around them. “That is why I am allowed no visitors: not because of the need to conserve my strength, but because Lady FitzCameron does not want their poverty displayed.”

How dare Lady FitzCameron treat him thus. To spend his health and then confine him in order to hide her ill judgment was beyond criminal. “Is that why you are going to Bath?”

“In part. Dr. Smythe does seem to think the waters will do me some good, but I loathe the idea nonetheless. Forgive me; I grow resentful in my confinement. You are my first visitor.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Would you do me the kindness of opening the top right drawer of my bureau and bringing me the book in it?”

“Of course.” She rose, grateful for an activity to distract her from his pitiable state. “Am I truly your first visitor?”

“Captain Livingston has stopped in, but I think merely to report to others. We have nothing of moment to say to one another.”

Within the bureau, Jane found the notebook in which she had seen Mr. Vincent sketch. At this close range, she could make out the remnants of the initials V. H. embossed upon the worn leather cover. She turned with volume and held it up for him. “Is this it?”

Mr. Vincent nodded. “I should like for you to have this. As a thank-you for saving my life.”

Jane was so shocked that she nearly let the book slip from her grasp; to what purpose did he want her to have his sketches? “No thanks are necessary. Truly, it was nothing but what any person with—”

“Please, Miss Ellsworth, do not torture me with your civil phrases. Or at least use them to accept my gratitude with grace. I should be clear that it is not for preserving my breathing form for which I thank you, but for my art. Dr. Smythe has repeatedly told me that I shall make a full recovery and that I owe that to nothing more than your quick thinking. It is true that I might have lived without your efforts, but as a husk. That would have been a slow death for me. So it is—” He paused and looked at her with such focused intensity that Jane felt his gaze burn through to her spine. “It is for my art, which is my life, that I thank you, and it is my art which I offer as thanks.”

Even diminished as he was, the force of his personality dwarfed Jane’s. It did not seem any wonder that Melody felt Mr. Vincent’s regard when with him, if he looked at her with this directness, which went far beyond what was normally due a lady. In that moment, Jane doubted that Mr. Vincent
were capable of regarding
anyone
with less than his whole being.

“Please sit by me and I will explain as best I can.”

Jane sat in the rough chair by his bedside as he slid to the edge. He reached for the book and opened to the first page. “This contains my thoughts on glamour and my efforts to codify a system for recording it.”

Strong, masculine handwriting strode across the page; the tight script wrapped around an ink sketch in the corner. Despite herself, Jane leaned closer, fragments of sentences leaping off the page at her, fragments like
explore light and ways to transport it. Perhaps storing in glass?
and
Without passion, there is no art, only technique.

“But this is your life’s work! I—”

“Exactly.” He pursed his lips and growled low in his throat. “I teach the techniques of glamour to Miss Dunkirk. But techniques are not art. To you, I want to give my art. Whether these writings hold the key, I do not know, but I think they might. You are always so careful, so methodical in your thoughts and actions. I should like to know what levels of art you could reach if you relaxed your guard.”

“I am courteous and follow the civilities which are expected of one in polite society.”

“And your glamour reflects that. You are one of the finest natural technicians I have seen, and you have a rare eye for form; but for all that your art is lifeless.”

“Are these the words of thanks you want me to accept with grace?”

He laughed. “No. Only the book. I would rather have you honestly angry with me than polite.”

She took his measure for a moment; though he disdained empty courtesies, his roughness of manner seemed at times to be a shield for a more gentle nature. “It is not so easy to be angry with you.”

“You were, though, for a moment. When you are angry, your face stays calm, but your skin flushes. I have had several opportunities to notice this.”

Jane felt her skin warm with shame that her feelings had been so transparent. “Are you certain that I was not embarrassed?”

“Quite.” He looked away again, returning his gaze to the book in his lap. “I owe you more than my life, and this is the most precious thing I have to offer. Will you let me thank you in this manner?”

Mr. Vincent’s face, whether from illness or emotion, shewed a naked need to be clear of the debt he perceived that he owed Jane. She would protest that he owed her nothing, but that would only agitate him further, and were she honest with herself, she would admit that she wanted the knowledge in those pages. She wanted to prove to him that her art was not lifeless.

“Yes. I will accept your thanks in the manner you offer.”

Mr. Vincent nodded without looking up, then shut the book and handed it to her. “Thank you.”

Jane took the book. “You are welcome.” The moment begged for more comment, but no words seemed capable of
filling it. She rose then to go, accepting silence as the best option. Only at the door did she remember that he might, yet, have some message for Melody, but could not bring herself to acknowledge a possible attachment directly. “Have you any messages you wish me to carry?”

He shook his head. “May I call when I am well?”

Jane hugged the book to her. “Of course. I look forward to shewing you the fruits of your thanks.”

He seemed smaller even than when she had entered the room, but less drawn. Jane did not waste his time with the forms of polite farewell which he so loathed. She left the room quietly and returned to her family.

They were full of questions about Mr. Vincent’s health, which Jane did her best to answer. Behind them, eyes glittering, Lady FitzCameron asked a different, silent question. Jane did not answer her, but when they ended the visit, she did not join the vague pleasantries, promises to visit one another, and entreaties that Lady FitzCameron not be too long out of the neighbourhood. Nor did she take Lady FitzCameron’s gift; only Mr. Vincent’s.

Of the two books, only one had value to Jane.

Once in the carriage on the way back from Banbree Manor, conversation turned at once to rehashing the visit. Jane suffered her family asking yet more questions than they had before.

“Now you must tell us how dear Mr. Vincent is. I am certain that Lady FitzCameron painted a rosier picture than warranted. Surely the poor man is close to death.” Mrs. Ellsworth fanned herself, waiting for Jane to satisfy her curiosity about another’s ailments; waiting, no doubt, for a symptom which she could claim as her own.

Jane, for her part, wanted nothing more than to quit the company of her family and explore the world inside the book Mr. Vincent had given her. She turned it over in her lap. “He
remains as I described—weak, but shewing every promising sign of a full recovery.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Mr. Ellsworth said. “He seemed a fine man, and to be struck down so young would be a terrible shame.”

Melody suddenly pulled Mr. Vincent’s book from Jane’s lap. “What is this? Lady FitzCameron gave you an old journal?”

“No!” Jane snatched it back, her voice snapping through the carriage.

Spots of red coloured Melody’s cheeks, and she lifted her chin. “Am I not good enough to look at a gift from the Viscountess?”

“Jane, let your sister see.” Mrs. Ellsworth rapped Jane’s arm with her fan. “You mustn’t let Lady FitzCameron’s notice go to your head.”

“With all due respect, Mama, this is not a gift I am at liberty to share.” Jane held the book tightly to her chest, trembling with anger at the unjustness. To be blamed, to be called selfish when Melody took everything that Jane cared about, took precedence because she was beautiful and Jane was not—it was not, had never been, fair.

“Not at liberty! La! As if you had special instructions from the Viscountess. We were all there, Jane; we all saw her presentation. I say, though. That’s not the book she gave you at all.”

Mr. Ellsworth sat forward. “What is this? Did you take the wrong book?”

“No. No, I left Lady FitzCameron’s book there.”

At that, Mrs. Ellsworth let out a small shriek of dismay. “Left it there? How could you! Her Ladyship will think you did not want it, and then what will she think, but that you think yourself too good for her gifts? Charles, tell the driver to turn around at once.”

“Hush for a moment.” Mr. Ellsworth waved his hand at his wife and kept his eyes on Jane. “If that is not the book Lady FitzCameron gave you, where did it come from?”

“Mr. Vincent.” Jane’s eyes clouded with tears, unaccountably. “He wanted to thank me for saving his life.”

“Mr. Vincent?” Melody’s voice was full of astonishment. “You traded the favours of Lady FitzCameron for an artist’s? Really, Jane, you are too strange.”

Jane blinked her eyes clear and stared at her sister. No sign of jealousy clouded Melody’s face; no sign, indeed, of anything save bafflement at Jane’s behaviour. But Melody had said that she had a lover, and if it was not Mr. Dunkirk, it had seemed so clear that it must surely be Mr. Vincent. If not him, then who?

“I thought you had a fondness for Mr. Vincent, with all your inquiries as to his health.”

“Fie, Jane.” Mrs. Ellsworth sniffed. “Everyone in the countryside was asking after him. And why should we not be concerned with his health? I only wish that people would take half the interest in mine, for I am sure that I suffer as much as he does. More so, if truth be known, for my ailments have gone on for years and his
have only lasted for one week. Charles, you have not turned the carriage around yet.”

“Nor shall I. We are nearly home. I will walk over after dinner to fetch the book.”

“But we could go back now.”

“Yes. Or I can walk back in quiet solitude, which is my preference.”

Jane’s parents continued their small bickering until the carriage arrived on their own front sweep. As soon as it came to a halt, Jane bolted out of it and straight into the house. She could not bear another minute in her family’s company, or anyone else’s, for that matter. Racing up the stairs, she locked herself in her room and collapsed on the bed.

There, she gave way to angry sobs. Angry at her parents for noticing so little beyond that which went on in their own house. Angry at Melody for her selfishness, which was only enhanced by the way everyone petted her. And most of all, angry at herself for not being able to govern her own feelings. Nothing today had done her any real harm, yet she felt as though her nerves had been flayed and left out for the tanner.

Was this the state that Mr. Vincent wanted her in to create art? With her emotions so high, Jane could not see to manage glamour, let alone compose a piece of art. She rolled over on her back and stared at one of her watercolours, which hung on the wall next to her clothespress. It shewed the sea from one of their trips to Lyme Regis. The shore had been beautiful morning after morning, so Jane had set up
her easel on the ammonite pavement and tried to capture the glory of the sunrise. This one had come closest of all the sketches she had assayed.

But Mr. Vincent was right. Though her colours were correct, and her use of light and shading exacting, the whole of it was lifeless and dull. Jane grabbed the book and almost threw it at the painting, her arm already drawing back to throw before she thought better of her actions, bit the inside of her cheek, and fell back against the bed.

If he wanted to see emotion in her work, she would shew it to him. Jane opened his book and began to read.

When Nancy called Jane to dinner, her head was heavy with new ideas. The book was not laid out in any ordered way; it wandered from subject to subject as Mr. Vincent had thought of them. He sketched out notions for glamurals and spoke of the ideas underlying his plans.

With reluctance, Jane tore herself away and joined her family for dinner, but if anything was said of import, she did not hear it. Her head was too full.

Mr. Ellsworth reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “Where have you been, Jane?”