Shades of Milk and Honey (21 page)

Jane pressed her hand against her lips in complete empathy with his emotions, even without fully knowing the cause.

“Even at the time, I thought that Beth had not learned as much as she ought to have, but was willing to believe that perhaps she did not have as much aptitude as my parents had hoped. No one else said anything, and I, fool that I was, said nothing, not wishing to bring discord where everyone seemed content. I returned to Oxford after the first of the year.

When I came again three months later, Beth put on a very pretty
tableau vivant
for us, and I was relieved that my fears were groundless. Even then, though, I remember noting that he had stood by her, but presumed it was to catch her if she fainted. He was flushed and sweating, but I attributed that to a mixture of pride and nervous energy. Now—oh, now I understand all too well why he was flushed. I also remember the laugh she gave when she finished and how, when I praised her, she said that all the praise belonged to Mr. Gaffney. I should have seen it then. In her manner; in his. But I had
been so long away that I thought she was only growing up. And him? What did I know of him? Only what my father told me, which was nothing but praise.

Shortly after, I left the family to go hunting with some fellows of mine. We were gone some days in the country, and only when we returned to my friend’s house did I find that I had an urgent post from my father. Beth had run away with Mr. Gaffney.”

He paused again to collect himself, the memory even now too raw in its horror for him to continue without effort. Jane could see all too clearly why Beth did not want her brother to know she had a secret engagement; it would only bring this earlier indiscretion to mind.

“You cannot—indeed, I hope that you cannot—imagine the horror this gave me. I had known, you see, that something was not right. But with Gaffney’s references, with his manners and bearing, it was impossible to imagine that he had spent his time with Beth, not teaching her, but wooing her. Though the clues were small, they were there for me to see in hindsight. Her poor performance at the holidays, followed by a sudden leap in ability. And then—then I understood why she had given all praise to Mr. Gaffney. She had not performed the
tableau vivant
. He had. To mask the hours spent together and how little they worked on glamour, he had worked the folds of glamour from his place by her side. Had I but looked, I would have seen it.

The scoundrel took her across the border into Scotland,
and after a week, I caught up with them. I met him in the only manner that I could.”

Jane, startled, stopped in the lane and said, “What? Did you meet him to—?” Her thoughts went to the box on the mantel in his drawing room, and to the dueling pistols it contained.

“It was unavoidable, after what he did to Beth.” He rubbed his palms on his britches, as if trying to wipe off blood. “Beth does not know. She knows only that I arrived and took her home. Her virtue . . . she is so trusting, and has such a very good nature, but she was only fourteen. How we managed, I do not know, but we managed to keep the knowledge within the family.”

Jane murmured that she was honoured by Mr. Dunkirk’s trust, and would keep it. As they began to walk again, she thought of Beth’s desperate plea that she not reveal her engagement. Beth might not know what had happened to Mr. Gaffney, but she must surely suspect.

He smiled wryly. “This, then is my dilemma. If I believe, as I do, that you will not betray a trust, then Beth’s story is safe with you; but if you will not betray a trust then you will not be able to answer my question. But I must ask, so please forgive me for the burden I place on you.”

He stopped. The air between them was charged with the question they both knew he must ask. Jane trembled, waiting.

“Does Beth have a relationship with Mr. Vincent beyond that of student and teacher?”

The relief. The sudden, palpable relief that flooded Jane’s limbs nearly overwhelmed her senses. She laughed outright. “No. I can honestly say that she does not, and have no fear of breaking a trust.”

At her words, Mr. Dunkirk heaved a sigh. “Thank you, Jane. I—” He broke off at the shocked expression on her face, only then realizing that he had used her Christian name. “Forgive me! Beth speaks of you so often as Jane that it has become more natural in my thoughts than it ought. Please, please forgive my impropriety.”

Jane held up her hand to stop him, though her heart trembled at his words. “I am certain you meant nothing.” That he felt it natural to think of her by her given name was so marvelous, so unexpected, that she could barely pay heed to the next moments.

He thanked her, she was certain of that, but the details of his thanks were hidden behind the wonder that he had used her name. The moment passed, faster than she would have liked, and his attention returned once again to Beth. “You have no idea how much more at ease I feel.” He looked ahead to where the steps of Robinsford Abbey waited for them. “I am glad you are coming to visit Beth today. She has been melancholy, and you always bring cheer to Robinsford Abbey.”

“Do I? I had not thought I brought anything with me today but a bundle of leaves.”

“You do.” His gaze was steady, and it seemed as if he might say more, but he turned suddenly to attend to some trifle on his horse.

After an awkward series of half-sentences and pauses, he and Jane managed to find a comfortable footing for conversation and finished with the pleasantries that were necessary to satisfy both that nothing untoward had happened.

And yet, Jane could not hear the crunch of gravel underfoot for the echo of her name repeated in his voice. Nor could she see the sun shining on the oak trees for the memory of Mr. Dunkirk’s gaze when he assured her that she brought cheer to Robinsford Abbey.

When Jane and Mr. Dunkirk arrived at the door to Beth’s room, the enormity of the history that Mr. Dunkirk had just revealed to Jane returned and drove out all thoughts of his use of her name. It added to the weight of the knowledge Jane should not have, but now that she knew these elements of Beth’s past, she was required to conceal that knowledge within herself.

Jane bid adieu to Mr. Dunkirk as she was admitted to Beth’s rooms, and prepared herself to be cheerful and of service to her friend.

The disorder of the room almost undid her resolution, with gowns thrown over chairs, a tray of uneaten food sitting on the writing table, and books on the floor by the chair where
their unhappy owner had dropped them. The glamour in the room conspired to shroud it in gloom, with heavy folds of darkness masking the corners. Beth lay in bed, the covers disarrayed around her. Her hair was down, in tangles, and her skin was as pale as fog.

Jane could not restrain a cry of dismay at the sight, which did little to stir the unhappy maiden. Surely Mr. Dunkirk had not been in his sister’s rooms, or he should know that there was more wrong with her than simple melancholia. This was depression, black, dark depression.

“Beth?” Jane went to the bed and sat beside her. “Dear Beth, tell me what is the matter.”

Beth rolled over and gazed at her listlessly. “Jane.”

Her cracked, faded voice pierced Jane’s heart, but Jane would not let tears fall. She brushed the hair back from Beth’s face. “Will you tell me? Do, please. It worries me to see you so distraught. Perhaps if I knew what the trouble was I might be able to help.”

Beth sighed. “Nothing can help. Henry is gone away and I shall never see him again.”

She burst into sobs, each cry tearing from her throat as if it would be her last. Jane exclaimed and did her best to console the girl. Gathering her up, Jane rocked her back and forth as she cried, incoherent, on Jane’s shoulder. “Hush, hush. It cannot be as bad as all that. The world is too small to never see someone again.”

With an inarticulate cry, Beth pulled away and flung
herself back to the bed, hiding her face in the pillows. “You don’t know! You don’t understand. He’s leaving tomorrow. When a man leaves, he never comes back.”

Jane chilled. Oh, how wrong Mr. Dunkirk was to think that Beth did not have some guess as to the fate of her tutor. How could she not, and yet feel so sure that she would never see Captain Livingston again? “Forgive me. You are right; I cannot understand. You must tell me.”

Beth said some words in response, but her agony was so great that they were unintelligible.

“Beth, you must gather your senses. Were your brother to see you in this state, he would surely guess the cause of your upset. Already he suspects that your affections are aligned with someone. I beg you to restrain your emotion.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she could feel Mr. Vincent standing behind her so strongly that she turned to look. He was not there, of course, but his idea was. What need was there to restrain emotion when they might channel it?

As Beth’s sobs began to ease, from exhaustion more than control, Jane turned her attention to the heavy folds of glamour that shrouded the room. “You must help me set the room to rights, so that your brother will not see your torment.”

Beth rolled over; her face was blotched red and swollen from tears. “I can think of nothing but
him
.” It was all too clear that she meant Captain Livingston.

“Nonsense. You were able to think and control yourself well enough to create this glamour.” She gestured at the
unnatural shadows that hid the corners from view. “Only think, Beth, you must turn those same skills to creating the illusion of a light and carefree mind.”

“I tell you, I cannot. All my mind is overrun with darkness, and that is all the glamour I can create.”

“Mr. Vincent speaks of channeling anguish into the details of bark or putting it into the bright pain of a spring sunrise. Captain Livingston’s departure would not cause you such grief if it were not founded on pleasure, so we may focus on that more pleasant memory to aid as a mask for the current pain.”

Beth groaned and hid her eyes with her arm. “You make it sound so easy that I am certain you know nothing of lost love.”

“Do I not? Look at my face, Beth, and imagine that I could ever have enjoyed love which was
not
unrequited. Do not tell me that it is impossible to pretend to be content when one is far from it.”

Slowly the arm lowered, shewing Beth’s eyes, wide and horror-stricken. “Oh, Jane. Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that you were so insensitive as to—”

Jane shook her head, unwilling to continue a conversation which would lead to Beth asking Jane for whom she had unrequited love, which would force Jane to talk of Beth’s own brother. That would be an untenable conversation under any circumstances. “Rather, I am flattered that you think I am so easy to love as yourself.” To break the spell, Jane cast about until she found a brush on the dressing stand table. Picking
up the heavy silver brush, she began to brush Beth’s hair out. Starting at the ends, she worked the tangles free. Beth slowly relaxed under her care. “Now, dear, will you undo the glamour you placed?”

Beth sat. Her movements were stiff like an old woman’s, and she held her head in her hands before reaching for the nearest fold of glamour. She tugged the knot loose; as it came undone, the folds of glamour reeled back into the ether, pulling the heavy darkness from the corner. With each fold Beth undid, the room brightened, and if Jane were not mistaken, the activity also brought some of the languor out of Beth’s limbs.

The change did not last long, however. Sighing with the completion of her activities, Beth sank back onto the bed, listlessness already returning to dull her features. “There.”

In this instance, the severeness of Jane’s face served her well, for she formed such a picture of determination that Beth sat up again and draped her feet over the edge of the bed. “Forgive me, Jane. I am so tired.”

“That is only natural. You are exhausted, poor thing, and your blood is sluggish from being so much abed.” Jane saw the necessity for keeping her occupied. “But if we leave the room so untidy, your brother will remark on it.”

“Let him remark! Let him know my misery.”

“You cannot mean that.”

“No.” The momentary fire faded. “I do not.” Beth looked around the room, and tears sprang to her eyes. “You said that he suspects. . . . Why do you think that?”

Jane bit the inside of her cheek, uncertain if the knowledge would do more harm than good. Slowly, she said, “He asked me.”

Beth’s eyes widened, and she clutched Jane’s hand. “You did not tell him! I am undone if he knows.”

“No. No, my dear, of course I did not tell him. But he can tell from your manner that something is wrong.”

“Yes, yes. You are right. I see that now.” In a frenzy, Beth staggered up from the bed and began picking up clothes with a desperate fever. “He must not know about Henry. I should die—die, I tell you—if he did.”

Jane mistrusted Beth’s new animation as much as she did the melancholy which had kept her in bed. Watching her friend carefully, Jane picked up the books from the floor and frowned as she read the titles.
The Mysteries of Udolpho, Memoirs of Emma Courtney, Romeo and Juliet,
and
The Orphan of the Rhine
—all of them titles to excite the greatest emotions. Any one of them would have been enough to give the strongest of intellects a momentary pang of empathy for the fictional characters, but Beth, with her unhappy history, stood no chance against the powers of these combined authors. Jane bundled the books together, intent on trading them for volumes which might arouse feelings of happiness and reminders of the beauty in the world.