Shades of Milk and Honey

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Excusing herself, Jane said, “I feel that I must check on Melody.”

  “I hope she has not suffered an accident,” Mr. Dunkirk said.

  Jane’s father harrumphed and mumbled that Melody had twisted her ankle while walking, to which Mr. Dunkirk replied, “Then I will leave you to tend to her.” He took his leave, only pausing at the door to say, “May I call again?”

  “Of course!” Mr. Ellsworth beamed. “Come whenever you like.”

  “Then I will see you soon.” Mr. Dunkirk bowed. “Your daughter is a credit to you, sir.”

  When the front door closed, Mr. Ellsworth said, “Well. Melody needn’t have worried after all. ‘A credit.’ ”

  Jane smiled. “Indeed.”

  Still glowing with the words of Mr. Dunkirk’s praise, Jane went abovestairs and knocked on the door of Melody’s room. Such a small thing, those words, but it was the first time she could recall coming to his special notice. He had always been courtesy itself when in her company, but her attachment to him grew more from how he treated others than from any sense of his having regard for her.

  She leaned her head against the door, listening for sounds within the chamber. “Melody?”

  “Go away.”

  Jane sighed. “Dear. Let me come in.”

  The silence stretched out, during which Jane had time to examine the wood grain on the door and the age worn in the softened edges of its panels. “Melody?”

  Cloth rustled within, and the key turned in the lock, unlatching the door. As Jane opened the door, she was in time to see Melody fling herself artlessly upon the bed, where the rumpled spread shewed how she had spent the time since Mr. Dunkirk’s visit. Her golden curls lay across the bed in an intricate lacework, and tears glittered on the ends of her lashes like diamonds.

  Jane closed the door behind her and leaned against it, regarding her sister. “Mr. Dunkirk sends his apologies for his tardiness.”

  Melody sat up with alarming speed. Her face flushed. “Is he still here?”

  “No. Papa let him understand that you had twisted your ankle while out walking.” Jane sat next to her sister.

  Placing her hands over her eyes, Melody groaned and fell back on the bed. “Now he thinks me clumsy as well as overexcited.”

  “I am certain he does not.” Jane wiped her sister’s brow, which was hot with the force of her excitement. Reaching into the ether, Jane conjured a cooling breeze to soothe her.

  Melody pulled her hands away from her eyes, though she kept her lids shut and turned her face toward the breeze. “But he does. I stammer and blush when he is present. La! Do not tell me you have failed to notice.” She opened her eyes and glared up at Jane.

  “Until today, I had not the faintest notion that you had any affection for Mr. Dunkirk beyond that of a neighbour. Indeed, I had thought you were no more fond of him than of one of our uncles.” Jane smoothed the folds of her skirt, praying that her own countenance was not as transparent to feeling as Melody’s. “Have you an understanding with Mr. Dunkirk?”

  Melody burst into laughter. “An understanding? My dear Jane, Mr. Dunkirk is gentleness embodied. He is grace and elegance and all that is good in a man, but he is also too conscious of propriety to betray anything beyond courtesy. This is why I had such hopes when he said he would come to call today. I had hoped that perhaps he might have begun to pay notice to me as myself instead of as simply the daughter of his neighbour.” She groaned and rolled over, burying her face in her arms. “What did you speak of while I was out acting the fool?”

  “Very little. Music. Glamour. Lady FitzCameron’s glamourist.” Jane waited to see if Melody would speak of meeting Mr. Vincent, but her sister charged ahead with her litany of woes.

  “You see! I could not speak with him of any of those. I am talentless.” She clenched her fingers in her hair, and for a moment Jane feared that Melody would pull her own hair out by the roots.

  Such were Melody’s torments that Jane gave away the comfort that she had taken for herself. “Not true. Ask Papa what he said about you.”

  In an instant, Melody turned over, her eyes a vivid, sparkling blue. “What did he say? Do not teaze me, dear sister.”

  “He said, ‘Your daughter is a credit to you.’ ”

  Melody’s face lit with an inner glow of pleasure, but it faded quickly. “He was surely speaking of you.”

  “I was there, Melody. Why would he speak of me as if I were not present?” And as Jane spoke, she realized that it was true. She had taken Mr. Dunkirk’s words to her heart as if he had spoken of her, but he surely had not. Who else could he have meant but Melody? Had his compliment been intended for Jane, he would have said, “You are a credit to your father.” There could be no doubt that he had meant Melody. Jane reached out and tousled Melody’s hair to mask the wet disappointment that seeped through her. “You see?”

  Melody sat and flung her arms around Jane. “Oh, thank you. Thank you for telling me.”

  “Of course. We must find these small comforts where we may.” Jane held her sister and wondered where she would find her own small comfort. She reached for a new topic, to push away the pain of this one. “And now, should I chide you for not telling me of Lady FitzCameron’s glamourist?”

  Melody pulled back, her eyes wide with guilt. “Oh, Jane! I am so sorry. When Mr. Dunkirk said he would call, all else slipped my mind. Though, truly, there is little to tell.”

  “Well. What sort of man is he?”

  “More bear than man, really. La! He said barely two words the whole visit. Lady FitzCameron says that he is frightfully clever, but I did not see any signs of it.”

  “Fortunately, one does not need to speak to weave glamour.” Jane sighed. “I should like to have had the training that he has had.”

  Melody leaned against Jane, wrinkling her nose. “See! You chide me, but you already know more of him than I do.”

  “You were too distracted by Mr. Dunkirk, I daresay.”

  When Melody blushed, her infatuation was writ large on her cheeks. “Oh, Jane. Is Mr. Dunkirk not the most handsome, most admirable man you have ever met?”

  “Yes.” Jane hugged her sister, so that her own telling countenance was hidden. “Yes, he is.”

  Two

  Doves and Roses

  As the family sat in the drawing room after their nuncheon, the maid brought in the afternoon’s mail on a silver tray and handed the letters to Jane’s father. He looked over them and harrumphed before passing one heavy letter to Jane’s mother.

  Jane tried not to stare when Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed at the address. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the weight of the paper, and the thick wax seal on the back. As Mrs. Ellsworth slid her penknife under the sealing wax, Jane kept her focus on the watercolour before her.

  “The FitzCamerons are hosting a ball!” Mrs. Ellsworth nearly dropped her penknife. Her hands trembled, making the invitation rattle like a miniature thunderstorm.

  Though the FitzCamerons were their closest neighbours, Lady FitzCameron was rarely in residence at Banbree Manor since her husband’s death, preferring to spend her time in London with the ton. There had not been a ball at Banbree Manor since before Melody’s coming out.

  Melody dropped the fringe she had been crocheting, and ran across the drawing room with a squeal of delight.

  Mr. Ellsworth shook his head. “I suppose young Livingston has arrived?”

  Mrs. Ellsworth studied the letter without responding. “Oh! She barely gives us time enough for the modiste to make us new gowns.”

  Jane glanced at her father. Though she coveted a bolt of dove silk at Madame Beaulieu’s Haberdashery, Mr. Ellsworth was constantly worried about funds. His face softened as he looked at Melody. “Well. I want my girls to shew well against young Miss FitzCameron.”

  “Charles, do not be silly.” Mrs. Ellsworth put the letter down and glared at Jane’s father. “Everyone knows that Miss FitzCameron uses glamour to enhance her appearance, though with the dowry
she carries, most overlook it.”

  “Does she?” Like most men, Jane’s father was nearly blind to glamour folds. Jane rather thought it was from lack of training than lack of a native ability, for he could do rudimentary warming spells when hunting.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “Heavens, do you not recall how her teeth stuck out like a horse?”

  “Oh. Yes. I thought perhaps she had outgrown it.”

  Melody snorted. “La! If she had, then she wouldn’t faint all the time. If you watch at the ball, I am certain that she will faint. When she awakens, she will cover her mouth with her hand until she has the charm in place again.”

  “But why does her mother allow it?” Mr. Ellsworth asked.

  Jane put down her paintbrush. “I imagine that she turns a blind eye because she hopes her daughter will make a better match for it.”

  “Neither of you do that, I hope.”

  Jane picked up her paintbrush again, painfully aware that he looked at her, not at Melody. “I trust that it is apparent that I do not.”

  As she laid brush to paint, dabbing at the blue with which she hoped to capture yesterday’s sky, her father blustered with a poor attempt at apology. “No, of course. Both of my girls are too sensible for such nonsense.”

  “Sensible.” Jane guided the brush across the page, letting the paint bleed across the water. “Yes. We are sensible girls. Are we not, Melody?” Such was her bitterness that she could not contain that small jab at her sister’s moment of weakness from the day prior. At the paling in Melody’s cheeks, Jane instantly regretted her pettiness and tried to turn her words. “And so we should have no trouble in using our sensibility to convince you of the importance of new gowns for the ball.”

  “Oh yes, Charles. They must have new gowns.” Mrs. Ellsworth rapped the table as if she could summon the modiste instantly.

  Mr. Ellsworth laughed, belly quivering under his waistcoat, and the moment passed. “New gowns and a new thing for your hair.” He gestured loosely at his own thinning pate. “Whatever it is the young ladies are using to look becoming these days.”

  “May we go now?” Melody danced on the carpet of the drawing room as if she were already at the ball dancing a cotillion with Mr. Dunkirk.

  Jane shook her head to clear it of such thoughts and returned her attention to her watercolours. It was unjust of her to have so much petty bitterness toward Melody. Jane knew well that she was past what small bloom youth had provided her. She had resigned herself to life as a spinster; there were certainly less honourable ways to spend one’s declining years than attending to the comforts of one’s parents. Her best hope was to see Melody happily wed. Indeed, her own welfare could be said to depend on such a happening, for if Melody gained the sort of husband which she deserved, then after their parents’ passing he would welcome the spinster sister into the household like a good and true gentleman. Then Jane might have the pleasure of helping raise Melody’s children and they need not trouble with a governess. Indeed, that seemed her best and only course.

  She washed her brush in the glass of water she kept on the side table for this purpose and smiled at Melody. “I should like to go as well. I have been eying a bolt of silk at Madame Beaulieu’s for some time now.”

  “Then you shall go and you shall take the carriage.” Mr. Ellsworth leaned back in his chair, and Jane felt the weight of his love for them warming her.

  Melody dashed across and wrapped her arms about his neck, kissing the bald spot on the top of his head. “Thank you, Papa.” She danced out of the room, followed quickly by Mrs. Ellsworth, who rattled opinions about fashion and cut as if she were getting a new gown herself.

  Rising more decorously, Jane took a moment to set her paints in order before following her mother and sister out of the room. When she turned, her father was regarding her with a curious tenderness. He held out his hand to her.

  She crossed the room and took it, wondering at the softness in his gaze.

  “Jane, will you humour an old man?”

  “Of course, Papa.”

  “I should like to see you in something with roses.” He squeezed her hand. “Will you do that for me?”

  Her beloved dove silk vanished from her mind. How could she deny him such a simple request? “I will speak to Madame Beaulieu. I am certain sure she will have just the thing.”

  Roses. What made him think of that?

  Always when Jane went into Dorchester she found herself instantly wearied by the bustle of people and carriages as they went about their business. She could not help but wonder where they were all going, and what business pulled them out of their homes with such urgency.

  There, she saw two boys who must be on their way to someone’s home with a delivery. One carried a greengrocers box, full of lettuce, turnips, and early strawberries. The other, a cold-monger, worked folds to keep a chill over the box.

  And there, the girl walking with the young man in a captain’s uniform: was he her brother returned from the seas or a suitor hoping to win her heart? Indeed, the town seemed quite full of young men in uniform, their epaulets and decorations adding a brilliant sparkle to the streets. Jane scanned the crowd, wondering if any of the young men were Henry Livingston and if she would recognize him should she see him. Indeed, he might be the young captain she had seen walking with the girl; the man’s hair had been dark enough.

  The carriage pulled to a halt in front of Madame Beaulieu’s Haberdashery, and Jane alighted from the carriage with her mother and sister. Though Mrs. Ellsworth had no need of a new gown, she had contrived to convince Mr. Ellsworth that it was in their best interests for her to have one as well. After all, she said, would not their neighbours recognize the shabbiness of her own dress as an indication of their income? And to imply that their income was lower than it was would surely harm the chances of the girls at wedding. Almost, Jane had declined to accompany them at that point, knowing that her own dress would be but a masquerade to delay the confirmation of her spinster status a while longer, but for all that, she was still a girl at heart and loved pretty things.

  Madame Beaulieu’s establishment was crowded with girls. From the chatter it seemed that Lady FitzCameron had invited every eligible maid from the surrounding countryside.

  True to her promise to her father, Jane looked through the bolts of cloth for one with roses figured upon it and found but one, which seemed too garish for her features. The roses, worked in yellows and peaches, would only make her skin more sallow.

  Jane’s mother and sister finished their business with the modiste and excused themselves from the overcrowded shop while Jane, who had yet to reconcile herself to the yellow roses, continued to look at cloth in hope of finding a fabric which suited her.

  In despair, she was about to chuse the yellow cloth when the modiste approached. “I thank you for your patience, Miss Ellsworth. How may I help you?”

  Jane sighed and fingered the bolt of yellow roses. “My father has made a special request that I be dressed in roses. I throw myself on your mercy, for this is the only cloth with roses, and I fear I lack the complexion that it requires.”

  Madame Beaulieu stepped back and narrowed her eyes, raking them over Jane and seeming to take the measure of her soul as well as her figure. “The figured cloth won’t do, but we may suggest roses by other means.”

  She led Jane across the shop to a bolt of palest pink. Picking up the cloth, she continued to the bolt of dove grey which Jane had so coveted. Laying the two cloths together to assess the colours, she nodded in satisfaction and then turned to Jane. “Something like this, I think.”

  Her fingers danced in the air, pulling folds together in a small simulacrum of Jane. This tiny manikin wore Jane’s beloved dove silk, but with a open pelisse of the pink. A high waist with a sash of that same pale pink gave the illusion of height and slenderness to her figure. Softening Jane’s face, Madame Beaulieu had added a turban à la Oriental which cupped her hair with cunningly wrought silk roses. A simple shawl comple
ted the picture with elegant grace. She caused the image to execute a graceful pirouette so that Jane could see how the garment moved. Jane breathed in wonder. She hardly dared hope that her own true form would look half so fetching. “I believe you have it, Madame Beaulieu.”

  The modiste smiled and beckoned one of the shop girls. The girl trotted over and took over the folds from the modiste, moving the image to the back of the shop and leaving her mistress free to spend her energies in other designs. Although Madame Beaulieu could tie off the image and have it remain in place without effort, if she did, the shop would soon become crowded with manikins. A shop girl could be trusted to maintain the integrity of the folds while moving them to the back of the shop, where they could be tied off until it was time to make the dress. As the curtain to the back parted, Jane caught a glimpse of other tiny manikins, as if the ball had already begun in miniature.

  After she spoke with Madame Beaulieu briefly of the price and time of delivery, Jane moved to the door, only to find her way blocked as a gentleman entered the shop. For a moment, the light from the street rendered his identity a mystery, leaving only a man-shaped silhouette. Then he stepped fully into the shop and Jane saw that it was Mr. Dunkirk. He swept his hat off at once upon seeing her. His face brightened, unexpectedly. “Miss Ellsworth, this is good fortune.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Dunkirk?”

  “Very well, thank you, the more so because my sister has come for a visit.” Here he turned and beckoned a girl, surely no more than sixteen, with the same dark eyes and noble brow as her brother. “May I present Miss Elizabeth Dunkirk?”

  As the girl bobbed a curtsy, Mr. Dunkirk continued, “Miss Ellsworth is our neighbour, Beth. She is a woman of uncommon taste.” He twisted his hat in his hand and looked deeply apologetic. “I do hope I might impose on you for some advice. Beth arrived only yesterday, and as we were not expecting the FitzCamerons to be so generous with their hospitality, I find myself tasked with the duty of outfitting my sister for the ball. Were we in Downsferry, my mother would handle this, but I do not feel equal to the task. Could you . . . ?” His voice trailed off, and most unaccountably, he flushed, as if embarrassed. “I am quite hopeless in such things. I may recognize a gown of exquisite taste, but do not know the necessaries of a young woman’s toilet.”