Shades of Milk and Honey

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “I would be delighted to help, Mr. Dunkirk.” The shop grew almost unbearably warm. “Though, I must assure you that Madame Beaulieu is a modiste of excellent merit. Miss Dunkirk is in safe hands, you may be certain.”

  He nodded and looked somehow disappointed, so Jane continued, “But of course I shall be happy to share my own feeble opinions as well.”

  “Thank you.” He gave a short bow. “I do not like to impose, but I would like for Beth’s first ball to be all that it may.”

  “Her first ball?” Jane felt the enormity of the task all the more. “Is she not out yet?”

  Mr. Dunkirk looked so grave for a moment that Jane quailed, wondering at her trespass. “No, Miss Ellsworth. This is to be her coming out. My mother has—” Here he broke off. “I beg your pardon. I do not wish to tire you with my family history.”

  “No. The apology is mine. I should not have been so indelicate in my question. It hardly matters if a girl is out or not. I abhor the custom myself, but . . . well, let us consider what dress might suit her, shall we?”

  During all of this conversation, Miss Elizabeth Dunkirk stood behind her brother, listening with silent attention. Her dark eyes were serious beyond her years, sharing some of the reserve of her brother. On her, the high forehead, which seemed so representative of nobility in Mr. Dunkirk, ended in the same glossy black mane, but curved in a more delicate manner, as if her thoughts were tempered by her femininity. Her bones were delicate and her skin as fair as the moon, with blue veins beating at her temples. There was about her an air of sadness, which left Jane most curious. And to be “not out” in a family of such consequence as the Dunkirks! It was most odd, but Jane would not pry for all the world by word or deed.

  She offered Miss Dunkirk her arm and led her to a bolt of white lawn, the fabric most appropriate to a debutante. Then Jane suggested a deep green velvet which she thought might set off Miss Dunkirk’s hair to advantage. Jane tried to affect the graceful, easy carriage of her sister, but could scarcely be at ease, so conscious was she of Mr. Dunkirk’s presence. How had he come to have a good opinion of her taste? In the two years since Mr. Dunkirk had settled in the estate at Robinsford Abbey, she had never felt his notice of her to be beyond that of a neighbour, save for that one afternoon when she had been alone with him in their drawing room.

  Jane held her breath as Miss Dunkirk fingered the rich cloth. When the girl agreed that it was very fine, some of the tension left Jane’s body. Between the two of them, they selected a lace which complemented the cloth as well. Jane found it much easier to imagine a dress for someone else than for herself. By the time Madame Beaulieu disengaged from her other customers to see to Miss Dunkirk, Jane had sketched out a plan for a gown which pleased the girl greatly.

  Madame Beaulieu admired the ideas which Jane wove in the air for her, and added her own touches to bring the whole together. Miss Dunkirk turned to her brother, her eyes asking the question to see if he approved.

  At this tacit invitation, he stepped closer and bent to examine the design. He smiled. “I was quite right that meeting you was a stroke of good fortune, Miss Ellsworth. This is everything I had hoped.”

  His approbation brought a flush to Jane’s cheeks, and she turned to his sister to hide her disconcertion. “I do hope, Miss Dunkirk, that you are pleased as well.”

  “Thank you, I am.” The girl kept her eyes downturned, but a hint of a smile curved her cheek.

  Before they parted company, Jane sought and received the Dunkirks’ assurance that they would call at Long Parkmead so that they might have an opportunity to converse in more agreeable circumstances.

  Three

  Nymphs at the Ball

  Banbree Manor was lit with thousands of candles and hung with streaming folds of glamour, which filled the halls with light and colour. Jane adjusted the shawl draped over her dress, which was all that Madame Beaulieu had promised, and patted her turban á la Oriental to make certain it was poised to best advantage.

  “You look charming, Miss Ellsworth.” Mr. Dunkirk appeared behind her as though drawn out of the ether himself.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dunkirk.” Oh, that he had not caught her preening like a vain idiot. She cursed her ill-placed vanity and vowed to keep her hands at her side.

  He bowed to her before turning to Melody. “And Miss Melody Ellsworth illuminates the hall with her presence, as always.”

  His bow to Jane’s sister was precisely as deep as it had been to her, but Jane could not help noticing that Melody was luminous while she was merely charming.

  “But where is Miss Dunkirk?” Jane asked.

  “My sister is within. Lady FitzCameron would hear of nothing less than having her maid do Beth’s hair. I expect that I shall not recognize her when she descends.” He looked self-conscious for a moment and then said, “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness to my sister.”

  “It has been my very great pleasure to make her acquaintance.”

  The smile on Melody’s face seemed set in plaster. “I look forward to making Miss Dunkirk’s acquaintance as well.”

  “Thank you. You are both very kind.” Then, as if in an effort to cast off the mood and embrace the festivities in Banbree Manor, he said, “Have you seen Mr. Vincent’s glamural yet?”

  “No, indeed, I have not.” Melody’s eyes, wide and cornflower blue, fixed on Mr. Dunkirk as if he were the only person in the crowded hall.

  “But you must.” He held Jane with his gaze. “I would very much like to shew it to you.”

  Her heart danced to a faster tempo than the music in the hall. “I should like to see it.”

  “He has an exquisite command of glamour, which I think will appeal to you.” Then Mr. Dunkirk turned back to Melody and the room grew dimmer. “May I detain you from dancing for a trifle longer?”

  “Of course.” Melody followed him artlessly, so that it seemed he led only her to the dining hall, with Jane an unwanted straggler.

  There, a combination of glamour and paint contrived to turn the hall into a nymph’s grove. Though yet incomplete, the illusion teazed the spectators with scents of wild-flowers and the spicy fragrance of ferns. Just out of sight, a brook babbled. Jane looked for the folds which evoked it, and gasped with wonder at their intricacy. Her perception of the physical room faded as she traced each fold in an effort to understand it.

  Mr. Dunkirk and Melody whispered behind her. Of course, they could not see the effort which went into the art, and would consequently become bored with it more quickly. She shook herself, focusing once more on her surroundings.

  A broad-chested man stood in front of her, watching her too intently. As soon as Jane focused on him, he broke his gaze, acting as if he had not been staring at her. Then a swirl of guests streamed between them and he vanished into the crowd.

  Puzzled, Jane turned back to Mr. Dunkirk and Melody. “Did you see the gentleman standing there?”

  “No.” Melody shook her head, curls bobbing around her cheeks. “What did he look like?”

  Jane resisted the urge to pat her own hair, forced into curls with an iron. “Tall, and very broad of chest. His hair was chestnut and curled about his head like Gérard’s portrait of Jean-Baptiste Isabey.” She stopped speaking as Mr. Dunkirk gave a start of recognition.

  “Why, Miss Ellsworth, you have seen the artist himself.”

  “I wish Mr. Vincent had stayed so that I might compliment his work.”

  “I am certain that the regard with which you viewed the glamural was ample compensation.” Mr. Dunkirk gestured to the other guests around them. “You see how few stop to pay heed.”

  “That is because it is a ball, not a museum.” Melody wrinkled her nose and looked wistfully toward the ballroom.

  Mr. Dunkirk bowed. “Then may I ask for a dance?”

  “Of course.” Melody took his offered arm.

  Before he led her away, he turned to Jane. “Miss Ellsworth, I trust you will also honour me this evening.”

  Melody stif
fened beside him, very slightly. Her eyes seemed to beg Jane not to dance. And how could she? How could she compete with her beautiful, charming sister? “Thank you, Mr. Dunkirk. I feel that I would like to remain here and admire the glamural for a while. I do not quite understand how he is reproducing the brook sound. It has not repeated yet.”

  Mr. Dunkirk and Melody made their apologies for leaving her unaccompanied, but upon her assurances that she wished to study the folds and twists of glamour, they retreated to the ballroom. Jane moved slowly about the perimeter of the room, lost in her own thoughts. She paused again where the sound of the brook was loudest and began to look deeper, trying to understand how the glamourist had managed to make the sound continue without repetition. The fold was not tremendously long, as one might expect, but was rather thick and wound back on itself after a very short distance, surely no larger than a dinner platter. Jane put her hand on the sideboard to steady herself and looked deeper still. As she did she perceived that the sound of the brook was made not of one fold, but of several braided together. Each carried a part of the brook’s babble and each was of a slightly different length so that the various sounds changed their relation to one another as they spun through the cycle, thus creating the illusion of variation. Jane smiled at the artfulness of the technique and pulled her vision back to the room at large.

  The man, Mr. Vincent, stood opposite her once again. Jane started when she saw him and then smiled, resolving to address him and compliment him on his work. She took two steps toward him, no more, before he abruptly turned and walked away. She knew that he had seen her—indeed, he had been staring at her when she emerged from her study of his work—and yet he had walked away as if she were not there. No: he had walked away with a clear desire to avoid her company.

  Jane hoped she had not offended him by her curiosity into his methods, but he truly was the most accomplished glamourist she had yet encountered. He made her own not inconsiderable skills seem paltry and mean. Among the questions that Jane wished to ask Mr. Vincent, she was most curious about how long it had taken him to do the work in this room. While he did use physical paint as a foundation for his glamour, the amount of illusion piled and layered upon the room would have taken Jane weeks to create.

  Satisfied with her viewing of the dining hall, and not anxious to chance further offense to Mr. Vincent, Jane followed the sounds of the music to the ballroom. There she found the company engaged in a quadrille.

  Jane looked around for faces she knew. Mr. Dunkirk was dancing with Miss FitzCameron, who was smiling as if she wanted all the world to see the glamour masking her teeth. Such vanity, and yet she fooled no one save for Jane’s father. At the other end of the set, Melody danced with a young officer with a fine head of dark hair. He laughed, spinning her in the next step of the quadrille. The laugh gave Jane a jolt of recognition as she remembered seeing him in town walking with a young woman the day she went to Madame Beaulieu’s.

  Jane watched her sister, who seemed to be enjoying herself enormously, and then caught sight of Miss Dunkirk. She was being escorted by Mr. McIntosh, an elderly Scotsman who still had a fine love of the dance. Miss Dunkirk did not seem cowed by his enthusiasm, which somewhat surprized Jane. The girl’s green velvet mantle shewed off her slender figure to advantage. Ringlets of hair escaped from under a bandeau of matching green and lay against her neck like a necklace of jet.

  Working her way through the press of people, Jane made her way to where her mother and father stood on the sidelines. Mrs. Ellsworth leaned close and said, “Don’t they look fine! I daresay that Melody will capture the officer’s heart before the evening is out.”

  “Melody could not fail to capture anyone’s heart.” Jane said and shifted her gaze to Mr. Dunkirk, wondering that he had given up the dance with her sister rather than retaining her hand for the next set. Or had Jane stayed in the dining hall longer than she intended?

  “But this would be such a fine match, don’t you think?” Mrs. Ellsworth insisted.

  “He dances well, but more than that I am not willing to say without any acquaintance with his character.”

  “But Jane, you know him well. That is Henry Livingston, Lady FitzCameron’s nephew.”

  Shocked, Jane returned her attention to the young captain. As he turned, she saw something of the boy he had been when he last visited Lady FitzCameron at Banbree Manor. He retained the same arch of the brow and flashing eyes, but the soft roundness of youth was gone from his cheeks, leaving more rugged features in their place.

  Mr. Ellsworth took Jane by the other arm. “Perhaps you would like to dance with him next, Jane.”

  “If he asks me to dance, Papa, I shall be happy to oblige, but I am otherwise content to watch.”

  “If he asks, you would be a fool girl not to be pleased,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, rapping Jane’s hand with her fan. “Any man that would have you should be encouraged.”

  Jane set her jaw and did not respond to her mother’s provocation. Seeing this, Mr. Ellsworth patted her hand and drew her a little away from her mother. “Do not fret, dear. She is ill-tempered because she wishes that Captain Livingston would ask her to dance.”

  Laughing, Jane said, “Then you should dance with her, Papa.”

  “Ah. I am not so nimble as I was.”

  The song ended and the dancers left the floor, milling about to seek new partners while the musicians began the next set. Mr. Dunkirk appeared rather suddenly in front of her. “How did you find the rest of the glamural, Miss Ellsworth?”

  “Very well, Mr. Dunkirk. Although the mysterious Mr. Vincent once again put in an appearance and vanished before I could pay my respects. I begin to think that my attention offends him.”

  “I am certain you mistake him. It is more likely, is it not, that he did not wish to disrupt your enjoyment of his work?”

  “No. For I had met his gaze and clearly started toward him with the intention of speaking. He turned and left quite abruptly.”

  “Odd,” said Mr. Dunkirk. “I’ve run across him once or twice out on the grounds, and he has always seemed most amiable. I shall introduce you at the next opportunity. I venture a guess that like many artists he is shy about his work”—he glanced at her—“and, as this piece is yet undone, perhaps he does not wish to hear compliments of it.”

  “Ah. I think you have the right of it. I had not thought of how it must be for him to have people tramping through and looking at his half-finished glamural.”

  The musicians finished the next dance, and again the guests began shifting about, exchanging partners. Jane noticed that Melody was still partnered with Captain Livingston. Both their faces were bright with merriment.

  Beside them, Miss Dunkirk now danced with a young man closer to her age. Jane smiled to see her so happy.

  Mr. Dunkirk turned to follow her gaze. “Would you care to join me on the dance floor, Miss Ellsworth?”

  Jane looked again at Melody, laughing with Captain Livingston. “Yes, thank you. I would be delighted.”

  Though it was not her custom to dance, as it made her limbs appear more gangly and awkward than graceful, Jane enjoyed the dance with Mr. Dunkirk. He was attentive and graceful as a partner. She felt her own steps gradually flowing with more ease as the dance progressed. When it ended and he excused himself to dance with his sister, Jane was prepared to retreat to her father’s side, only to find her hand requested by Mr. McIntosh. The old gentleman was so jolly that she could find no excuse for putting him off, and so joined in the dance with a will to enjoy it. The only burr in her enjoyment was that Melody was still dancing with Captain Livingston. Jane was certain that her mother was pleased at his solitary attention to Melody, but for propriety’s sake, it would be best if he asked another young woman to dance. It was true that Melody far outshone every other woman at the ball—with that perfect composition of form, grace, and youthful spirits—but a true gentleman would not be so presumptuous as to hold a partner through so many sets.

  Once the dance bega
n, Jane had little time for reflection before Mr. McIntosh whirled her about as if she were a bundle of hay. She was quite as breathless at the end of the dance as if she had tried to unfurl a house-sized fold. As soon as she could, she thanked Mr. McIntosh and then escaped to her father’s side, carefully keeping him between her and Mrs. Ellsworth.

  “You looked well on the dance floor,” Mr. Ellsworth said.

  She thanked him and then said, “I wonder if you might ask Melody to dance.”

  “What?” her mother demanded. “Why?”

  “For propriety’s sake, would it not be better if Captain Livingston danced with some of the other ladies? I am certain that Lady FitzCameron cannot be pleased that her favourite nephew is ignoring the rest of her guests.”

  At this, Mrs. Ellsworth started and looked around, craning her neck for Lady FitzCameron. “Do you think? I had not thought of it, but of course you are right, dear. It would not do at all to offend Lady FitzCameron. Charles, go and dance with her. Go and dance with Melody at once.”

  Mr. Ellsworth pushed through the dance floor until he arrived at Melody’s side. Though she was clearly not happy, she had no choice but to acquiesce to her father’s wishes. Captain Livingston, thus relieved of his favoured dance partner, turned to find the nearest substitute, and lighted upon Miss Dunkirk. She was standing next to her brother and had a becoming flush of exertion upon her cheeks. When Captain Livingston bowed and requested the dance, she looked to her brother for permission before accepting gravely.

  Jane hoped that Mr. Dunkirk would come back to ask her to dance again, but he turned to the young woman closest to him and engaged her for the next set. Jane passed the whole of that set trying to steer her mother to a conversational topic other than Melody and how well she looked.