“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.