“Of course.” Jane put her hand on the door, feeling that something was not right. “Which one did you want?”

“The—the one with the cherries. If you can spare it. I do not want to trouble you if you cannot. I am sure I could do quite well without it, only that it seems as if it would . . .” Her voice trailed off as Jane opened the door to her room.

It seemed no different than she had left it, save that Nancy had made the bed. Her bonnets were untouched and her dresses were in the wardrobe. Her paints were in their place. Mr. Vincent’s book lay on the table by her bedside. Nothing seemed out of place, yet something nagged at her. She tried to pay it no heed as she pulled the cherried bonnet down from its place.

“I am certain you will wear it more fetchingly than ever I have.” Jane handed the bonnet to Melody.

“Thank you, Jane. That is very kind of you.” Melody turned the bonnet in her hands. “We should go down for dinner, I suppose.”

“Yes. We had better.”

Jane let Melody precede her out of the room. As her hand closed on the doorknob, Jane suddenly remembered tucking Mr. Vincent’s book under her mattress with a memory so strong that she had to turn to see it lying on the bedside table to verify that it was out of place. It was possible that Nancy had found it while making the bed, but Jane’s memory offered her yet another picture, this of Melody reading as Jane entered the house. The book in Melody’s hands had been small and leather bound.

Before Jane could stop herself, she said, “And how did you enjoy Mr. Vincent’s book?”

Melody halted on the stair, the bonnet still in her hand. “What do you mean?”

“I left Mr. Vincent’s book under my mattress.”

“No, it was on the—” Melody broke off, seeming to realize what she had implied with her denial. She did not turn around, but the very line of her back and the way her shoulders drew up around her neck gave every indication of guilt. She started down the stairs again.

Jane hurried after her. “Melody, that book was private. You had no right to read it.”

At that Melody turned, using the foyer as her stage. “Oh, to be sure. Though why you should be ashamed to have such a lover as Mr. Vincent, I can scarcely fathom. What maiden would not crave a wild artist of low birth for her groom?”

“I do not understand you. Be that as it may, it was wrong of you to read something that was in my room, something which you knew that I did not want read.”

“Oh, lecture me about proprieties, Jane. Do. The hypocrisy is so very clever of you, to pretend to such maidenly reserve and then to carry on with your artist.”

“What are you on about? That book contains only his thoughts on the nature of art, but those are thoughts he entrusted to my care and are not intended for general consumption.”