Her father saw some of this conflict in her face and said, “You have done right to tell me.”

Jane nodded. Though she knew he was correct, her heart remained unconvinced.

Her father pushed back his chair. “I must be on my way if I am to catch them before Shaftesbury. You would do well to be on your way as well, if you want to be back from Robinsford Abbey before we return.” At the surprize evident in Jane’s features, he said, “I will not press you for confirmation, but I may have my guesses as to the young lady who has taken you into her confidence.” Mr. Ellsworth pressed his hand against Jane’s cheek. “My dear, I do not envy you. This cannot please her family.”

“No, sir. It cannot.”

“Still. Take a moment to mend your toilet.” He shook his head and smiled fondly at her. “You look half a madwoman.”

Mr. Ellsworth went his way, leaving Jane to climb the stairs to her room. She opened the door and stopped, struck dumb by the glamural covering one corner of the room.

She had forgotten her efforts to exhaust herself the night prior. The wood she had made waved in the breeze, with more vitality than she could have imagined emerging from her hands. The level of detail she had employed was not what made the difference; it was the tension underlying the straight graceful boughs, as if they yearned to uproot themselves and move, giving the whole scene life. Jane laughed.

She had created a glamural of which Mr. Vincent might approve, but in the one place in the house that he could not go. The mirth nearly overwhelmed her, then mixed with sobs and panic and turned into a panting fit that caused Jane to press her hand over her mouth. She shut the door and leaned against it, with her eyes screwed tight. Oh, Mr. Vincent, how should I transform this terror into art? Perhaps it could become its opposite in a row of perfectly ordered tulips. Another bubble of laughter almost overwhelmed her, but Jane caught her breath. Whatever Mr. Vincent might think, there was a time to govern one’s emotions, and this was that time. Jane needed all of her rational thought about her.

Twenty-three

The Box on the Mantel

By the time Jane had made herself presentable enough to call on the Dunkirks, she was somewhat steadier in her sensibilities. She would need some excuse to visit, so she thanked providence that she had promised to bring happier books for Beth. Jane took a quick detour to the family’s small library and picked a handful of books which might suit.

Her hands shook, realizing the greater need that Beth would have for these when Captain Livingston’s treachery was exposed. Jane swallowed the bile rising in her throat, tucked the books under her arm, and set out for Robinsford Abbey.

Had it been only the day before that she had walked this path with Mr. Dunkirk? She passed the spot where he had begun to relate Beth’s history, and then the place where she had learned of his duel with Mr. Gaffney, and then the oak tree by which he had said her name. There was the path which led to the apple tree where she had discussed the nature of perfection with Mr. Vincent. Had it been there that he had begun to think of her?