But she found her path blocked by the very Captain Livingston of whom her sister thought so highly. He smiled and sketched her a very pretty bow.

“Miss Ellsworth! I had hoped to see you this evening. Your sister has spoken so highly of you, and I have such fond memories of you from my time here in our youth.”

Jane arched an eyebrow, unable to resist needling Melody. “Fond memories, Captain Livingston? Would those be the memories of the frogs or of the snails?”

He threw his head back and laughed so heartily that Jane could not keep her hard feelings, for he clearly appreciated a joke upon him. “By my word, Miss Ellsworth. Your wit is as quick as I remember.” He offered his arm, eyes twinkling. “Would you give me the honour of this dance?”

With a bare glance at Melody as she accepted his proffered arm, Jane said, “Thank you, yes.” She glided onto the floor, leaving Melody standing on the side.

Her minor victory soon soured, as it became clear that Captain Livingston danced with her only to find out more about Melody. His every question was about her taste and character. What amused her; what did she find of interest? The musicians seemed to slow their tempo, stretching the half hour of the dance out into an eternity. As they danced, the small grace which had slowly come to her movements while dancing with Mr. Dunkirk vanished, leaving her with all the elegance of an animated stick figure. When Melody passed them, already partnered with another gentleman, Jane saw how every man turned to watch her sister dance, how she moved as if the music were part of her.

Jane left the floor after the dance with Captain Livingston and retreated to the dining hall, where she would not have the danger of being asked to dance again. She spent the remainder of the ball there, trying to lose herself in admiration of Mr. Vincent’s glamural. Its creator remained elusive, and twice she thought

she saw him but when she turned the corners were empty. Jane could not shake the feeling of being watched. Finally she realized that she was so hungry for companionship that she was inventing phantasms.

The ball crept until the wee hours of the morning, when all the girls spilled out of Banbree Manor and into their waiting carriages, like flowers spilled from a bridal bouquet. Jane followed them, her dress gray as ashes, the roses on her habit a failed camouflage.

Four

Neighbours and Salts

The morning after the ball, Jane sat in the drawing room, painting, while her mother and sister dissected the joys of the night before. Their pleasure in disparaging other young women’s gowns was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of horses in front of the house.

Melody dashed to the window to peer out. “It is the Dunkirks!”

Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed, “Melody! Do not gawk. What will Mr. Dunkirk think of you staring out the window like a girl not yet out of the schoolroom? Sit down at once.”