Jane regretted not being able to prolong her conversation with Mr. Dunkirk, but comforted herself with the promise of tomorrow’s visit. In the drawing room, the women divided into clumps and began to discuss the particulars of the meal; specifically the merits of the bachelors present.

Miss Emily Marchand went to the pianoforte and began to play a simple air, faintly tinting the space above the instrument with colours reminiscent of the dining room. Jane contrived to avoid a rubber of casino, leaving such card games for Mr. Buffington and Lady FitzCameron, and joined Beth by the French doors overlooking Banbree Manor’s garden. Though she wanted to find out how the girl had fared during her conversation with Mr. Marchand, Jane recognized in herself another motivation: when Mr. Dunkirk entered the room, he would seek the company of his sister.

Beth was out of sorts, however, and the enthusiasm she had shown before dinner seemed to be smothered under a layer of melancholy.

“Are you well?” Jane asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Beth sighed, but seemed unwilling to continue the conversation. Jane stood by her in silence, reminded of her mood at Robinsford Abbey. In this silence, Jane’s mind turned to the aborted conversation with Mr. Dunkirk about his sister’s mysterious first tutor. Perhaps he had died from too much glamour and Beth was tragically reminded of him by Mr. Vincent. Or, more romantically, perhaps they had had an illicit liaison, but that was a silly thought given Beth’s youth.

Jane shook off her fancies by excusing herself from Beth and asking Miss Emily Marchand if she might take a turn at the pianoforte.

By losing herself in song and glamour, Jane was able to put most of these thoughts out of her mind, though they continued to bubble under the surface. She had just begun on the second movement of Beethoven’s Quasi una fantasia when the door to the drawing room opened and the gentlemen joined them.

As she had expected, Mr. Dunkirk went to his sister’s side. Jane played, attempting to do justice to the music without shewing off. The folds which she worked around her were simple things of color and light, which represented the elements of the music, rather than literally interpreting it. After Mr. Vincent’s display in the dining room, Jane felt that the farther she stayed from realism, the more successful her chances of satisfying her audience.

At the end of the song she looked up to find Mr. Vincent standing by the pianoforte, staring baldly at her. Jane did not know what to say to him, so she let her fingers drift idly over the keys, waiting for him to say something. He finally said, “What did you think?”

“Your work is beautiful.” She winced at the banality of her compliment. “It made me forget where I was.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you see her?”

Jane lifted her hands from the piano. “Her? I do not know what you mean.”

“Look again.” Before she could ask him to explain, he bowed and left the pianoforte.