Melody’s suggestion of tearing her gown reminded Jane too much of her faking another injury. She lost some of her levity. “I think Mama has quite enough imagination on her own.”

“Feh. She only imagines horrible things. I can imagine wonderful things happening in this garden.”

“Indeed? Mama imagines wolves; I imagine governesses; Miss Dunkirk imagines lovers. What do you imagine?”

Melody blushed and turned away. “I do not need to imagine lovers between these walls.”

“Melody Anne! Is there—oh, but it is too much to expect me to remain incurious with a statement like that. Do tell. Oh, do.” She had been so distracted by Beth’s engagement that she had paid no attention to Melody’s state. Of course, after the incident with her ankle, Mr. Dunkirk had paid Melody every attention, so it was only natural that an attachment had formed. Jane’s heart was steadier than she feared it might be at the thought, but she still had to rally herself to be as gracious as a sister ought.

With a flutter of her hands, Melody said, “There is nothing to tell.”

“Nothing! If you wish me to believe that, you will have to stop your blushing. I would rather believe that in a week or two I will be offering you sincere felicitations. Surely it will not take more time than that? But I will be patient.” Jane bit her lip and then continued. “Only tell me that you are not keeping this a secret from only me. Tell me that you are not keeping your silence because you do not trust me.”

“I . . . Honest, Jane, there is nothing for me to tell.” She bowed her head and stroked the petals of a rose. “I wish that there were, but I am not certain of his regard, and so I will say nothing until I am.”

Agitated, Jane stood and paced the perimeter of the garden, thinking. It would be better for her to know than to merely guess and fear. “Has Mr. Dunkirk said nothing?”

“Mr. Dunkirk?” Melody’s laugh was sharp. “Yes. He has said nothing, and that is no surprize, in that he cares nothing for me. But there are others who value me for myself, not for my accomplishments. Now I would not have Mr. Dunkirk even if he asked the question tomorrow.”

“But you were so—”

“Yes! Yes! I know. But I mistook esteem for love. That his manners are elegant, that his carriage is easy and his understanding superior; these things conspire to make me feel that I ought to love him, and so I imagined that I did. But now, now I know what it is to have that esteem returned. To be regarded—oh, Jane, I would that I could tell you all.”

“Why can you not?” Jane shook her head. “I thought you said that you were not certain of the gentleman’s regard.”

“No. He has given me every assurance, but because he is not at liberty to court me openly, he must spend time in the company of others, which makes me doubt him. I know that he loves me, but then I fear that he does not.” Melody plucked the petals from the closest rose, dropping them onto the path, murmuring, “He loves me; he loves me not.”