Mr. Ellsworth sat forward. “What is this? Did you take the wrong book?”

“No. No, I left Lady FitzCameron’s book there.”

At that, Mrs. Ellsworth let out a small shriek of dismay. “Left it there? How could you! Her Ladyship will think you did not want it, and then what will she think, but that you think yourself too good for her gifts? Charles, tell the driver to turn around at once.”

“Hush for a moment.” Mr. Ellsworth waved his hand at his wife and kept his eyes on Jane. “If that is not the book Lady FitzCameron gave you, where did it come from?”

“Mr. Vincent.” Jane’s eyes clouded with tears, unaccountably. “He wanted to thank me for saving his life.”

“Mr. Vincent?” Melody’s voice was full of astonishment. “You traded the favours of Lady FitzCameron for an artist’s? Really, Jane, you are too strange.”

Jane blinked her eyes clear and stared at her sister. No sign of jealousy clouded Melody’s face; no sign, indeed, of anything save bafflement at Jane’s behaviour. But Melody had said that she had a lover, and if it was not Mr. Dunkirk, it had seemed so clear that it must surely be Mr. Vincent. If not him, then who?

“I thought you had a fondness for Mr. Vincent, with all your inquiries as to his health.”

“Fie, Jane.” Mrs. Ellsworth sniffed. “Everyone in the countryside was asking after him. And why should we not be concerned with his health? I only wish that people would take half the interest in mine, for I am sure that I suffer as much as he does. More so, if truth be known, for my ailments have gone on for years and his have only lasted for one week. Charles, you have not turned the carriage around yet.”

“Nor shall I. We are nearly home. I will walk over after dinner to fetch the book.”

“But we could go back now.”

“Yes. Or I can walk back in quiet solitude, which is my preference.”

Jane’s parents continued their small bickering until the carriage arrived on their own front sweep. As soon as it came to a halt, Jane bolted out of it and straight into the house. She could not bear another minute in her family’s company, or anyone else’s, for that matter. Racing up the stairs, she locked herself in her room and collapsed on the bed.

There, she gave way to angry sobs. Angry at her parents for noticing so little beyond that which went on in their own house. Angry at Melody for her selfishness, which was only enhanced by the way everyone petted her. And most of all, angry at herself for not being able to govern her own feelings. Nothing today had done her any real harm, yet she felt as though her nerves had been flayed and left out for the tanner.

Was this the state that Mr. Vincent wanted her in to create art? With her emotions so high, Jane could not see to manage glamour, let alone compose a piece of art. She rolled over on her back and stared at one of her watercolours, which hung on the wall next to her clothespress. It shewed the sea from one of their trips to Lyme Regis. The shore had been beautiful morning after morning, so Jane had set up her easel on the ammonite pavement and tried to capture the glory of the sunrise. This one had come closest of all the sketches she had assayed.