With that decided, the family resumed their evening rituals, finishing dinner and withdrawing to various places in the house. Mr. Ellsworth excused himself to fetch the book from Lady FitzCameron’s, but since he took his pipe, it was clear that the errand merely offered him a reason to be out-of-doors.

Only Jane did not go to her accustomed place in the drawing room. As soon as she could, she went back to her room and once more took up the only book which could interest her: Mr. Vincent’s journal.

Seventeen

Leaves and Confession

Jane spent the next morning lost in Mr. Vincent’s book, ignoring the bustle of activity that passed through the halls as her mother and Melody prepared for their departure on the morrow. They were, both of them, quite determined to travel with Lady FitzCameron to Bath. Jane so could not bear the constant repetitions of her mother’s delight at being able to travel in the company of a Viscountess that she hid in her room.

Mr. Vincent’s words by turns fascinated and frightened her as he spoke of the intersection between technique and passion. Never before had she had the opportunity to look this deeply into another person’s thoughts. While speaking of the importance of expressing feelings without trapping them in societal expectations, he, at the same time, examined his own feelings in minute detail, breaking them down in an almost scientific study. Anger might be channeled into storms, or by contrast, turned to become the intricate detail of bark.

She turned the page. There, in a few exquisite lines, he had rendered Beth, with a note penned below her. “Remember what it was to be young.”

Only at the mention of Beth did Jane remember herself. She had not seen the girl since the night of Mr. Vincent’s collapse. Her conscience pricked at her now, knowing that Beth must surely be feeling the coming absence of Captain Livingston. It was so tempting to turn one more page, to read just a little farther, but if she did, Jane well knew that she would lose herself for the remainder of the day.

Jane tucked the book under her mattress to protect it from idle eyes while she was away at Robinsford Abbey, then set out. She pulled the pink shawl she had worn to Lady FitzCameron’s ball around her for warmth; the day was sunny, but she would not hold hope that it would stay warm all day.

The first signs of autumn were beginning to shew in the hedgerows and in the leaves on the hillside. As she walked to Robinsford Abbey, she collected a bundle of leaves from a field maple turned an early gold. Her eyes seemed to see new detail in everything she touched, such as the dark veins of the leaves standing out in sharp relief against amber. The day was still warm from the sun, but the air carried more than a hint of the coming cool.