Melody took Miss Dunkirk’s hand and tucked it under her arm in a shew of solicitude. She led her to the sofa, away from Jane. “That he should leave you here without amusement. La! I am quite shocked, I must tell you, that a man of your brother’s intelligence should display such an uncaring sensibility to his own sister.”
“Oh, he is not like that at all. Whenever he has been away, Edmund always brings me a present to make up for my time alone.”
Jane trailed behind them and settled on a mahogany Sheraton chair next to the sofa. The drawing room mightbetter be called a library, for one wall was almost entirely given over to books. The mahogany furniture reflected strong masculine tastes, even down to a pair of crossed sabres on one wall and a set of dueling pistols in a rosewood box on the mantel. A neatly rendered glamour created the illusion of fire in the fireplace, lending the room a coziness it might have otherwise lacked. For all his professed admiration of glamour, Mr. Dunkirk indulged in little other display of it. Not even the prints on the walls, which tended to hunting scenes or architectural studies, shewed any enhancement.
Small talk followed, detailing the weather, then the quality of the tea which the butler brought as well as praises of the china it was served in, which was an exquisite example of Delft bone china. During all of it, Melody held Miss Dunkirk’s attention with ease while Jane resigned herself to the background. Only two years separated Melody and Miss Dunkirk’s ages, while Jane, at eight and twenty, was a good ten years older than her sister. It was small wonder that the two young women found so much to discuss.
Jane occupied herself by gazing out the window at the expanse of lawn and the woodlands beyond, not paying full attention to their discussions of fashion and novels, only nodding or laughing occasionally as the subject warranted.
Then a man stepped out of the woods. Though he wore the garments of a laborer, the easel on his back clearly marked him as Mr. Vincent. For a moment, he seemed to stare directly at Jane. She stiffened in her chair at the challenge onhis face, then relaxed as she remembered the way the light had reflected off the leaded glass; he could not see her. Indeed, when he set his easel down and placed a canvas upon it, his intent became clear.
Jane turned her attention back to Miss Dunkirk and Melody and cleared her throat. “It appears that we have an admirer.”
Both girls exclaimed and turned to follow her gaze. “Who? Where? Well, I never! Is that Mr. Vincent?”
They fairly flew off the sofa, running to the window to look out at him. Melody leaned against the casement. “Is he painting us?”
His easel angled slightly away from them, and to Jane’s eye, their window was not the subject of his attention. “I do not believe so.”
Miss Dunkirk said, “I wonder if Edmund has asked him for a study of Robinsford Abbey?”
“Perhaps that is his present to you.” Melody squinted. “I do wish I knew what he was painting.”
“The abbey, surely,” Jane said, though she too wanted to see the canvas.
Melody spun, her face glowing with delight and mischief. “Shall we go out to see?”
Jane recalled Mr. Vincent’s forbidding expression when she had studied his work at Banbree Manor. “Oh, no. I do not wish to disturb him. Were I him, I should hate to have someone watch me.”
“La! Jane, you are too nice in your sensibilities. Youspent an afternoon with the Dunkirks watching you play piano and work glamour. How can you think that Mr. Vincent would object to us calling on him when he is on Miss Dunkirk’s lawn?”
Miss Dunkirk bit her lower lip. “Did we trouble you, Miss Ellsworth?”
“Not in the slightest,” Jane said, “but those were pieces which I had practiced and were intended for performance. Mr. Vincent has barely laid brush to canvas, so to come upon him now would be the same as coming upon me while I am practicing a new
“Oh, he is not like that at all. Whenever he has been away, Edmund always brings me a present to make up for my time alone.”
Jane trailed behind them and settled on a mahogany Sheraton chair next to the sofa. The drawing room mightbetter be called a library, for one wall was almost entirely given over to books. The mahogany furniture reflected strong masculine tastes, even down to a pair of crossed sabres on one wall and a set of dueling pistols in a rosewood box on the mantel. A neatly rendered glamour created the illusion of fire in the fireplace, lending the room a coziness it might have otherwise lacked. For all his professed admiration of glamour, Mr. Dunkirk indulged in little other display of it. Not even the prints on the walls, which tended to hunting scenes or architectural studies, shewed any enhancement.
Small talk followed, detailing the weather, then the quality of the tea which the butler brought as well as praises of the china it was served in, which was an exquisite example of Delft bone china. During all of it, Melody held Miss Dunkirk’s attention with ease while Jane resigned herself to the background. Only two years separated Melody and Miss Dunkirk’s ages, while Jane, at eight and twenty, was a good ten years older than her sister. It was small wonder that the two young women found so much to discuss.
Jane occupied herself by gazing out the window at the expanse of lawn and the woodlands beyond, not paying full attention to their discussions of fashion and novels, only nodding or laughing occasionally as the subject warranted.
Then a man stepped out of the woods. Though he wore the garments of a laborer, the easel on his back clearly marked him as Mr. Vincent. For a moment, he seemed to stare directly at Jane. She stiffened in her chair at the challenge onhis face, then relaxed as she remembered the way the light had reflected off the leaded glass; he could not see her. Indeed, when he set his easel down and placed a canvas upon it, his intent became clear.
Jane turned her attention back to Miss Dunkirk and Melody and cleared her throat. “It appears that we have an admirer.”
Both girls exclaimed and turned to follow her gaze. “Who? Where? Well, I never! Is that Mr. Vincent?”
They fairly flew off the sofa, running to the window to look out at him. Melody leaned against the casement. “Is he painting us?”
His easel angled slightly away from them, and to Jane’s eye, their window was not the subject of his attention. “I do not believe so.”
Miss Dunkirk said, “I wonder if Edmund has asked him for a study of Robinsford Abbey?”
“Perhaps that is his present to you.” Melody squinted. “I do wish I knew what he was painting.”
“The abbey, surely,” Jane said, though she too wanted to see the canvas.
Melody spun, her face glowing with delight and mischief. “Shall we go out to see?”
Jane recalled Mr. Vincent’s forbidding expression when she had studied his work at Banbree Manor. “Oh, no. I do not wish to disturb him. Were I him, I should hate to have someone watch me.”
“La! Jane, you are too nice in your sensibilities. Youspent an afternoon with the Dunkirks watching you play piano and work glamour. How can you think that Mr. Vincent would object to us calling on him when he is on Miss Dunkirk’s lawn?”
Miss Dunkirk bit her lower lip. “Did we trouble you, Miss Ellsworth?”
“Not in the slightest,” Jane said, “but those were pieces which I had practiced and were intended for performance. Mr. Vincent has barely laid brush to canvas, so to come upon him now would be the same as coming upon me while I am practicing a new
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