piece. No matter his talent, he cannot enjoy having someone look upon an unfinished piece.”
Melody wrinkled her nose. “You always think you know how other people feel, but really, Jane, we saw an unfinished piece at Lady FitzCameron’s ball, and he did not seem to mind then.”
Miss Dunkirk took Jane’s side. “I am afraid I think Miss Ellsworth has the right of it.”
“Poo. Let us ask him rather than guessing.” Melody unlatched the casement, threw it wide open, and leaned out. “Mr. Vincent!”
He turned his head sharply, and a deep frown creased his face. Jane backed away from the window and stepped into the shadows, praying that all he saw was the two young women leaning out toward him, not her.
He nodded once, then returned his attention to his canvas.
“What are you painting?” Melody called.
The glamourist did not respond. Jane put her hand on her sister’s arm. “Let him alone, Melody.”
Miss Dunkirk looked from one sister to the other, concern drawing a line between her brows. Moving away from the window, she said, “Seeing Mr. Vincent reminds me of a question about glamour, Miss Ellsworth. Might I impose on you?”
Grateful for the distraction, Jane followed her, leaving Melody at the window. “Of course.”
“I want to surprize Edmund and add some of the enhancements that you have in your home—you can’t think of how often he speaks of it. But I am having some trouble with the folds you showed me, simple though they were.”
Mr. Dunkirk had spoken of her work? Jane flushed so that she might have blamed the fire if it had not been glamourous in nature. “I would be delighted to help, if I may.”
Without turning from the window, Melody said, “To be sure, Jane is frightfully clever with glamour.” Her voice was all that was sweetness, but Jane knew well that she was irked.
“What sort of effect did you have in mind?” Jane looked about the room, evaluating possibilities.
“I hardly know. My parents—that is, I have had little opportunity for study, so I am not certain what is possible.” Miss Dunkirk straightened a picture on the wall. She seemed to be overly conscious of her lack of schooling in glamour. It was hardly her fault, though. A young woman had little control over whom her parents selected as a tutor.
“Perhaps if you told me what folds you were having difficulty with?”
Miss Dunkirk flushed and gestured at the painting—an oil of a stag in a forest clearing. “I wanted to start with something small, so I thought to make the trees move in the wind, as you did with Miss Melody’s hair. My brother was most taken with that effect.”
Looking at Melody, framed in the window as if she were art, Jane thought that it was rather as likely that Mr. Dunkirk was taken with the subject matter as with the technique. “I am afraid that effect is more complicated than it appears. Though it is small, one must stitch together many tiny folds to create the illusion of movement.”
“Oh.” Miss Dunkirk looked crestfallen.
Jane thought back to her first lessons. “Perhaps a simple enhancement of light would serve? Near the books, shall we say? I think it might add some warmth and play well off the gilt on the binding.” It was also a simple glamour that did not require very subtle manipulation. Melody’s attention was still held by the scene outside. To draw her back in, Jane said, “Melody, perhaps you could help me demonstrate?”
Her sister turned around, clearly startled to be addressed.
“Oh, Miss Melody!” Miss Dunkirk clapped her hands together in delight. “I did not realize that you were also a glamourist.”
“I do not claim the accomplishments of my sister, but we did have the benefit of the same tutor.” Melody glided towardthe bookcase with a poise and voice that suggested more comfort with the art of glamour than Jane had yet seen her demonstrate.
“Here, I think.” Pulling a fold of glamour from the ether, Melody stitched it across the
Melody wrinkled her nose. “You always think you know how other people feel, but really, Jane, we saw an unfinished piece at Lady FitzCameron’s ball, and he did not seem to mind then.”
Miss Dunkirk took Jane’s side. “I am afraid I think Miss Ellsworth has the right of it.”
“Poo. Let us ask him rather than guessing.” Melody unlatched the casement, threw it wide open, and leaned out. “Mr. Vincent!”
He turned his head sharply, and a deep frown creased his face. Jane backed away from the window and stepped into the shadows, praying that all he saw was the two young women leaning out toward him, not her.
He nodded once, then returned his attention to his canvas.
“What are you painting?” Melody called.
The glamourist did not respond. Jane put her hand on her sister’s arm. “Let him alone, Melody.”
Miss Dunkirk looked from one sister to the other, concern drawing a line between her brows. Moving away from the window, she said, “Seeing Mr. Vincent reminds me of a question about glamour, Miss Ellsworth. Might I impose on you?”
Grateful for the distraction, Jane followed her, leaving Melody at the window. “Of course.”
“I want to surprize Edmund and add some of the enhancements that you have in your home—you can’t think of how often he speaks of it. But I am having some trouble with the folds you showed me, simple though they were.”
Mr. Dunkirk had spoken of her work? Jane flushed so that she might have blamed the fire if it had not been glamourous in nature. “I would be delighted to help, if I may.”
Without turning from the window, Melody said, “To be sure, Jane is frightfully clever with glamour.” Her voice was all that was sweetness, but Jane knew well that she was irked.
“What sort of effect did you have in mind?” Jane looked about the room, evaluating possibilities.
“I hardly know. My parents—that is, I have had little opportunity for study, so I am not certain what is possible.” Miss Dunkirk straightened a picture on the wall. She seemed to be overly conscious of her lack of schooling in glamour. It was hardly her fault, though. A young woman had little control over whom her parents selected as a tutor.
“Perhaps if you told me what folds you were having difficulty with?”
Miss Dunkirk flushed and gestured at the painting—an oil of a stag in a forest clearing. “I wanted to start with something small, so I thought to make the trees move in the wind, as you did with Miss Melody’s hair. My brother was most taken with that effect.”
Looking at Melody, framed in the window as if she were art, Jane thought that it was rather as likely that Mr. Dunkirk was taken with the subject matter as with the technique. “I am afraid that effect is more complicated than it appears. Though it is small, one must stitch together many tiny folds to create the illusion of movement.”
“Oh.” Miss Dunkirk looked crestfallen.
Jane thought back to her first lessons. “Perhaps a simple enhancement of light would serve? Near the books, shall we say? I think it might add some warmth and play well off the gilt on the binding.” It was also a simple glamour that did not require very subtle manipulation. Melody’s attention was still held by the scene outside. To draw her back in, Jane said, “Melody, perhaps you could help me demonstrate?”
Her sister turned around, clearly startled to be addressed.
“Oh, Miss Melody!” Miss Dunkirk clapped her hands together in delight. “I did not realize that you were also a glamourist.”
“I do not claim the accomplishments of my sister, but we did have the benefit of the same tutor.” Melody glided towardthe bookcase with a poise and voice that suggested more comfort with the art of glamour than Jane had yet seen her demonstrate.
“Here, I think.” Pulling a fold of glamour from the ether, Melody stitched it across the
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