Today is my father-in-law’s birthday! I hope it’s a happy one. I’m sorry that Rob and I are so far away.

As the family sat in the drawing-room after their nuncheon, the maid brought in the afternoon’s mail on a silver tray and handed the letters to Jane’s father. He looked over them and harrumphed before passing one heavy letter to Jane’s mother.

Jane tried not to stare when Mrs. Wentworth exclaimed at the address. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the weight of the paper, and the thick wax seal on the back. As Mrs. Wentworth slid her penknife under the sealing wax, Jane kept her focus on the watercolour before her.

“The FitzCamerons are hosting a ball!” Mrs. Wentworth nearly dropped her penknife. Her hands trembled, making the invitation rattle like a thunderstorm.

Though the FitzCameron’s were their closest neighbors, since her husband’s death, Lady FitzCameron was rarely in residence at Banbree Manor, preferring to spend her time in London with the ton. There had not been a ball at Banbree Manor since before Melody’s coming out.

Melody dropped the fringe she had been crocheting, and ran across the drawing-room with a squeal of delight.

Mr. Wentworth shook his head. “I suppose young Livingston has arrived?”

“Lady FitzCameron had mentioned that his regiment is stationed at Bath for the coming month.” Mrs. Wentworth studied the letter. “Oh! She barely gives us enough time to have the modiste make us new gowns.”

Jane glanced at her father. Though she coveted a bolt of dove silk at Madame Beaulieu’s Haberdashery, Mr. Wentworth was constantly worried about funds. His face softened as he looked at Melody. “Well. I want my girls to shew well against young Miss FitzCameron.”

“Charles, do not be silly.” Mrs. Wentworth put the letter down and glared at Jane’s father. “Everyone knows that Miss FitzCameron uses glamour to enhance her appearance, though with the dowry she carries, most overlook it.”

“Does she?” Like most men, Jane’s father was nearly blind to glamour folds. Jane rather thought it was from lack of training than lack of a native ability, for he could do rudimentary warming spells when hunting.

“Yes,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “Heavens, do you not recall how her teeth stuck out like a horse?”

“Oh. Yes. I thought perhaps she had outgrown it.”

Melody snorted. “If she had, then she wouldn’t faint all the time. If you watch at the ball, I am certain that she will faint. When she awakens, she will cover her mouth with her hand until she has the charm in place again.”

“But why does her mother allow it?” Mr. Wentworth asked.

Jane put down her paint brush. “I imagine that she turns a blind eye because she hopes her daughter will make a better match for it.”

“Neither of you do that, I hope.”

Jane picked up her paintbrush again, painfully aware that he looked at her, not at Melody. “I trust that it is apparent that I do not.”

As she laid brush to paint, dabbing at the blue with which she hoped to capture yesterday’s sky, her father blustered with poor attempts at apology. “No, of course. Both of my girls are too sensible for such nonsense.”

“Sensible.” Jane guided the brush across the page, letting the paint bleed across the water. “Yes. We are sensible girls. Are we not, Melody?” Such was her bitterness that she could not contain that small jab at her sister’s moment of weakness from the day prior. At the paling in Melody’s cheeks, Jane instantly regretted her pettiness and tried to turn her words. “And so we should have no trouble in using our sensibility to convince you of the importance of new gowns for the ball.”

“Oh yes, Charles. They must have new gowns.” Mrs. Wentworth rapped the table as if she could summon the modiste instantly.

Mr. Wentworth laughed, belly quivering under his waistcoat, and the moment passed. “New gowns and a new thing for your hair,” he gestured loosely at his own thinning pate, “whatever it is the young ladies are using to look becoming these days.”

“May we go now?” Melody danced on the carpet of the drawing-room as if she were already at the ball dancing a Cotillion with Mr. Dunkirk.

Jane shook her head to clear it of such thoughts and returned her attention to her watercolours. It was unjust of her to have so much petty bitterness toward Melody. Jane knew well that she was past what small bloom youth had provided her. She had resigned herself to life as a spinster, there were certainly less honorable ways to spend one’s declining years than attending to the comforts of one’s parents. Her best hope was to see Melody happily wed. Indeed, her own welfare could be said to depend on such a happening, for if Melody gained the sort of husband which she deserved, then after their parents’ passing he would welcome the spinster sister into the household like a good true gentleman. Then Jane might have the pleasure of helping raise Melody’s children and they need not trouble with a governess. Indeed, that seemed the best and only course.

She washed her brush in the glass of water she kept on the sidetable for this purpose and smiled at Melody. “I should like to go as well; I have been eying a bolt of silk at Madame Beaulieu’s for some time now.”

“Then you shall go and you shall take the carriage.” Mr. Wentworth leaned back in his chair and Jane felt the weight of his love for them warming her.

Melody dashed across and wrapped her arms about his neck, kissing the bald spot on the top of his head. “Thank you, Papa.” She danced out of the room, followed quickly by Mrs. Wentworth who rattled opinions about fashion and cut as if she were getting a new gown herself.

Rising more decorously, Jane took a moment to set her paints in order before following her mother and sister out of the room. When she turned, her father was regarding her with a curious tenderness. He held out his hand to her.

She crossed the room and took it, wondering at the softness in his gaze.

“Jane, will you humor an old man?”

“Of course, Papa.”

“I’d like to see you in something with roses.” He squeezed her hand. “Will you do that for me?”

Her beloved dove silk vanished from her mind. How could she deny him such a simple request. “I will speak to Madame Beaulieu. I’m sure she will have just the thing.”

Roses. What made him think of that?