Glamour in Glass (11 page)

“It was on his recommendation that we came. I do not think we could have found passage at this time of year if it were not for his influence.”

Shaking her head, Anne-Marie replaced the comb in the box. “That is a surprising kindness.”

“Do you ever think about returning to England?”

“No.” Anne-Marie’s tone was short and took Jane by surprise. “I have never lived there, so I can hardly return. France is my home.”

“Forgive me, that was thoughtlessly asked.”

“It is nothing.” Anne-Marie wrinkled her nose and selected a coral ornament, nodding with satisfaction as she pinned it to Jane’s hair. “In truth, since Mama chose to stay here, I have always been given to understand that she found France preferable to England.”

“I imagine your father had some influence on that.”

Anne-Marie’s face darkened for a moment. “Papa died in the Revolution. His ideals, I am afraid, were stronger than his judgement.”

Sorry to have troubled her with a topic begun in innocence, Jane began to frame a more profuse apology, wishing to switch to English just for the moment. Instead, Anne-Marie held up a hand mirror to show the back of Jane’s head. “There, Madam. Does that please you?”

It pleased Jane enormously. Dressing alone, she could never manage to tease her hair into anything so nicely arranged. “Anne-Marie! You are a treasure. I have always thought my hair unmanageable.”

“I was at court for a time.” Anne-Marie set the irons by the hearth to cool. “You would not believe the horrors I saw there, so please trust me when I say that your hair is lovely. One merely needs to know the trick of coaxing it.”

Jane did not quite believe that mouse-brown could ever be lovely, but saw no need to press the point. When Vincent came in, she excused Anne-Marie and attended to tying his cravat for him.

Venturing to continue using French with her husband, Jane asked, “Have you had a pleasant afternoon?”

He did not seem to notice her efforts, instead slipping smoothly into the language. “Somewhat. No success in finding a glassblower yet.” He lifted his chin to allow her easier access. “And you?”

“Anne-Marie has helped me practice French.” She stepped back to admire the effect and decided that it would do. “Where did you learn to speak so fluently?”

“We had a tutor who was an émigré. Mistakes were not tolerated.” This was one more reminder of his life as an earl’s son, which he had abandoned for his art.

Together, they descended the stairs to wait in the parlour for the guests to arrive. Stomach twisting with dread, Jane managed to use her French to greet those to whom she was introduced, and learned to ignore the raised brows at her mispronunciations and mangled tenses. The purpose, she reminded herself, was to be understood, not to pass as a native. Even were she fluent, her dress would mark her as English, for the fashions had moved in different directions during Napoleon’s reign, when communication between the two countries had been at a standstill. English waist-lines had begun to drop back to the natural waist, while French waists had remained high, and the decorations and embellishments here had a noted emphasis on lace, for which Belgium was justly famed. When Jane was introduced to Mme Meynard, she had a moment of coveting the belle’s beautiful Pomona green gown with blond lace embellishments.

Jane soon realized that conversation was not so hard as she had thought it might be because at a party such as this one merely repeated the same topics again and again with different partners. How are you? Fine weather. Are you staying long?

She became more confident as the phrases loosened on her tongue, and by the time they went in for dinner, Jane had relaxed as much as was possible. As guests of honour, Jane and Vincent were led in by M. and Mme Chastain, but from that point forward, the dinner differed in nearly every regard from what Jane was accustomed to in England.

At home she was used to the dishes being placed upon the table in two great courses, and being confined to those closest to her. In France, though, the dishes were presented singly and carried round by servants to every guest.

Colonel de Bodard, far from regaling her with tales of battles as Anne-Marie had threatened, spoke instead of England, with an open fondness for his time there. He was the old style of chevalier, moderated somewhat by his time in England, and wore his greying hair pulled back in a tail. His coat was a pale green with some restrained embroidery confined to his waistcoat as the only nod to the more ornate fashions of his youth. He and Jane quickly established that they had acquaintances in common, and soon felt like the oldest of friends. He did her the favour of allowing her to struggle with her French, then offering correction in the gentlest manner.

As the table was cleared after dessert, the subject moved to politics, and a cross-table conversation began. Jane despaired of leaving the kind Colonel’s side, but to her surprise, the ladies made no move to exit the table.

“I cannot like the formation of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, no matter how expedient the heads of state think it is.” Mme Meynard, wife of the celebrated banker, accepted a glass of port from a footman. “Did not du Mezzier say, ‘Blending wine must be done with care, else the character of both is lost’?”

Colonel de Bodard shook his hoary head. “You are mistaken to oppose it. Without a strong ruler, it is only a matter of time until the Bonapartists seek to reclaim what they regard as theirs.”

Jane thought immediately of the brigands who had accosted them on the road from Calais to Binché. If those men were representative of the Bonapartists, Belgium had little to fear.

“Fie!” Mme Chastain shook her finger at him. “Napoleon is deposed and has no power here. I do not object to the new kingdom, but neither will I see support for it come from conjuring mitten-biters out of shadows.”

Jane could hazard no guess as to what a mitten-biter was, but the conversation moved on before she could ask the Colonel.

“You do not oppose, but neither do you support!” M. Archambault pounced on Mme Chastain’s statement with a vigour which surprised Jane. She still expected the party to separate at any moment, and yet there was no move resembling that.

The footmen distributed port to the gentlemen and ladies alike. Jane was at a loss as to whether propriety meant she should accept or decline.

Colonel de Bodard settled the matter by pouring a generous glass for her. “Who could fully support it when they plan to put William VI on the throne? Him, I do not mind, but his son is as idle-headed a buffoon as ever lifted a sword, and I dread the day he inherits.”

“Which is why”—Mme Meynard swirled her port in her glass—“it is worth attending to the Bonapartists. Napoleon might be deposed, but his son is still King of Rome. Might he not come to claim the land that belonged to his father?”

“With what soldiers? ‘King of Rome’ is a mere courtesy title with no power behind it.” Vincent tilted his glass to her. “I hardly think that a threat, especially as Napoleon II is only three years old.”

“What does it matter if the king is fit to rule if there is a strong regent? You British, of all people, should recognise that.”

“I think,” M. Chastain said, with enough force that his voice bounced off the far wall. Jane cringed, remembering anew his address to his son. “I think that I should like a cigar. Would anyone else care for one?”

With murmurs of “Very kind” and “Yes, thank you” cigars were distributed among the gentlemen. Then, to Jane’s complete horror, Colonel de Bodard offered her one.

“No. Thank you.”

“You English are so strait-laced.” Mme Meynard blew a smoke ring. Jane was certain that her face utterly betrayed her, because Mme Meynard threw her head back and laughed directly at Jane’s discomfiture.

“Come now, madame.” Colonel de Bodard patted Jane’s hand. “You must not mind her. She only teases those she likes. I remember my own surprise at the differences between France and England.”

“Long live the differences!” M. Archambault called across the table, pulling the lady to his right onto his lap.

Before Jane could rise from her chair to protest, the woman laughed and kissed him. “I say, long live the differences between men and women!”

“Hear, hear!” Many voices rose in approbation of the sentiment, and glasses were raised. Jane knew her face was red with shame for the woman, whom she could no longer consider a lady, yet she alone displayed any sense of consciousness of the indecorous behaviour. Even Vincent merely looked grave, which was not far from his natural expression under any circumstances.

Jane forced herself to stay in her seat, fighting her inclination to remove herself from a situation which she must, in England, find abhorrent. And yet, had she needed a firm reminder that she was abroad, nothing could suffice as well as the spectacle of a woman smoking a cigar and another being fondled upon the lap of a man whom Jane could only hope was her husband.

Not knowing where to look, Jane kept her attention focused on the glass of port, and how the light shone through the deep ruby liquid. She tried to think of how she would create that heavy shade and the faint greenish tinge where it touched the wall of the glass, but her attention was pulled—all unwillingly—back to the conversation.

“I see no reason to be upset by any of these changes in rulers, as we have been passed back and forth between France and the Netherlands for almost as many years as there have been people living here. As long as they leave us to our own devices, let the ‘heads of state’ play at ruling us. It makes no difference. We still have to pay taxes.” Mme Meynard inhaled deeply on her cigar.

“But taxes to whom, and to what purpose, and how high?” M. Chastain drummed his fingers on the table. “All of these questions are dependent on who sits on the throne.”

“Which, again, is why I find it curious that you are not more of a supporter of the Bonapartists than you are. Since Napoleon was such a great patron of the arts, it would seem natural for a glamourist to favour him.”

“He was never a patron of mine.” M. Chastain snubbed out his cigar. “Was he a ‘patron’ of yours?”

“It is possible,” M. Archambault ventured, “to accept patronage from someone without agreeing with their politics.”

“Only to your folly. You might begin by not agreeing, but time and habit will eventually cause you to mask your true feelings and, eventually, to forget them. Wiser to remove yourself from the influence of those with whom you cannot agree.” M. Chastain slid his chair back. “Shall we adjourn and indulge in some shadow-play?”

The rest of the evening passed in a tolerable approximation of post-dinner hours in England, yet, to Jane’s surprise, she did not find it as interesting as the dinner conversation. Shocking though the behaviour had been, she could not help but appreciate that the ladies’ opinions appeared to have as much value as the gentlemen’s.

Nine

Blowing Glass

A week after the party, the Vincents finally located a glass maker with the skills they thought they required for their experiment. M. La Pierre was accomplished in creating sheets of glass as well as blowing, cutting, and grinding lenses. More than that, though, he had a natural reclusiveness which left him little inclined to gossip.

Early on Wednesday, Jane and Vincent went to the workshop of M. La Pierre and laid forth the plans that they had for creating a glamour in glass. Across a scarred wood desk, the grizzled man chewed on his thumbnail while studying their drawings. The papers described the path a fold of glamour must travel in order to create a simple red cone, one of the first glamours a child might learn. They thought it was simple enough to be manageable and the finished prototype could serve as a building block from which they could create more complicated glamours. Their plan was to use the glass as a sort of lens, which would twist the light in the same manner as a glamourist’s hands would. In this way they hoped to create a path for the glamour to follow once it entered the glass that would cause it to twist in such a way that it produced a red cone upon exiting.

M. La Pierre cleared his throat once and slid the papers back to them. “Don’t know as that’s possible.”

“This seems to me to be a simple shape.” Vincent traced a broad finger across the page. “I have seen glass blown with more complexity.”

“Yes. But is the more complex glass blown with the specificiality you want? I can create a swan inside a glass ball, but ask me to make five swans and you will find none of them exactly alike. Glass is like water when you are working it.”

“May we watch you blow glass?” Jane asked. “That might give us a better understanding of the process.”

He rubbed his chin, his rough hand making a scratching noise against the stubble there. Nodding, he shoved himself back from his desk and led the way to the furnace. Pausing at the door, he took down heavy leather aprons from a hook and handed them to each. To Jane, he said, “You stay well back from the fire. Wouldn’t want your finery to catch.”

Past the door, the heat from the furnaces was nearly overpowering, even with the chill of winter blanketing the town. Three furnaces, ranked in size, dominated the room. Vast skylights lit the workshop with warm winter sun, which made the glass sparkle brilliantly. M. La Pierre bade them stand some distance from the largest furnace and watch his apprentice work. Even with a heavy leather apron and gloves protecting him, the boy must have felt the heat terribly. In some ways, it was like watching glamour drawn in the physical world, as he worked a blob of molten glass into a refined and elegant shape. The red glow of the glass absorbed Jane, and she found herself possessed of a sort of jealousy that the apprentice was making something physical and of service. As much as she loved glamour, the illusions had few practical applications. Only the charms for cooling had any daily use, and those were limited by the amount of energy required to work them.

Though it was possible to create heat with glamour, governing folds at that end of the spectrum often led to poor health. As with all folds outside the range of visible light, it took such an inordinate amount of energy to manage them that it was far easier to make a fire with sulphur matches than to try to create one from glamour.