Glamour in Glass (14 page)

“What are Gilles?” She leaned over to Anne-Marie and had to fairly shout in her ear to be heard.

“I do not know, unfortunately. I only came to Binché last July. I think they ward off evil spirits, or some such thing. Whatever they do, my friend says they have been doing it for hundreds of years.” Anne-Marie pointed as one of the Gilles threw an orange into the crowd. The dragon overhead made a show of snapping at it, and the orange passed ineffectually through its intangible jaws. The crowd screamed with laughter, jostling each other in their attempts to catch the fruit. As they marched, each Gilles threw oranges to the crowd from a seemingly endless supply.

When the Gilles passed in front of the spot where Jane and Anne-Marie stood, the crowd scrambled for the oranges and pressed the ladies forward. Jane struggled to keep her footing, seeing a similar alarm on Anne-Marie’s face. An orange soared overhead and the crowd surged back as people reached up to catch the fruit.

Despite her earlier protestations, Jane felt not at all well. The press and the noise of the crowd brought back the unease in her stomach and made her head spin. “I think I should like to go now.”

“Of course!” Anne-Marie’s eyes widened in alarm. Jane could only assume that her countenance had turned as sickly as she felt.

Pressing her hand to her forehead, she sought a way out of the throng. The wall of people pressed toward the street, and would not give way with any ease to their efforts to move away from the parade. The day darkened around her, and, with no other warning, Jane fainted.

*   *   *

Though Jane was entirely
insensible of her surroundings, what happened next was this: One of the Gilles, upon seeing Jane’s distress, broke away from the parade and lifted her in his arms. With quick instructions from Anne-Marie, he made his way through the crowd, which gladly gave way to one of their folk heroes. Once clear, he carried Jane all the way back to the Chastain residence.

As they were entering the gates, one of M. Chastain’s students spied them, and the household was raised in a state of general alarm. Neither the master nor the mistress of the house were in, so it fell to Anne-Marie to organise things. The Gilles, who would not remove his mask in accordance with tradition, handed Jane to one of the students and left without another word.

By the time Jane was deposited in her room, she was roused enough to be distressed by the fuss and bother she had created. “Forgive me.” She tried to sit up, despite the grey spots which danced in front of her eyes.

Anne-Marie pressed her back into bed. “Nonsense, madame, the fault is mine for taking you out before you were ready. Now, please, be still until the doctor arrives.”

“A doctor!” Her dismay increased. “No! I assure you that is unnecessary. I was only overcome for a moment.”

“Nevertheless, I have called him, and he will arrive shortly.”

Jane could not contain a groan. “Vincent will never let me hear the end of this.”

Anne-Marie straightened the bedclothes but had a certain consciousness to her expression, which made Jane realize that Vincent must not know that she had taken ill. Relief rising, she grasped Anne-Marie’s hand. “You have not told him yet?”

“No, madame.” Anne-Marie rested her free hand on Jane’s and kept her eyes low. “He was not in the laboratory, and none of the students know where he is.”

“But he said…” her voice trailed away, unable to account for his absence. The relief that she had felt upon thinking that he would not discover her weakness became confusion and concern.

“It may be that he decided to join us at the parade after all, and we missed him in the crowd.”

Before Jane could decide on the merits of this argument, voices and footsteps in the hall announced the arrival of the doctor, a tall, slender fellow, with a shock of dark hair. He was younger than she expected a doctor to be, but exuded such an air of confidence that Jane could not help but trust him. Settling himself on a chair at her bedside, he smiled. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“I am quite well. I was only overcome for a moment.”

“I think that is true of every ailment.” He produced a pair of horn spectacles and slipped them over his ears. “It only overcomes our good health for a time. So, let us see if we can determine what has overcome you now.”

Chastened, Jane submitted to reciting her history, pausing now and again when he asked questions. When she had done, he poked and prodded at her, checking the colour of her sclerotics, listening to her pulse, and other less pleasant acts.

When he finished examining her, the doctor wiped his hands on a cloth from his bag and settled back in the chair. “Well. You are in very good health.”

“You see!” Jane felt every relief that you may imagine at this pronouncement. “I wish you would write a note to that effect for my husband. He has been quite stubborn in insisting that I not return to work.”

“I am glad to hear it.” The doctor took his spectacles off and polished them. “Mme Vincent, you are with child.”

Jane stared at him, astonishment overcoming her powers of speech. All the French which she had so painfully learned fled her grasp, and Jane could not form the simplest question. She opened and closed her mouth, gaping like a fish, before she managed to ask. “Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes. Your history made me suspect it, but examination proves the fact. I congratulate you.”

“Thank you.” Far from feeling jubilant, a hollowness began to develop under Jane’s breastbone. To have been restricted from working glamour for a week had been trial enough. Stopping for the length of her term seemed impossible. “My mother will be pleased.”

“But not your husband?”

“Yes.” Jane forced a smile, while in no way certain how Vincent would feel. “Of course. But my mother has been daily expecting grandchildren, so this news will please her no end.”

“Madame, I must remind you that you are to undertake no glamour or other strenuous exercise until after your confinement. Plenty of fresh air, simple walks and hearty meals are my prescription for you. The nausea, I am afraid, may worsen before it improves, but you must try to eat anyway, for the sake of your child.”

Jane listened to his instructions but could think of nothing other than the proscription against glamour. “No glamour at all?”

“None.” On that he was quite firm and unsmiling, as if he knew what a temptation it would be for her.

Nodding and smiling by rote, Jane endured the rest of his call and thanked him for his aid, the whole while wondering how she would explain it to Vincent. Which led rapidly to wanting to know where he was. When the doctor left, Jane dismissed Anne-Marie as well, saying that she wished to take a nap. In truth, the moment the door closed and Jane was alone, she curled onto her side and clutched a pillow.

What was she to do? Her entire life, Jane had been a plain girl with nothing to make her stand out except for her skill at the “womanly” arts, and chief among those was her glamour. She could still paint, yes, and play music, to be certain, but always she had enhanced both of those with glamour. The art form had given her an unparalleled satisfaction.

And glamour was what had made Vincent fall in love with her.

Jane pressed her mouth to the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. There was more to their marriage than glamour, but working together on it had comprised the majority of their time since wedding. She would love Vincent just as fiercely without glamour for the keenness of his mind, but—and this was where Jane nearly came undone—but she had nothing else to set her apart.

She was plain. Her nose was too long, her complexion too sallow. She had no grace in her carriage. Jane was clever, yes, but many women were clever. Her doubt in her own merits, the utter disbelief that any man could find her of interest, came back with full force.

And what if Vincent did not want a child?

What if, in one stroke, she had gone from a source of interest to a burden?

Even recognising the unlikeliness of the accusations she lay upon Vincent’s shoulders, Jane had trouble wresting her thoughts away from the dark spiral she had embarked upon. She pushed the pillow away and rolled onto her back, staring at the canopy above her.

She was of two minds. In one, she wanted Vincent there to reassure her that he loved her. In the other, she was glad he was away, because it delayed the moment when she would have to know how he reacted to the news.

Sitting up, Jane swung her legs out of bed, steadying herself against the quick wave of dizziness that washed over her. When it had passed, Jane went to her dressing table, took up the bottle of lavender water which her mother had sent her, and used it to wash her face.

Glancing at the mirror, Jane’s pallor surprised even her. She pinched her cheeks to try to restore some bloom, then stopped. What was she doing? Primping as if a blush on her cheeks would make the difference between Vincent loving her or not?

Jane sat with her elbows on the table, hands cradling her head. This would not do. Until Vincent by some action or word gave her a reason to think that she had lost him, she dishonoured him by assuming the worst. She sat thus for some time, and was sitting there still when Vincent ran up the stairs and threw open the door to the room.

She jumped as it rebounded against the wall.

Vincent’s face was red and his chest heaved as if he had run some distance. He strode across the room and knelt at her feet, taking her hands. “Muse, is it true?”

Incapable of words, she could only nod.

He rose to his knees, embracing her and pulling her tight. “And you are well?”

“The doctor says I am in excellent health.” Her voice broke. “Only I am not to do glamour.”

He shuddered. “Your mother was right to take me to task for letting you risk yourself.” With her ear pressed to his chest, his voice vibrated through her. “If anything had … I should never have forgiven myself.”

“But I wanted to. And neither of us knew.” Timidly, she ventured. “You are not displeased?”

Vincent released her, sitting back on his heels in apparent shock. “No. Why would you think that?”

“Because I cannot help you with the glamour in glass any longer.” She did not, would not, voice her deeper fears.

He caressed her face in one hand, tracing the line of the scratch under her eye with his thumb. “Muse, have you been crying?”

“Maybe a little,” she whispered. “I so wanted to work with you, and now…” She bent her head, twisting her wedding band around on her finger. The sapphire caught the light and winked as though it held a glamour in its depths.

“I deeply regret that I was away and left you to these unhappy thoughts.” He lifted her chin. “Jane, it is only for a few months. Less than a year. It will give us time to talk about the theory of our glamour in glass. And when your confinement is finished, we shall have a better start.”

“We shall have a child then, Vincent. I am not certain what I will be capable of after.” Jane had seen women broken by childbirth, and knew more than a few who had not survived their first laying in. But by her husband’s open countenance, she could tell that these morbid thoughts had not occurred to him. Perhaps among men, such womanly concerns were never spoken of and he had no reason to know and to fear them.

“I have great faith in you.” Vincent stood and pulled Jane to her feet. “I want only for you to be happy and well.”

Jane leaned against him. “Then I will do my best at both.”

Eleven

The Lamb Lies Down

The requisite letter was sent across the Channel to inform Jane’s parents of the prospect of a grandchild. Vincent did not bother sending a similar letter to his father, but wasted no time in telling the entire Chastain household the happy news. Jane rather wished that he had not, for the whole of the house became deeply solicitous of her comfort to a degree that oppressed her. When she went to the parlour, she must have the best chair. At meals, the menu seemed clearly calculated to appeal to her uncertain appetite, for—as the doctor had predicted—her nausea grew worse and Jane spent a portion of each morning performing indelicate functions.

She was thoroughly unhappy.

Though Jane tried to find solace in music, the pianoforte seemed barren without the addition of colour and light. In some regards, needlework gave her greater comfort than anything else, because she did not notice the lack of glamour as keenly when she worked.

Into such comparative tranquillity, one of the servants entered with the mail borne on a silver tray. The majority of those letters went to M. Chastain, but one found its way to Vincent who grunted in some surprise.

“Jane.” He held the letter closer, as if doubting the address. “Do you know a Mr. Gilman?”

Lowering her embroidery hoop, Jane considered her acquaintances, but could think of no one with that name. “I am afraid not.”

“Well he sends you his particular compliments.” In response to Jane’s raised eyebrows, Vincent continued, “Mr. Gilman says, ‘Even if your wife’s famed wit and beauty were not enough, I would be remiss in not paying my respects based on what I have heard of her talents.’”

“Whoever Mr. Gilman is, he surely has proven himself unknown by
that
.” Her “beauty” could at best be considered plain. “I cannot account for it.”

Vincent shook his head with his small private smile, and continued reading the letter. “Ah. Here, buried in the body, is his reason for address. He is a friend of Skiffy’s and proposes to commission us.”

Jane resumed her embroidery then, stabbing the cloth with particular vengeance. “Does he. For what purpose?” All pleasure she might have felt at such a favour from her dinner partner turned to a sensation akin to bitterness that she would be unable to accept it.

“A drawing room. He has a house in Brussels.” Folding the paper, he shook his head. “I will write to decline later.”

Jane lowered her embroidery, gratified beyond expression that Vincent should understand the pain that a commission must cause her at this time. “Decline? Is that necessary, do you think?”