Glamour in Glass (16 page)

With an obvious struggle, Vincent calmed his features. “Yes?”

“There is to be only one lamb.”

The colour faded from Vincent’s face and the muscle in his jaw tightened. “Only one?”

“I am afraid so.”

Jane tried to distract Mr. Gilman before he could notice Vincent’s anger. “Of course, you know your wife better than I. But it does seem as though the effect of a single lamb gambolling is much different from the flocks which Mrs. Gilman has painted.”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “Nevertheless. I find that one will suit my needs.”

Not wishing to broach the subject of funds, Jane could not help but wonder if he thought that removing two lambs would reduce the cost. “Truly, it is barely more trouble to make three lambs than one.”

“The difficulty hardly signifies, if Mr. Gilman only wishes one lamb.” Vincent offered him a brief bow. “Of course we can do that. May I ask in what area you wish the lamb?”

Mr. Gilman strode to the window and waved his hand at the lower right portion. “About here, and moving along this line.” He sketched a line across and up the hill in a direction that seemed designed to least serve the composition.

Rather than offering an alternative, as Jane expected, Vincent nodded his head again and made a sketch in the glamour to mark the intent. His communication ended, Mr. Gilman took his leave, although not before passing an inquiring glance at the two of them.

When the door had closed and his footfalls faded, Jane shook her head. “How are you going to get around that?”

“Around what?” Vincent had already begun pulling folds into place to create the lamb, abandoning his work on the trees.

“His suggestion about the placement of the lamb. I can think of few places he could have asked for it to be which would be worse.”

“I am going to place it where he requested it.”

Astonished, Jane could only stare at her husband. He had long professed that his art was more important than his life, and she could not understand how he could now show so little care about accepting such an obviously poor suggestion. She had seen him lead the Prince Regent to a different understanding of what a composition required rather than refusing an unreasonable request outright. And yet here Vincent had made no such effort, despite his clear dislike for the prospect. “I confess I do not understand you.”

Vincent lowered his head, hands still wrapped in glamour. When he spoke, it was to the floor. “What is there to understand? I am trying to complete this commission and satisfy
my
client.” He put perhaps too great an emphasis on the word “my” and Jane had to bite back an angry retort. Spiteful though his words were, there was truth in them. She had nothing to do with this project, and it had been a mistake for her to come. Taking her seat again, Jane pulled out Signor Defendini’s book,
The Essentials of Glassblowing in Murano
and read until it was time for them to depart. Neither Vincent nor she had much to say to the other on the carriage ride back to Binché.

Twelve

Repeating the Coda

Jane tried to fill the days while Vincent was away in Brussels by focusing on those activities that she still had at her disposal. She went with Mme Chastain on her rounds, visiting the local ladies and learning enough about the village to engage in the common hobby of gossip. Mme Meynard’s home in the centre of Binché was a frequent destination for their excursions. Fond of conviviality and more than twenty years younger than her husband, Mme Meynard had regular card parties to which she seemed to delight in inviting guests of different beliefs merely to watch the conflicts that ensued.

Having borne silent witness to several of these conversations which, while interesting to watch, must cause a strain upon the participants, Jane was understandably apprehensive when Mme Meynard greeted her with enthusiasm at the door. “Mme Vincent! I am so glad to see you. There is someone here that you must particularly meet.” Before Jane could utter a word, Mme Meynard took her by the arm and led her into the drawing room and across to a small knot of people. “Lieutenant Segal, a moment of your time.”

Willingly, the young man turned from his conversation. His countenance was comely, with that openness of expression and lively gaze indicative of a strong understanding. Had Mme Meynard not named him a lieutenant, Jane would have known him for a French officer from the blue and white coat and the shako which lay on the side table, with a tricolour cockade rakishly pinned to the side of the hat. The pale blue of the coat set off his blond hair to advantage. Jane quickly realized that his audience consisted almost entirely of young women, all of whom gazed upon him, almost cooing their pleasure at being in his company.

Lieutenant Segal stood immediately and his eyes widened in surprise. “Madame, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

Jane furrowed her brow, trying to place him. “I am afraid you have the better of me.”

“Ah. Of course. You were unwell, and I? I was masked.” He took Jane’s hand and bowed very low, while raising her hand to his lips. He kissed it, never removing his gaze from her face. Even through the leather of her gloves, his lips were warm.

Jane felt the colour mount in her cheeks and she hardly knew where to look. This then, was the mysterious Gilles who had carried her from the parade?

Mme Meynard threw back her head and laughed. She tapped Lieutenant Segal on the shoulder with her fan. “You must excuse Mme Vincent. She is English.”

Though he did not drop her hand, Lieutenant Segal lowered it with remarkable speed. “Pardon, madame. I would never have trifled with you had I known.”

“Is it trifling with a woman’s affections to kiss her hand, in England?” Mme Meynard flirted her fan open. “I had always thought it was a mark of respect.”

“No, no! Mme Meynard, the English are so chaste and pure that one cannot touch them without marring their virtue.”

Jane would not allow herself to be baited by Lieutenant Segal, so she addressed herself to her hostess instead. “You misunderstand. To kiss a woman’s hand is a sign of esteem, certainly, but you must acknowledge that it is impossible to esteem someone who is but newly met. Therefore, to do so upon meeting seems insincere at best.”

Mme Meynard raised her eyebrows and gazed coquettishly over her fan at Lieutenant Segal. “I would say that the charge of insincerity is not far off the mark.”

“I am wounded. I have been in your bedchamber, Mme Vincent, so you can hardly say that we have only met.”

Outraged at his insinuation that their acquaintance was more intimate than it was, Jane tried to set the record straight. “While I thank you for your rescue when I fainted at the parade, this hardly counts as meeting.”

Lieutenant Segal pressed his hand to his breast and widened his stance slightly to include his audience in his reply. “Perhaps, but I have kissed the hands of all of these ladies, and you must believe me sincere in the admiration of them all.”

Several of the younger ladies giggled at that, lending credence to his protestation that his behaviour was within the bounds of delicacy.

“If you say you are sincere, then I must believe you and yet … you cannot base your admiration on the mind, for our first meeting did not have the pleasure of conversation. Indeed, I was entirely insensible.” Jane fingered her own overlong nose. “I doubt that it is on the basis of physical appearance. May I inquire what forms your admiration?”

“Why, that the focus of my admiration is a lady. What can be more admirable than that?” Lieutenant Segal gestured at the small crowd surrounding them. “To a Frenchman, there is nothing so worthy of admiration than women in all their forms. The source of Napoleon’s genius, some say, was his Joséphine.”

“And not Queen Marie Louise?”

“I did say ‘in all their forms.’ Queen Marie Louise is the source of his happiness. Genius and happiness are both admirable.” He bowed shortly. “But I am prepared to concede that perhaps it is only French women who are thus.”

As she had seen at other of Mme Meynard’s parties, a small group now surrounded them, listening to their conversation. Though Jane resented being made a spectacle and would rather excuse herself at once, she lingered. In part, because she was certain that Mme Meynard would derive great amusement from her departure, and though her conduct was reprehensible, she was a particular friend of Mme Chastain and Jane would not willingly slight her. Rather than acceding the field, Jane resolutely maintained her composure. “I see. I will not ask for your opinion of the women in Britain, but what of the women in Belgium?”

“Madame. They are French.” Coming from a military man who had undoubtedly fought under Napoleon, his disregard of borders should not have surprised Jane, particularly in a nation that had so recently belonged to France. “Have you no defence to offer for your countrywomen?”

Jane opened her mouth to provide a list of arguments and then closed it again, remembering the dinner at the Prince Regent’s which marked the last occasion on which she had spent any time with ladies of society. Save for Lady Hertford, none of the ladies had shown much in the way of sense, and she could not imagine putting forward the Prince Regent’s mistress as model of English virtue. Turning her mind to her own family, she again faltered. Her mother was unlikely to provoke admiration, save for her sense of fashion and her concern for her daughters. In Binché, despite the impertinence with which Mme Meynard arranged these conversations, Jane had seen more sense displayed than in most of her companions at home. “No. They are, by and large, insipid and concerned only with fashion. This is, perhaps, why I suspected insincerity from you, though I owe you my gratitude.”

“Then, madame,”—he offered her a bow and held out his hand—“allow me to greet you again, and know that you have my full admiration for your wit and your honesty.”

After a moment, Jane placed her hand in his. He kissed the back of it very gently, and Jane could not doubt his sincerity.

*   *   *

When she returned to
the Chastains’ home, Jane practised French with Anne-Marie, who was wild to hear about the French officers. Jane found it not at all surprising that she had already met young Lieutenant Segal and was quite in raptures about him. It seemed that he had been making the rounds of Binché society without regard for social distinctions. He was quite the favourite, and Jane was forced to admit that she could understand why, for his manners were appealing even if the content of his remarks was impertinent.

Her mind still troubled by their conversation and the way in which she had been unable to defend her countrywomen, Jane retreated to the drawing room and the pianoforte. In many ways, the solitary pursuit of music best suited her temperament, and Jane applied herself to it in an effort to make up for the deficiency of glamour accompanying it. She tried to see it as a blessing that she could focus on but one aspect of performance, but in truth she missed the glamour too much to be content with mere sound.

She finished playing an air by Rossini, one which she thought the Prince Regent might enjoy, recalling as she did his fondness for the composer. She then leafed through the pages toward the beginning, in search of a passage which had troubled her.

“That was very pretty.” Vincent said from the door.

Jane turned, surprised at how much her heart sped at the sight of her husband. She could not help but compare him to Lieutenant Segal, who might have more elegance to his carriage, but had none of Vincent’s strength. “How long have you been back?”

“Since the coda.” He came in and sank into the chair closest to her, weariness evident in the sag of his shoulders. “Play it again?”

Jane did, letting her attention drift from the page to her husband’s face. He listened with his eyes closed, brows drawn a little together in concentration. As she played, his tension slackened and slowly, slowly, his head tilted forward until his chin rested on his chest. Jane kept playing long after he had clearly fallen asleep and begun to snore. She could not suppress a smile at this. Her husband had the tiniest snore in the world, more like a small cat than a barrel-chested man. It pained her to see him so tired, but she had no way to relieve his fatigue if he insisted on making the ride to Brussels so often.

Bringing the music to a close, Jane let the notes fade from the room until the only sound was the faint wheeze of Vincent sleeping. It was impossible, seeing him so reduced by fatigue, to have anything but tenderness in her heart toward him. Her husband stirred and lifted his head, his eyelids still heavy. “That was lovely.”

“Thank you.” Jane did not point out that he had slept through the most of it. “Shall I ring for some dinner for you?”

“No, thank you. I have already eaten.”

“Were you in Brussels today?” When she had woken, he was already gone from the house, as had been common these past few weeks.

“With Mr. Gilman.”

“I take it he needed the sheep adjusted again?” It seemed as though once a week, Mr. Gilman sent a message asking for the number of lambs to go up or down.

“Yes. Well.”

“Have you thought of suggesting a random braiding of lambs so that the number appears to rotate?”

“Even if—” Vincent rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “That would not work with the Chastain Damask.”

“Of course.” She perused the pages of her music, pretending that ordering the score took more attention than it actually did. She was uncertain why she still felt the need to offer opinions on the subject when Vincent clearly had no interest in her thoughts.

“Forgive me.” He pinched his eyes shut in a wince. “I am tired and irritable today.”

“If you … if you wanted to stay the night in Brussels, I should not object. It would make me easier to know there was one less fatigue weighing on you.”

“Thank you. But I needed to spend part of today in Binché, and likely will again this week.” Vincent tugged at his cravat and Jane was fairly certain that only being in the public rooms rather than their apartments kept him from removing it altogether.