Glamour in Glass (18 page)

Mme Chastain tapped the letter on the tray. “M. Archambault? Do you recall where Mme Maçon lives?”

Jane twitched, driving the needle into her finger as she realized that Mme Chastain knew where Vincent was. Did he keep his actions only from
Jane
?

“She is on Ruelle à Cafou, but he is only there in the mornings, I think.” He waited until M. Bertrand nodded to confirm this before continuing. “Would you like me to run the letter to him?”

“No, thank you.” Jane fumbled in her work basket for a scrap to staunch the bleeding of her finger. M. Archambault and M. Bertrand also knew? “I have not taken my excursion today. This will be as good a destination as any, if you would but give me the direction.”

Mme Chastain nudged Yves. “You have been there before, with M. Vincent, have you not? Would you show Mme Vincent the way? And then when you return, I will help you with your accounting.”

Yves bit his lower lip and then nodded. “I should be delighted.”

With that settled, Jane took only long enough to put aside her work basket and—though she did not wish to delay for a moment—go upstairs to fetch a bonnet and wrap. If Vincent had related the particulars of his whereabouts to the rest of the household, then it must be that she had misread his silences due to her own anxiety. He had nothing improper to hide. Clearly he had taken on an additional commission and, given her frequent concerns for his fatigue, had elected to not tell her so as to keep her from worry. She would have words with him about this omission, which would not do. Jane paused as she tucked the letter into her reticule, struck by wondering if Vincent had taken on this other task because she was increasing. She had not considered that he might fear lacking the means to provide for their child.

Yves met her at the front door, very erect and with his brown hair carefully tousled in the current fashion. He bowed quite correctly. Jane had to stifle a smile at his transparent efforts to appear in the best light, perhaps in hopes that she would make a favourable report to his mother about his maturity.

The day had not yet grown warm, making Jane glad that she had brought a wrap with her. A light breeze carried the scent of the baking district toward them, and Jane was afflicted with the uneasy sensations of hunger and nausea. Some of the nausea she thought she could attribute to a nervous state, rather than her general condition.

The houses grew smaller and the streets narrowed as they directed their course into an older and poorer part of town than Jane had yet visited. On more than one occasion, refuse filled the gutters, and she found herself wishing for the crossing sweepers of London to clear the path.

Yves cleared his throat. “Mme Vincent, if you should wish me to deliver the letter for you, I would be glad to do so.”

“Thank you, Yves. But Vincent is gone so much from the house that I confess that I would take a smaller excuse than this to see him for some few more moments.”

“Ah.” He nodded with a sagacity beyond his years. “Marriage.”

“Indeed.” They walked some blocks farther in silence.

Jane spied Anne-Marie standing outside a shop on a cross-street and thought for a moment that she might be able to release poor Yves from his duties. As she opened her mouth to suggest it, Lieutenant Segal stepped from the shop and pressed a small packet into Anne-Marie’s hands. Jane’s heart seized at the clear devotion in Anne-Marie’s eyes, and the tender regard with which Lieutenant Segal beheld her. The ease in their manner reminded her too painfully of the distance which had grown between herself and Vincent since they had discovered she was with child.

Jane pulled her attention away, determined not to bother them. As a distraction, she searched for some topic on which one might converse with a young man. “How do your studies go?”

He shrugged. “They are well enough, I suppose.”

“And do you study glamour as well?”

Scowling, Yves kicked a loose cobble and sent it skipping down the road. “It does not seem to be a skill I have. At least, not to hear my father tell it.”

“There are other masters … if it is something you have an interest in.”

“I shall have to find some other occupation. He will always be better than me, you see.” He straightened his shoulders. “I had thought to join the army, but without a war on, there is no way to make your fortune, or any likelihood of rising through the ranks.”

“But glamour is less dangerous.”

He flashed her a smile. “Which means less of a chance for glory or distinction. No, I think I shall have to find something else.”

“Is being distinguished so important to you?”

“It is to my father.” He stopped in front a petite two-story home fronted by neat window boxes filled with purple tulips. “Here we are.”

Vincent’s horse was tied to the fence, and flicked its ear disinterestedly at their approach. Jane thanked Yves, and—though he offered to wait for her—the way his boots shifted on the cobblestones gave a clear indication that he wished to be on his way. After she assured him that she could make her way back, he trotted off in the direction whence he had come.

Jane knocked on the front door, thankful for the gloves which covered her suddenly sweating palms, though she had no reason to be nervous. As she waited, she took in the details of the house, noting that the tulips which graced the window boxes were crafted from glamour. At a distance they had the right shape, but on closer inspection they were crudely rendered, and clearly not her husband’s work.

The door opened and a young woman answered, dressed in the simple local costume. She had curling flaxen locks, and clear grey eyes which greeted Jane with a twinkle. “May I help you?”

“Is this the home of Mme Maçon? I was told that Mr. Vincent would be here. I am his wife.”

The young woman looked Jane up and down, taking notice of her English walking suit as though her accent alone were not enough to identify her. “Of course, madame. He is right this way, with my grandmother, Mme Maçon.”

She led Jane down a narrow hall and into a tiny sitting room. An elderly woman, white hair thinned to a wisp, sat in a rocking chair by the fire. Vincent sat next to her, a notebook open on his knee and a pencil in his right hand. His left hand gestured under a floating glamour of a single green leaf.

As Jane entered, Vincent started visibly, dropping his notebook. It slapped to the floor, and as he grabbed for it, the green leaf trembled and scissored out of view. “Jane!”

Jane could not miss the sudden pallor of her husband’s face, nor the flaring of his nostrils as he inhaled at the surprise of seeing her. More than mere surprise, though: in the widening of his pupils and the vein that leapt at his temple, she saw fear. Not wishing to record more of his alarm at her presence than she had already witnessed, Jane focused on the ribbon of her reticule.

The paper of the letter rattled as she drew it forth. “You received a letter, and I thought it might have been the one you were looking for this morning.”

“Thank you. You did not need to bring it all this way.” Vincent rose and took the letter from her outstretched hand.

“The doctor did encourage me to go for walks, and this provided me with a new route.”

“I see.” Vincent cleared his throat. Jane could not miss the glance he shot to the young woman who had greeted her. “Allow me to introduce you to Mme Maçon, who has been graciously taking time to show me her approach to glamour.”

Now it was Jane’s turn to lift her eyes in surprise. She made her courtesies to Mme Maçon and her granddaughter while her mind filled with wonder. Why in Heaven’s name would Vincent be studying with a folk glamourist? She could only have the most primitive of techniques, beyond which he was far advanced.

The Maçons spoke small pleasantries and invited Jane to sit. The sofa, which appeared to be covered in deep green satin, creaked under her, and she could feel the loose threads which lay under the glamour on its surface. Jane suspected that Vincent had executed this one. The work was flawless, and did not match the other, more obvious, glamours which adorned the neat but worn room, such as the unabashed sprays of reds and blues surrounding a faded portrait of Napoleon, as if banners clung to the wall. A shaft of light illuminated a hair wreath over a side table, and seemed to cast a silhouette of a young man on the wall. Though the glamours had no finesse or delicacy in their execution, they were nevertheless charming.

When Mme Maçon’s granddaughter pressed them to stay for tea, Vincent shook his head. “I am afraid I need to be on my way. Thank you, ladies. I will see you next week.”

When they were outside, Vincent offered his arm. Jane found herself hesitating before taking it. She chided herself for … well, she was hardly sure how to categorize her thoughts or fears.

“You do not need to walk back with me. I know you must be on your way.” She gestured to his horse, which lifted its head to greet them.

“I should be nothing more than a hardened blackguard if I let my wife walk out to deliver a letter and then did not escort her home.”

“But it was not my intent to delay you.”

Vincent sighed and untied his horse. “Jane, you have allowed me to leave Mme Maçon’s earlier than I might otherwise have left, so the very small detour in seeing you home will do me no great harm. I am rather more worried about you.” He offered his arm again. “You gave me quite the turn, appearing like that. I thought something had happened.”

Blushing, Jane accepted his arm, understanding in a rush how it must have seemed to him. The fear she had seen on his face was not of being discovered, but fear for her. “I am sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for. I am glad to see you, and glad to have a moment with you in the daylight. I have quite neglected you.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and, with the horse trailing them on his far side, they walked back through the streets of Binché.

“May I ask what it is you were discussing with Mme Maçon?”

“Oh…” He wrinkled his nose in thought. “She is self-taught, and has some different ideas of colour and how it works in glamour. Nothing exciting, but a fresh perspective. I thought it might be useful.”

“Is it?”

“Somewhat.” He pointed with his chin. “Is that Madame Meynard?”

Jane wanted to shriek with vexation that he had changed the subject yet again, but she could hardly fault him for their acquaintance’s decision to walk down their street.

Jane agreed that it was indeed Mme Meynard, and they crossed the street to greet her. Seeing Vincent shift his weight and check the height of the sun in the sky after a few moments of conversation, Jane took the opportunity offered to walk with Mme Meynard, thus releasing Vincent to ride on to Brussels. She longed to keep him, but it was clear that he wished to be away. And even if he stayed, he seemed to be finished with the topic of how he spent his days. Jane found that for every question answered, a dozen new ones clamoured.

Fourteen

Sunlight and Keys

Jane straightened her back, neck protesting from having been bent so long over her book. Signor Defendini’s documentation of the Murano glassblowing techniques had been giving her less insight into what had gone wrong with their glamour than she had hoped. Brussels had a small circulating library for the British citizens who had flocked there as if it were Bath. Jane had applied to Vincent to search it for some useful text, and this had been the best he could offer. The slender volume had lavish illustrations to accompany the text and tantalizing hints that Murano glassblowers used glamour in their craft in ways that other glassmakers did not, but the methods themselves seemed to be secrets so closely guarded that the book read more as a sales catalogue extolling their virtues than an examination of techniques.

Sun streamed through the window of their apartments in the first break from three days of spring rains. Steam rose off the paving stones in the courtyard below, and the smell of damp earth rose with it.

Putting her book to the side, Jane copied some notes into her sketchbook and then took up the glass ball they had made. She thought that she might try to draw it, hoping that setting the
Sphère
on the page would help her see it more clearly. When she was finished, she might ask Vincent to send the results to Herr Scholes to ask for his opinion.

Anne-Marie bustled around behind her, straightening the clothing which the laundress had sent up. “Madame, where shall I put this?” She held Vincent’s riding coat in one hand and a small key in the other. Jane recognised it as the key to his writing desk. It was lucky that the laundress had not lost it, small as it was.

“I shall give it to my husband.” Jane took the key, intending to put it somewhere safe until Vincent was next home. And yet, it would be simplicity itself to open the desk, take out his address book, and send Herr Scholes the drawing herself. She need not examine anything else inside, and after all, Vincent had said he was hiding things from M. Chastain’s servants, not from her.

But even as she had that thought, she knew that, far beyond the impropriety of writing to a man to whom she had never been introduced, opening the desk would be a very real breach of Vincent’s trust. Her curiosity begged her to use the key, but Jane set it resolutely in the drawer of the table and pushed the desk farther from her.

Even so, every time she lifted her head from the page to reference the glass
Sphère
, the writing desk beckoned as a tempting distraction from her purpose. What did Vincent keep so carefully concealed within it?

This would not do. Jane gathered up her drawing things and wrapped the sphere in a length of velvet to safeguard it. Going out of doors would remove her from temptation and offer her an opportunity for fresh air. Thus armed with a purpose she stood, aware of how much her back ached.

She must have moaned, for Anne-Marie came to her side quickly. “Madame, are you well?”

“I have been sitting for too long.” To turn the conversation from her own frailty, Jane made comment on the first thing she noticed. A pretty pendant of a bumblebee, which hung from a slender chain at Anne-Marie’s throat. “What a cunning bee. Where did you get it?”