Of Noble Family (16 page)

Amey's head came up sharply and the lingering shade of sleep vanished. “No. Thank you, ma'am.”

“Really, it is no trouble. The rooms are plentiful, and your mother has agreed to help me with some work. I thought it would make it easier on you both.”

“I appreciate your kindness, ma'am, but thank you, no.” She stood in the doorway of the low shed. Her bare feet were dusty with the red dirt of the floor.

To bring a child into the world in such a place … Jane could hardly comprehend it. “But what will you do when your time comes?”

“Have my baby at home. Like I do with the other two.” A vein in her neck beat rapidly.

“But would it not be nicer to have a real bed?”

“My father built this house. What I goin' to the manor for?” She slapped the rounded flesh of her stomach. “This happen to me there. No. I stay here.”

She was nearly to term. Nine months. That would have been shortly before Lord Verbury had his stroke.

“Of—of course. My apologies.” Jane looked at the ground, and at the building, and at the doorway in which Amey stood, but she could not meet the woman's eyes. “I am so sorry.”

Nkiruka spoke to her daughter in that unknown language. Her tone was soothing and penitent. Amey answered her mother with two short sentences, then turned and disappeared into the dark interior of the shed.

Biting her lip, Jane turned to Nkiruka. “I deeply apologise for bringing any contention into your day. And for … other things. If there is anything I can do … if she should want for anything. A doctor…?”

“Yes.” Nkiruka gave a decisive nod. “A doctor. And better food.”

“Of course.” And clothes for the baby, and any other comfort Jane could provide besides. Lord Verbury had much to atone for, and if he would not, then Jane would undertake that herself.

 

Eleven

Tea and Conversation

Jane had intended to get Amey a doctor on Wednesday, but Frank informed her that the doctor would not be able to attend until Thursday. Jane thanked him. Before she had time to wonder if she should start her day with work on her book or on inquiries into better clothing for the slaves, her decision was made for her by the arrival of a note from Mrs. Pridmore inviting her to take tea. It was more than a bit presumptuous of Mrs. Pridmore to invite her husband's employer's wife to tea. More properly, such an invitation should come from Jane, if it were to come at all. Still, this was not England, and she had seen enough of Mrs. Pridmore to know that she was both lonely and more than a little silly. Besides which, more than one policy in Parliament had been settled by tea between the wives of peers. If Vincent could not find accord with Mr. Pridmore, perhaps she could do so with his wife.

With a sigh heavier than such an invitation perhaps merited, Jane altered her plans and sent a note back to accept “with delight.”

Fortunately, she had put on her long stays that morning with Vincent's help. The stays were not, strictly speaking, comfortable, but the long bones to her hips and the stiff busk down the front smoothed her form. She was grateful that the Pridmores' cottage stood not more than a quarter mile away.

It was, as promised, a charming cottage with a good prospect overlooking the fields. It had broad stone stairs leading up to a deep porch by the front entrance. Jasmine vines had been trained to run up the support pillars and lend their verdant growth to the little house's sense of invitingness.

As Jane arrived, under Louisa's perpetual parasol, Mrs. Pridmore came out to meet her with a little squeal. “Oh! I am so glad you were able to come. Cook has made cake for us, is that not lovely? I sent the invitation because we had just received a delivery of tea that Mr. Pridmore ordered all the way from China, because he knows how much I miss dear London. Is he not considerate? I hope that you are as fortunate with Mr. Hamilton, and I am certain that you must be.” She took Jane's arm as they went up the stairs. “Truly, I have not seen a man who cut such a dashing figure since I was last in London. You must tell me how you attached him. I adore love matches, and all the details of them. Have you read Mrs. Radcliffe's books? Oh, she is a wonder at recording the details of true love.”

Jane was certain that Mrs. Pridmore must draw a breath at some point, but she had not yet seemed to require air. She cast one glance backwards at Louisa, who could not quite manage to cover a smile as she followed them inside. The front door opened directly into a broad hall, which also served as the parlour.

“Ladies! Mrs. Hamilton has joined us. Is that not wonderful?” She paused, which seemed to take everyone by surprise.

In the room were four women. One of them was white. For a moment, that was all Jane could notice about her. In the five days since their arrival, she had become so used to all the shades of brown that the putty-coloured skin startled her. Jane bent in a curtsy, out of preservation as much as habit.

Two of the women rose and returned the courtesy. The other two remained against the walls, gazes cast down in the obvious attitude of servants.

“Mrs. Hamilton, may I present Mrs. Ransford from Sarah's Hope—” This was the white woman, an older lady whose translucence seemed a relapse to some elfin ancestor. “And Mrs. Whitten from Weatherill.” The latter was a mulatto woman of not more than middle height, well made and with an air of healthy vigour. Her skin was very brown but clear, smooth, and glowing with beauty, which, with a lively eye, a sweet smile, and an open countenance, gave beauty to attract, and expression to make that beauty improve on acquaintance. “Her father is Lord Calcott, and she is married to Mr. Whitten, from a very respectable old Antigua family that has owned an estate here longer even than the Hamiltons. Their property borders yours to the west.”

Jane could not help but note that Mrs. Pridmore felt the need to give Mrs. Whitten's particulars but not Mrs. Ransford's.

Mrs. Whitten inclined her head gracefully to Jane. “Indeed, we would not be above two miles away, but for a ravine between our properties. As it is, I am afraid that it requires going down to the base of Green Hill and then back up again, so it feels as though there are two properties between us. Still, with a carriage the trip is a trifle. You must come to visit.”

“I should be delighted.”

In short order, the assembled ladies worked through the ordinary pleasantries, establishing that it was uncommonly hot for this time of year, that they were thankful that they had coldmongers on staff who could use glamour to make the air cooler, and then moving on to admiration of the newly arrived chest of tea. Nothing was so cooling, was the general consensus, as a cup of strong tea on a hot day. Jane found herself seated on a sofa with Mrs. Ransford, who seemed to have never ventured into the sun.

“And how are you finding Antigua then, Mrs. Hamilton?” The pale woman had the remnants of a Scottish brogue. She set her cup of tea down in its saucer and turned her pale blue eyes upon Jane with the interest one might give to a stuffed bird.

“We have only been here since Friday evening, so not quite five days. I have seen little beyond the estate, but the landscape quite astonishes me. The southernmost clime that I have visited was Venice, and it is not a city known for its trees.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Venice?” Mrs. Pridmore bounced up a little in her seat. “Oh! I should adore going to Venice. I have read all of Lord Byron's poems and have dreamt of going ever since then.” She set her cup down on the table and, pressing her hands to her bosom, began to declaim.

“In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,

And silent rows the songless Gondolier;

Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,

And Music meets not always now the ear:

Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here.”

With a little sigh, she wrinkled her nose and relaxed her posture. “I sometimes feel that I must remind myself that even though ‘those days are gone,' so far from England, ‘Beauty is still here,' and I suppose that is why those lines particularly called to me. The songless Gondolier is so moving, do you not think?”

Mrs. Whitten studied the tea in her cup. “I remember when you recited that at our amateur theatricals. I was most struck by the lines, ‘Existence may be borne, and the deep root, Of life and sufferance make its firm abode, In bare and desolated bosoms…'

“There! See how delightful he is? Such wonderful metre. Oh, I do so adore Lord Byron's work. If I should ever have half the ability I should count myself well satisfied. Are you familiar with his work, Mrs. Hamilton?”

It would be for the best not to mention that Jane was acquainted with the poet himself, or she should likely never hear the end of questions. “Indeed. And are you a poetess yourself?”

“Oh. Oh, no.” Mrs. Pridmore looked down with a flush to her cheeks. It was the shortest speech Jane had yet heard from her.

“Do not let her be timid, dear…” Mrs. Ransford shook her finger in admonition. “She published a little album of verses last year that was well received.”

“Oh—oh, but that was only for our charity. Truly, I hope I am not so foolish as to claim more ability than I possess.” She picked up the teapot. “More tea? Do say yes, it is so nice to have ladies with whom I can share such a treat.”

Mrs. Pridmore seemed genuinely embarrassed by the attention, and her modesty made Jane like her more than she had before. It did not seem a scheme for attention, but a genuine doubt of her own talents. Jane said, “I should like to read one of your poems.”

“Oh, bless me, no. Thank you, that is very generous, but it was only for charity that I allowed them to be published at all. Are you sure you will not take more tea? It really is lovely, and has come all the way from China.”

Mrs. Ransford turned on the sofa by Jane's side to face her more fully. “Which reminds me … you and your husband must come to our charity ball in July.”

Jane planned to be long departed from Antigua by then, but with Louisa in the room, to say nothing of Mrs. Pridmore, she simply smiled. “I should be delighted and will do my best to persuade Mr. Hamilton as well. What is the charity for?”

“The Moravian school. Dr. Hartnell has started a school for the poor youth in Antigua, and has spoken with such eloquence of their plight that the ladies of Antigua threw a ball the last two years to raise funds to help purchase books. It was such a grand success that we plan to do it again this summer.” Her pale face warmed with enthusiasm as she spoke. “Mrs. Whitten's home has the loveliest of ballrooms, and she has been so gracious as to let us use it.”

“It is fortunate that my husband's grandmother loved to dance.” Mrs. Whitten leaned forward in her chair. “Now … I know this is terribly forward, but I hope you will appreciate that I am asking because it is a worthy cause.”

No doubt they wanted Jane and Vincent to buy a ticket to the ball and perhaps fund the printing of another poetry book by Mrs. Pridmore. “You have piqued my curiosity.”

“For the ball, would you and your husband craft a glamural?”

Jane's mouth hung stupidly open. She had not expected
that
, of all questions, though they had made their living through just such commissions for as long as they had been married. She had rather thought that Vincent's father would not have mentioned his son's career, given their history. “I will have to speak with him, of course.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Pridmore turned in her seat to face Jane. “Have you studied glamour? I think it is such an interesting art. It is not where my talents lie, though Mrs. Ransford is quite good. You should see her breakfast room, which has the most charming roses glamoured in it. They even smell like roses.”

“You are too kind.” Mrs. Ransford's cheeks burnt a little, the spots of red standing out almost like rose petals on her pallid skin. “I have been accustomed to creating the glamural for the ball, but should be glad of assistance.”

Mrs. Whitten looked between the ladies with some astonishment. “Do you not know who she is? Forgive me, but it was all that filled the
Times
for several weeks last year.”

Jane did not know where to look. She picked up her spoon so that she had some form of employment, even if it were nothing more than stirring her tea. Of course news of the trial would have made it here, and any thinking person would have remembered the connection, as Vincent's name had been reported along with his relation to the Earl of Verbury. To have it come up now was something of an agony. The evident confusion on the other ladies' faces made it clear that they did not, in fact, read the paper.

With a little laugh, Mrs. Whitten settled back in her chair. “Mrs. Hamilton should more properly be styled Lady Vincent, wife of Sir David Vincent. They are the Prince Regent's glamourists.”

Mrs. Ransford nearly choked on her tea. “Not
the
Sir David!”

“Yes.” Jane cleared her throat. “However, the new Earl of Verbury asked my husband to come here as a brother, so I should prefer it if you would continue to call us Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton.”

Mrs. Ransford shook her head, resting her hand against her bosom. “I am appalled that I invited you to assist me. But of course, you and your husband should have charge of the entire glamural—if you are willing, of course. I hope that such an assignment is not beneath you after the work you did at Carlton House. I did not see it, but a dear friend in London sent me a souvenir brochure of your last New Year's f
ê
te and the illustrations alone made it seem a wonder.”

“I am cross that Mr. Pridmore did not tell me. Really, it is quite thoughtless of him.” Mrs. Pridmore brightened. “Oh! Might we prevail on you to favour us with a little glamour today?”

To announce in this room that she was unable to perform glamour would be the same as painting a banner and marching through the streets of London with the news that she was with child. Jane ducked her head and turned the spoon over in her fingers. Nkiruka had said that a little glamour was safe. Could she chance it?