Of Noble Family (18 page)

Jane was aware of that. Having been briefly out of the stays, she felt their confinement all the more. She paused by Amey. “When it is your time, make certain I know as well, please.”

The young woman nodded, but looked strangely angry. Jane could not imagine why, after she went to the trouble of getting a doctor for her. Perhaps she was merely uncomfortable on the wooden bench. Her mother patted the pile of clothes between them. “These good.… Maybe a new blanket for the baby?”

Jane looked back at the rough pallet. “That shall be my next order.”

*   *   *

Jane had to wait
until after dinner that evening before Vincent was free to speak with her. The day had taken him to St. John's for further study of Antigua's legal code, and he had not returned to the great house until the sun sank below the horizon. While they dined together, the presence of Zeus, who was serving dinner, kept their talk confined to simple, public things.

Jane suspected that their haste to leave the table made it appear as though they were intent upon amorous congress. In truth, though, when they retired to their rooms at last, Vincent shut the door and immediately said, “Did you see the doctor?”

“I did. To be brief: five and a half months, which means a September lying-in. And … she recommends that I should not travel.”

His face tightened with circumspection. “Is something the matter?”

“No—or, rather, she thinks that I was seasick and that another ocean voyage would be ill-advised.” Jane sighed and reached up to smooth the worry lines from Vincent's face. “I have been thinking on this, and have a suggestion.”

“We cannot go to England.”

“Are you going to listen to my idea, or would you prefer to panic on your own?”

He rewarded her with half a smile. “I will listen to my Muse, always.”

“Jamaica is not so far away that my health would be at risk. It is large enough to have a good doctor, and it gets us away from here.”

He nodded slowly. “And we would not have to wait for the next packet ship.” He kissed her on the forehead. “You are exceedingly clever.”

“May we leave tomorrow?”

He rubbed his hair into a mess. “Shall I help you out of your dress?”

Oh, but it was never good when he changed the subject that openly. Jane sighed, to let him know that she was fully aware of his contrivance and that she would tolerate it for a few minutes. He cleared his throat in understanding. Jane turned and let her husband pick the ties of her dress loose. His fingers were not shaking, at least. He helped her pull the muslin over her head and dropped it on a chair next to them. Her petticoat followed after that, and then he worked the corset lace free.

With a sigh, Jane slipped her long stays off and hung them over a chair back, glad to be able to breathe at last. Sliding his arms around her, Vincent rested his head against hers. “Would you be willing to go to Jamaica without me?”

“Are you mad?”

“I want a few more days. There are issues of safety that Frank cannot address with Mr. Pridmore, but I can. Once the boiler is repaired and—”

“No.” Jane turned in his arms. “I will stay confined to this room if I have to, but I will not leave you. Do not—hush. Do not even think of explaining why it seems like a reasonable course to you.”

“But—”

“Vincent, husband. No. You asked if I were willing, and I am not. You are not yourself here.”

He nodded, still holding her, but studying the carpet. A new line had pinched into being between his brows. “I … I think I shall take a walk to clear my head. Will you be all right if I go for a bit?”

“Yes, only…”

“Only what?”

“Why are you not working glamour?”

He held his breath, and the small whine of protest sounded. Vincent tightened his hands on her waist for a moment, then let out the held breath with a little laugh, stepping away. “I had hoped you would not notice.”

“Is it … is it because your father would not approve?”

“God, no. That never stopped me before.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Vincent tilted his head to the side. “I stopped when we realised you were with child.”

“Vincent! Being exposed to glamour is not dangerous.”

“I know. I—I was trying to be.… You cannot work glamour, and it distressed you so much before that I thought to abstain, too.”

Jane's eyes stung. “That is, without a doubt, the sweetest and most foolish thing you have ever done for me.”

“I was trying to be respectful.”

“My love … if we were not here, you would be giving up our livelihood.” That was not strictly true, given the state of mourning in England, but close enough. “More to the point, I would like for you to work glamour. The house feels exposed without it.”

“The house is, publicly, still in mourning.”

“So do not work glamour in public. But in the privacy of our room, it would be no different than the great houses that shut up their ballrooms rather than tearing out an expensive glamural during mourning.” Jane sighed. “Also, you are clearly driving yourself mad without that outlet.”

He looked at his hands. “You are not wrong.”

“Then I am going to lie down while you work.” Jane matched action to words and pulled the counterpane back.

“I am an exceedingly fortunate man.”

“Pray remember that.”

“Always. Except when your feet are cold in the winter.” He took a breath, rolling his shoulders as he always did before he started working. Jane held the retort he deserved, along with her breath, as Vincent dipped his hand into the ether. He pulled out strands of pure yellow, wrapping the light around his hand. His face softened. The remaining tension turned into concentration as he passed the fold from hand to hand. He reached in again, drawing out warmer golds to go with the yellow. He gave a half laugh. “I am out of condition. My heart is already speeding.”

“This does not surprise me.”

He wrapped the gold around the yellow, tying neither off, but simply spinning them. “I promise not to lose consciousness.”

“If you do, I will let you sleep on the floor.” Jane settled back in the bed and watched him work. It was not a good sign that she thought that Vincent working himself to exhaustion was better than the alternative. “I might pull a blanket over you if the night is too chilly.”

He almost smiled. “Then I will work next to the bed and try to faint on it.”

Vincent began with small folds, passing the colours between his hands, wrapping the fabric of light up to his elbows, then sliding it off in a ripple of sunrise. The nuances between a Vincent who was concentrating on work and a Vincent who was angry would be imperceptible to another. Both versions of her husband scowled. Both were abrupt when spoken to. But when Vincent was at work with glamour, he had a fluidity and ease of motion that transported him from being merely an attractive man to one who was dazzling. Each movement extended naturally from the one before it and into the next. Colours sprang from his fingers and followed in the wake of his movement.

He seemed to hold a cloud made of fire, then set it spinning around himself. Vincent's breath was audible now. He reached up with one hand, still swathed in glamour that rippled in response to his movement, and tugged his cravat free. His coat would soon follow, if he stayed true to form.

On one of the turns, he stopped and cocked his head to the side, looking at something in the ether. Vincent kept the glamour moving, but he looked at Jane and compressed his lips in silent warning. Jane raised her eyebrows to ask what was troubling him. He replied with a minuscule shake of his head. His face, which had begun to relax, took on the careful mask of control again. He dipped his head and took the strands he held, pushing them outward until the glamour became quite large.

The room filled with a fog formed of sunset and abandon. While Jane could not see the folds making up the glamour, she could tell when it changed from something that Vincent was directing to something that he had tied off. It still spun and seemed to be made of disorder, but she knew his work. The glamour did not continue to develop and alter as it had. Vincent was no longer holding the threads.

Bearing the concern he had displayed in mind, Jane did not ask what he was doing. She clenched her hands under the counterpane but kept her outward demeanour as passive as she could. The glamour was so large now that it overspread the room, obscuring Vincent from view. Jane waited in that tempest composed of fear.

After a few minutes, the glamour shifted minutely, as though Vincent had taken control of the threads once again. It spun twice more, then dissolved, leaving her husband standing in the middle of the room. His coat was on the floor and his shirt clung to his chest. Sweat shone on his brow. Vincent bent at the waist and rested his hands upon his knees, panting. “I am, indeed out of condition.”

“Then you clearly need to be working glamour more often.”

“Indeed.” He straightened slowly, steadying himself with a hand against the chair. For a moment his eyes were bleary with dizziness, but the spell appeared to pass quickly. “I shall join you, I think.”

Vincent removed his shirt and hung it over the back of the chair. As he walked to the washbasin, his back was to Jane, so the scars from his flogging by Napoleon's men were clearly visible. They had faded with the passing years from an angry red to a dull grey-brown. Some had left permanent scores; others were twisted and raised in knots. Vincent poured water from the pitcher into the basin and removed the worst of the sweat from his back and face. He extinguished all but the candle by the bed before he finished dressing. The whole while his motions remained controlled. Jane was nearly ready to scream with anxiety by the time he settled into the bed next to her.

“Good night, Muse.” Vincent put his arm around her and nestled against Jane's back. Then he wove a sphere of silence around them. The quality of sound changed so that the humming of insects outside and the rustle of the household staff about their work all vanished. Even so, when Vincent spoke next, his voice was low. “There is a coldmonger in an alcove, masked by glamour.”

 

Thirteen

Parasols and Packet Ships

Jane had to stop herself from rolling over to look at Vincent. If either of them had been working glamour during their time here, they would have seen the threads of both the masking glamural and the ones which cooled the room. In retrospect, the temperature difference between the great house and the exterior made it clear that there must have been a coldmonger present, but in England, coldmongers were only employed by the wealthy, so their presence was a mark of station and they were kept on display. It had not occurred to Jane that things would be different here, but engaging a coldmonger was expensive in England, since the occupation was so dangerous. Spending a man's health was common practise here, so it could be hidden away with a glamoured fa
ç
ade.

Jane lay on her side and forced herself to breathe calmly. Even with the sphere of silence that Vincent had woven, she felt the need to be as discreet as possible.

“I suspect that he, or one of the estate's other coldmongers, has been present the entire time that we have been in residence. They have heard everything.”

Jane shivered in spite of the warmth of Vincent against her back. “May I ask you to reconsider leaving tomorrow?”

“You may. The only question is one of how.”

The night passed with Jane and Vincent discussing the “how” of their departure in low tones while pretending to be asleep. Sleep was far from either of them. They considered and discarded several plans as too complicated. If they had learned nothing else in Murano, it was in the importance of robust plans.

What they finally settled upon was the plan that Jane had proposed upon their arrival. They would use the
Verres Obscurcis
and walk to St. John's. From there they would take the first ship to Jamaica.

Using the cover of darkness and a goodly helping of glamour, Vincent crept out of bed and collected the
Verres
from their case. Jane was relieved to see that they were still there—after Vincent's revelation, she had half convinced herself that they would have been removed by someone.

The chief difficulty lay in delaying notice of their departure until they were safely off the island. Vincent's routine was varied enough that they thought he could slip away simply by going for one of his walks. While Jane could walk out on the veranda with the
Verre
, her absence would be noted and an alarm raised.

They must, therefore, behave as though they had not noted the coldmonger. Vincent rose at first light, as he was often wont to do, and sat on the edge of the bed. They had acted before, in Murano, and applied the same diligence to this scene and all its details.

Jane stirred and feigned languor. “Can you not sleep?”

“I did not mean to wake you.” With a groan, he stood and stretched. “I am going out for a walk to clear my head.”

“Will you be back for breakfast?”

“Likely not. I shall probably continue on to the distillery or the fields.” He pulled on a clean shirt and the breeches he had worn the day prior. They would have to abandon most of their clothing, but they had faced worse. As he pulled his boots on, Vincent asked, “What will you do with yourself today?”

“The slave quarters again. I promised Nkiruka a blanket for Amey's baby, and I have some questions about glamour that I did not ask yesterday. After that … I may make a call to Mrs. Pridmore.”

“You should go back to sleep.”

“I shall, as soon as you stop making a racket.”

He stopped with his waistcoat half buttoned. “Being chased out by my own wife … this is a sorry state.” But he hung his coat over his arm and picked up his hat. If the hat was heavier than it should have been, or the coat's pockets bulged, neither was apparent. He walked to the bed and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “I shall see you at dinner.”