Of Noble Family (2 page)

“Oddly, I did. It was mentioned in
A Girl's Primer on Glamour
.”

“Ah. The benefits of being encouraged to study the womanly arts. My own education was somewhat more autodidactic, until Herr Scholes.”

“My dear … I believe that you are using a discussion of craft to change the subject.”

“And you will not let me?”

“Did you land in the pond again?”

“I did.”

“With as much swearing as before!” Herr Scholes laughed.

“Although not for the same reasons this time. Cold and wet, yes, but I was more angry that I had been tricked by glamour. It was an affront that my dignity disliked more than the dousing.”

“And yet, that did not stop you from attempting to slip out again.” Herr Scholes lifted a finger into the air. “The third time, he had hidden the ladder in his room, to safeguard against its removal.”

“So I made it out the window and across the pond, thinking myself in the clear. Until my teacher threw a basin of water on me.” Vincent shook his head, laughing now at the memory. “How did you know that I would be stepping out that particular night? I have never been able to satisfy myself as to that. It was weeks after the other attempts.”

Herr Scholes winked. “I did not know. I was not there, in fact.”

“But—but, I saw you. And let us not forget the basin of water.” Vincent tilted his head, staring at the older man in disbelief. “Glamour? No—no, I was unequivocally wet, because I remember dripping on the floor and hanging my clothes to dry afterwards.”

“A string stretched across the path emptied the basin. I heard the swearing—again. It awakened the household, and gave me time to step into an inverted Cruikshank's weave that I had woven earlier on my balcony. I then had a clear line of sight to your path. Had you crept out during the day, I would never have been able to get away with it, because the image does not have the detail to be plausible in daylight. But in the dark, to an angry young man, it no doubt looked very much like I was standing on the path.”

Vincent's gaze went a little distant, as though he were looking into the ether or into memory. “Oh. That was beautifully done. And you did not speak, then. Simply pointed back to the house. When I had changed out of my wet things and you were waiting at my door, I thought you had followed me. Truly artful. I am embarrassed anew that I did not sort that out.”

“I am pleased to see that being embarrassed no longer makes you angry.”

“Not usually.”

Jane asked, “But why were you stealing out?”

Vincent's smile slipped a fraction. In the hesitation, she saw him consider avoiding the question. Then he gave a little shrug. “This was not long after I arrived. I had been free of my father's influence for just over a year and had trouble sleeping.” For a moment the memory of his father's abuse haunted his face, then he cleared his expression, as if from habit. “Walks helped clear my head. That night, Herr Scholes advised me to use glamour as a release. It has proved to be more efficacious.”

“I will tell you now, my intention that night had been to expel you. I thought you were off visiting a maid, and if you had dissembled in the slightest, I would have carried through with that intention, though it would have broken my heart.” He shifted Tom to his other arm. “I had given you three chances only because I was not prepared to let go of my best pupil.”

“You had better pupils. I was merely—”

“Mr. Vincent!” Herr Scholes glared at Jane's husband. She shrank back in her chair herself, even though his look was not turned upon her. “What have I told you, repeatedly, about undervaluing your work?”

The abashed look returned, and Jane could imagine her husband as a pupil of one and twenty. He knit his hands together, ducking his head. “I must not undervalue my work simply because I enjoy it. A working artist understands his worth and lives by it.”

“Good. Though I suppose I should apologise for speaking to you as a pupil. I am still unused to calling you Sir David.”

“To be honest, I would prefer to be Mr. Vincent still, but one does not say no when the Prince Regent wishes to confer a knighthood.”

The door swept open, and Jane's sister entered with a smile. From the hall behind her, an unmistakable bustle announced that the rest of Jane's family had arrived back from their excursion. Melody spied their guest and gave a squeal of delight. “Herr Scholes! What a pleasure. Will you stay for dinner? Do say you will. And have they made you hold Tom!” Melody had retained a pleasing plumpness to her figure after the birth of Tom, though that was hardly surprising given the rich food in Vienna. Jane's own clothes were growing tight from the abundance of
knödel
and
strudel
. Not that a little bit of plumpness would do anything to balance her overlong nose, but it might soften her sharp chin. On Melody, the fullness gave her a merry cheer that supported her already sunny disposition.

Herr Scholes relinquished Tom with a sigh. “Mrs. O'Brien. It is a pleasure to spend time with your son. My grandchildren are all too old to have much time for me.”

Entering behind Melody, Alastar O'Brien crossed to shake the glamourist's hand. “It is very good of you, nevertheless. And allow me to repeat the invitation to dine. Cook has promised
Erd
ä
pfelkn
ö
del
for dinner.”

“Thank you. I accept.”

The next few moments were occupied with a procession of parental figures as Jane's parents and Mr. O'Brien's joined the merry gathering. Mrs. Ellsworth repeated the invitation to dinner and continued to press Herr Scholes to stay, as though he had not given his assent several times already. The conversation turned back to the health of Tom and the pleasures of having an infant in the house, though this latter became more dubious as the young man began to add his own contribution to the volume of noise.

While they were attempting to quiet the boy, Alastar escaped the small circle and went to Vincent. “There are some letters for you.”

“Ah. Thank you.” He took the small packet, clearly grateful for an excuse to avoid the bustle, and sat with them by the window for better light.

Herr Scholes smacked his forehead with the flat of his palm. “Letters! I was so taken with young Master O'Brien that I forgot I had a reason for calling. Have you given thought to what you will do when you return to England?”

Jane shook her head. “I am afraid not. We had originally thought to seek some new commissions, but with the state of the nation presently…”

“Princess Charlotte.” Melody sighed in commiseration, making those necessary arrangements to attend to her son. “Such a tragedy.”

The Prince Regent's daughter had died birthing her stillborn son the previous November, though news travelled so slowly that Jane and her family had not received word until recently. With all the resources the royal family had, and with excellent medical care, it did not seem possible that Princess Charlotte should come to such an end. Yet women died of childbirth so often, it should not have surprised Jane that even a member of the royal family could be felled.

The entire nation was in mourning. For the year after the death, the streets of London would be lined with crape-covered windows. Ladies would dye their wardrobes black, and gentlemen would wear a band of black upon their sleeve. Glamourists would be briefly employed to strip homes of glamour for the duration of the mourning period.

It was such a desolate tradition. When Christ had risen after the third day, he had let the disciples stick their fingers in his wounds, saying, “Let there be no illusions here.” So, while in mourning, a house stood bare to the eye to remind the inhabitants of the one who was lost. Even here in Vienna, Jane and Vincent had pulled the glamour from the house as a gesture of respect for the death of the Prince Regent's heir and her son. As bare as a house in mourning … which meant that there would be little work for glamourists in Britain in general and none at all for the Prince Regent's glamourist.

Herr Scholes cleared his throat. “Well, I had a letter from one of my pupils, who is starting a school for girls in London and has asked me to help her find glamourist teachers. She is one of Sir David's former pupils, so I naturally thought to ask if you and he might be interested.”

“Possibly.” It would be very agreeable to remain in one place for a while. Their tour of the continent had been extended rather longer than they had originally planned. Jane turned to get Vincent's opinion, more than a little surprised that he had not expressed some curiosity about the project.

He sat in the window in a state of shock, though not at Herr Scholes's news. His face was a blank mask, breath held, as he stared at one of the letters that Mr. O'Brien had brought in. From Jane's seat, she could make out a black border on the edge of the paper. That, with his rigid expression, could only mean that he had received word of a death.

“Vincent?”

“Hm?” He shook himself and looked up. “Forgive me. I was not quite listening. What were you saying?”

Melody, who was less acquainted with his moods, said, “Herr Scholes has a possible situation for you.”

“That is very kind.” He looked down at the letter again, folding it so the border no longer showed.

“It is a school for glamourists. In London! Is that not grand?”

“Indeed.”

“Speaking of learning glamour … Herr Scholes, would you tell my sister about your grandson's first use of the art?” Jane tried to draw the group's attention away from Vincent. He was clearly discomfited—or, rather, it was clear to Jane that he was distressed. To another, he might appear merely distant or unconcerned. His agitation was marked by a layer of excessive calm spoilt only by a faint tremor in his hand as he turned the folded letter over and over.

He made a show of listening to Melody and Herr Scholes compare notes about infant glamour, but his gaze stared through them as if he were watching the ether. Jane tried to think of some errand that could offer her an excuse to take Vincent out of the room and find out what news he had received. She now rather wished they had not invited Herr Scholes to stay for dinner.

Before she could think of a ruse, Vincent stood and crossed the room to Jane. He leaned down, handing her the letter, and whispered, “My father is dead.”

 

Two

A Letter of Note

At his words, Jane looked up sharply from the letter he had handed her. “Are you all right?”

“I hardly know. Will you forgive me if I…?” He flexed his hands in an unconscious gesture, as if he was already reaching for glamour to calm himself. Or, if not to calm himself, at least to work himself to exhaustion in an effort to clear his head.

“Of course.” Louder, she said, “Would you mind fetching that book we were discussing?”

Vincent nodded in thanks. “It is upstairs.” With apologies to the small gathering, all of whom were so occupied with Tom they paid him little mind, Vincent slipped out of the room.

It had taken Jane a long time to understand his need for privacy while he contended with his feelings. He had spent too long trying to be the model of manliness that his father expected, to be at all comfortable freely expressing any troubles. Still, she planned to look in on him later.

The ceiling creaked overhead as Vincent paced in their apartments upstairs. She could picture him with his chin tucked deep into his collar in thought, hands clenched behind his back, as though he were a lecturer. When his strides overhead stopped, the picture changed to him standing in the middle of their bedchamber working one of his vast abstract glamours.

Even in death, Vincent's father had the power to disturb his sensibilities. If she had not already abhorred the man, his ability to distress her husband would have provided her with ample reason. She slid her chair back a little from the group and unfolded the letter, to acquaint herself with the details of Lord Verbury's death.

Verbury Court

5 January 1818

Sir David Vincent

My dear Vincent,

I do not know if I still have the right to call you brother, but I am writing to you as a brother, so shall take that familiarity. Our father is dead. I do not expect that you will mourn him, but it is necessary that I tell you of his death. He died at our West Indian estate in Antigua last August after suffering a stroke. He had been weakened by yellow fever and I understand did not linger long.

The second death that I must tell you of weighs more heavily. Our brother Garland celebrated his ascendance as the newly made Earl of Verbury with the purchase of a barouche-landau for himself and invited me out for a drive to Lyme Regis. The roads are not always the best in September, and our carriage was upset. I do not recall the details, but the results I know too well. Garland was killed. I was left with a broken arm and a foot so injured that it had to be removed.

Garland's death leaves me the earl. It is not a position in which I ever thought I would find myself.

It is on this point that I write to you to beg for your help. I know that you have long been estranged from the family and that I did nothing to ease the suffering that our father inflicted upon you. I was a coward. The fact that I told you this in our youth does not excuse it. I simply want to acknowledge that I have no right to expect aid, when I did not extend the same charity to you.

There is apparently a newer will in Antigua, which will be released only to one of his sons. It does not say which one. I cannot go. Would you be willing to be a Hamilton again, long enough to set the estate in order? You are, let us be honest, better suited to the task than I, in ways which have nothing to do with my health. You studied at university. I studied only horses, the cut of coats, and the inside of gin houses. I was a second son. I expected to die without ever having any more responsibility than to avoid embarrassing the family. You left and fashioned a new path.