Of Noble Family (40 page)

Beside her, Nkiruka sighed with sympathy. “Where that Louisa girl?”

“Working on other things, I am afraid.” Frank had seen Louisa and Zachary safely on board the ship, so they should be five days at sea by now. “Frank needed her, and after the accident at the distillery, his needs took precedence.” That was true, if one omitted what those needs were.

“Mm. Need someone fu care of you.” Nkiruka tapped the sheet of paper with a wrinkled finger. “After dis done, you want—you ask me once. Stay in de great house. You still want that?”

Jane lifted her head from the paper and regarded Nkiruka. If she were to interview lady's maids in England, the elderly woman would hardly have merited a single meeting. Here, what Jane wanted—no, what Jane needed—was not someone who could do her hair to match the latest fashion plate from
Ackermann's Repository
but someone that she could trust. In a just world, Nkiruka would spend her declining years spoiling grandchildren and being coddled with possets, not chasing after slippers for Jane. “You could simply stay in the house, you know. You would be welcome. We could just work on the book.” Jane had set it aside to work on the glamural, but a return to the project would not be unwelcome.

“Not all day. It get dull.” She shook her finger towards Jane's middle. “Besides. You go start get big soon.”

“That is alarming, that this is not yet considered large.”

Nkiruka laughed. “No! You shoulda min see…” Her voice trailed away and she frowned down at the paper. “Let me know. All right?”

On an impulse, Jane reached over and took her hand. “Yes. I would like you at the great house, very much.”

 

Twenty-seven

Shades of Charity

The evening of the charity ball had arrived, and all of the sparkling members of Antiguan society were present. Jane was surprised by how disproportionately white men were represented. While there were white women, there were not so many as Jane had expected, and many of the gentlemen had brought elegant young women of colour with them instead. If she had met them in London, Jane might have mistaken some of them for Italian.

As the lines of dancers formed down the centre of the ballroom, surrounded by pillars of ice, Jane and Vincent stood to the side and watched. She had offered to loan Nkiruka a dress for the occasion, but the older woman had declined, preferring to stay at the great house. Vincent looked very much as if he wished he could have stayed with her. The early part of the evening had been spent with different benefactors praising the glamural. Vincent, never easy in a crowd, had retreated into his usual taciturn self and let Jane speak to most of the patrons. The presentation of a new glamural was always difficult for him. He so hated being at the centre of attention under any circumstances, and he preferred that people be transported by the work and not think of the effort that went into it.

An elderly Scottish couple had been complimenting them for some minutes now. Even Jane had been reduced to merely nodding and smiling in response to the barrage of flattery. She came back to attention when the gentleman said, “… of course, now that I see the glamural, I cannot resent your having Imogene for the past month.”

“She is very accomplished.” Saying that Imogene had been with them the entire month was a bit much, as she had only been able to attend for two hours a week. “I only wish we could have had more of her time.”

He laughed, slapping his belly. “More of her time! That is rich. I tell you, I wish we could have a second just like her, too. We missed her for the weeks she was with you. Missed her indeed. More of her time! Ha!”

As he chuckled, Jane shifted to glance at Vincent. He had a small line between his brows. This was the most conspicuous, but not the only, conversation of this nature. She wanted to question the man further but did not want to get Imogene in trouble if she had been using the glamural as an excuse to have a day of leisure. “Well, it was very kind of you.”

The orchestra played the opening refrain for “Lord Nelson's Hornpipe” and offered a welcome reprieve from the string of awkward conversations. It was an easy thing to encourage the gentleman and his lady to join the couples standing up to dance.

When they had stepped away, Jane turned to Vincent. “Does it seem to you as if several of our glamourists may have misrepresented how often they were with us?”

“Given the conditions I have seen, I cannot hold a grudge against them.”

“Nor I.” She gave a little laugh. “I suppose that explains why I did not know who Tamar was. Likely she never worked for us.”

“I find myself not terribly disturbed by this.” With his hands tucked behind his back and with his dark coat and elegantly fitted breeches, Vincent cut a fine figure.

Jane sighed. He did have such well-formed calves. If only she could convince him to wear formal attire more often.

“You disagree?” he asked.

“No, I was only thinking how well you looked this evening.”

He snorted. “By ‘well,' I presume you mean sunburnt?”

“It does not harm your appearance. But, I was rather thinking of—”

“Mr. Hamilton, sir!” Mr. Ransford approached with Mrs. Ransford close by his side. He wore a kilt beneath his formal coat and rolled a bit as he walked. “I must congratulate you, sir, on a triumph. My wife tells me that you are the Prince Regent's glamourist! I had no idea when we met. None. I would expect a namby-pamby man, not a pugilist such as yourself. Eh? Eh?” He held up his hands and mimed boxing. “And you did all this, to boot?”

“Very little, in truth, and none at all this last week. Your wife was in charge of the snow curtain, for instance.” Vincent put his hand behind Jane's back. “My wife, who is also the Prince Regent's glamourist, had charge of the project, but given her condition, the bulk of the work was actually done by a group of accomplished local glamourists.”

“The column by the entrance has their names written upon it.” Though Jane had requested that those slaves who had worked on the glamural be allowed to attend the ball, none of the owners who had been willing to loan them for the project seemed to be able to spare them for this particular evening.

“Well, that's as it should be, eh? Eh? The unpleasant work is always done by the slaves. That's what they are there for. That's what they are there for, I always say. And thank God for that.”

God had little to do with it, but this sense of divine right had been a common refrain through the evening. Jane was beginning to suspect that it was the real reason that Nkiruka did not want to attend. Still, though, this was a charity ball, and Jane did not want to create a scene with one of the patrons. It really was too bad that boors were universal. “I must compliment Mrs. Ransford on her work.”

“Very kind, I am sure.” Mrs. Ransford beamed with delight. “Though I did miss Mrs. Pridmore's help this past week. I wish you could have waited until after the ball to fire him, Sir David. I do wish that.”

Vincent made an indifferent noise that simply acknowledged that she had spoken.

Mr. Ransford gave a belly laugh. “He hardly had a choice, my dear. The state of the things … I hear your production is already double Pridmore's, and with a reduction in your slaves at that. How are you managing that? I've got to know. Seems we wear out more leather than you trying to get our production where it should be.”

“I am paying them.”

With a roar of laughter, Mr. Ransford mimed punching Vincent on the shoulder. “That's rich. Well, I'm surprised you kept Pridmore as long as you did. It was a credit to the memory of your father, dear man. Although Pridmore is now saying the most shocking things in town. Only proves that you were right—quite right, if you ask me. Quite right.”

“What sort of things has he said?”

“Trying to convince people your father is alive. Deuced foolishness. But then, drink will do that to a man.” He shook his head and looked at his own punch cup. “Deuced foolishness.”

“How astonishing,” Jane managed. “The subject of drink reminds me to ask you for the recipe for your punch, Mrs. Ransford. I have not tasted its like in England, and should be glad to have it when we next host in London.”

As she hoped, Mrs. Ransford caught the phrase ‘in London' and leaped upon the topic, moving them safely away from Mr. Pridmore. “You are not going back to England soon, I hope?”

“Not until after my confinement, but not too long after. My parents would never forgive me if they could not see their grandchild.” They were safe for some minutes, then, because the subject of children could take over any conversation.

Vincent stood beside her, silent except when compelled by etiquette to speak. He bore the Ransfords' conversation for some minutes, then abruptly put his hand on Jane's back. He said nothing, but Jane recognised this as a silent plea to find an avenue of escape.

Jane gave a sorrowful smile. “As pleasant as this is, Mrs. Ransford, you and I should probably circulate amongst the guests and continue our work for the charity.”

“Oh, bless me. You are right. Come along, Mr. Ransford! Come along!” She turned from them, hauling Mr. Ransford in her wake. “Sir Thomas! So pleased to…” Her effusions faded into the general bustle of music and dance.

At Jane's side, Vincent let out an audible sigh. “It is not a good sign that I am thinking of the opening nights at Carlton House with sentimental regret.”

“Yes, well, having the Prince Regent to distract attention is an unexpected benefit.” Jane tucked her hand under his arm. “If I may suggest … the columns to either side of the musicians are for show only. You could safely stand within the glamour and no one would be the wiser.”

“Is there room for two?”

“Two, yes.” She looked down at her stomach. “Three, though, may be another matter.”

“Hm…” He rested his hand upon hers. “We may need another solution, then.”

“My dear Sir David, whatever did you have in mind?”

His lips compressed ever so slightly, and the skin at the corners of his eyes just hinted at a smile. “A discussion of the rigours of glamour, of course.”

“I see.”

“With a possible exploration of breathing patterns and ways to avoid overheating.”

“That would be—oh! Mrs. Whitten.” Jane's face must be as red as a poppy.

Elegant as always, Mrs. Whitten wore a round dress of translucent India silk, trimmed at the hem with a fortune of beads reminiscent of frosted leaves. Over the dress was an elegant quadrille robe, fastened on the left side and edged with still more silver beads. With her white gloves and shoes, the whole was exactly calculated to work in harmony with the ice palace motif.

She had with her an elderly gentleman in a black coat of an older style, with a mane of silver hair brushed smoothly back from his face. “Lady Vincent, Sir David. Would you allow me to present my dear friend Dr. Hartnell? It is his school for the poor that we are hoping to fund for another year.”

“A pleasure, sir.” Jane gave him the deep curtsy his age and gravity merited.

Vincent bowed in a similar fashion.

The old man smiled, his hooked nose bending along with his wrinkles. “The pleasure is entirely mine. I must thank you for your efforts on our behalf. This…” He waved at the ceiling. “I have travelled a good deal in my day and have not seen its like before. Remarkable.”

It was so much easier to accept a compliment when one had actually done the work. “You are too kind. In truth, though, the credit belongs to the glamourists who worked with us.”

“But you designed it, did you not, Lady Vincent?” He tilted his head to the side. “Have you had occasion to visit any of the Arctic countries?”

“Not yet, I am afraid.”

“Oh, you must. Iceland, in particular, is one of—”

“You!” In an elegant frock of Venetian gauze, Mrs. Pridmore pushed her way through the crowd. A full plume of white ostrich feathers tipped with amber quivered over her head as she advanced on Vincent. “Mortal! That blush of shame proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name; First of the mighty, foremost of the free, Now honour'd less by all, and least by me. Seek'st thou the cause of loathing? Look around!”

It took Jane a moment to understand that Mrs. Pridmore was reciting verses by Lord Byron. Vincent seemed just as taken aback. Mrs. Pridmore's voice rose as she recited. To do her credit, her elocution was first form and filled with all the loathing of Minerva. The dancers slowed their movements and the crowd turned to watch her chant.

“First on the head of him who did this deed

“My curse shall light—on him and all his seed:

“Without one spark of intellectual fire,

“Be all the sons as senseless as the sire:

“If one with wit the parent brood disgrace,

“Believe him bastard of a brighter race:

“Still with his hireling—”

Mrs. Whitten stepped between Vincent and Mrs. Pridmore. “My dear … perhaps this is not the best time.”

“He had no right! Grenville worked so hard. All the time.” Her voice shook with emotion. “What are we to do?”

“Let us go somewhere more private, hm?” Mrs. Whitten looked past Mrs. Pridmore and caught the eye of one of her servants. He nodded, and, in moments, two men in livery were sliding through the crowd. “I have been wishing you would come to me.”

“How could I? After he fired Grenville. With no cause! The humiliation is not to be borne. He is so—we had such hopes, and now…” She began to weep.

Vincent spread his hands in distress. “Mrs. Pridmore, please accept my honest regrets that you—”

She screamed and flung herself at him. Without thinking, Jane stepped in front of her husband. At almost the same moment, Vincent took Jane by the shoulders. He turned her, sliding around her, so his back was to Mrs. Pridmore. The breath puffed out of him, but he stood, arms wrapped around Jane, as Mrs. Pridmore rained blows against his back.