Of Noble Family (7 page)

These trees quickly gave way, and they entered the first of the sugarcane fields. Save for that brief stand of trees, the fields seemed to reach nearly all the way to town. They were divided into plots by hedges of different kinds, but they bore no resemblance to the rolling green fields of England. The cane towered overhead in great waving stands. The wind kept the heavy reeds in constant motion. The whisper of fronds could be heard even over the steady beat of their horses' hooves and the creak of the carriage's springs.

It was remarkably tranquil. The easy motion persuaded Jane to lean against Vincent and fall asleep.

*   *   *

A shout awakened her.
Jane sat up, for a moment thinking she was still on board the ship. She rubbed confusion from her eyes as Vincent stirred awake beside her. Their carriage continued its way up a winding slope. Outside the window, the tall fronds had been cut away in a long stretch of churned dirt. Beside a wall of canes, a group of enslaved Africans worked cutting down the thick stalks. Their machetes rose and fell with a double
whick
as they cut the top and bottom of the cane.

Near the road, a light brown man held a whip. A darker man knelt, shirtless, in front of him. A line of red trickled from his mouth.

Then they were past the scene and the heavy canes masked the view. Jane turned towards Vincent, but he was yawning and scrubbing his eyes. It was clear he had not seen anything.

The view out his side of the carriage was entirely different. The side of the road opposite the canes dropped down towards the valley floor. More wattle and daub houses clung to the side of the road, smaller and even meaner than the ones in St. John's. A gang of very young children played in the dirt in front of one of the houses without a stitch of clothing on. Jane blushed for them and turned her gaze away.

Vincent pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and peered at it. “Getting on near six o'clock. I think we must be on my father's land now.”

“Do you see these—I hesitate to call them houses.”

He frowned and sat forward. Rubbing his mouth, he stared out the window at the crude sheds. “I shall speak with the overseer about them. Surely we can do better. I would not keep a horse in such conditions, much less a person.”

The carriage rounded a bend in the road and the final stretch of their journey lay clear before them. Atop a rounded hill, surrounded by a level plateau of cane fields, stood the Greycroft great house. It had a high, peaked roof of cedar shingles, with a broad veranda wrapping around the building to provide shade. Tall windows, with shutters thrown back, gave the whole an inviting prospect. Tidy gardens and groves of orange trees surrounded the house, which stood in marked contrast to the conditions they had just ridden through.

As the road wound up the hill to the great house, the cane fields dropped away and the wattle houses almost began to look like thatched-roof cottages in the distance. An invigorating scent of jasmine and orange filled the air as they turned around the last bend to the great house's front sweep. The sound of the carriage seemed to provoke activity in the house, for as they drew near, liveried servants came out to arrange themselves by the double staircase that led up to the veranda.

The carriage stopped precisely in front of the entrance. Zeus jumped down as another servant—no, a slave; Jane must learn to remember that the circumstances were different here—a slave ran forward to hold the horses' heads as another set a step by the carriage door. Vincent climbed out, stretching, then turned back to hand Jane down. In an instant, Zeus had her parasol open above her.

One of the slaves, an older man of Vincent's height, stepped forward to meet them. He gave a stiffly correct bow. “Mr. Hamilton, Mrs. Hamilton. I am Frank, the house steward for Greycroft.”

As Frank straightened, Jane could not quite contain a gasp. He looked like Vincent. Though older and cast in a deeper hue, the unmistakable stamp of the Hamilton family was visible through his brow and strong jaw. Jane turned to where Zeus stood at her side and understood why he had looked familiar. He, too, had the Hamilton brow.

“Thank you.” Vincent shifted his weight as if seeing the same thing that Jane had. “It was considerate of you to send the carriage to fetch us.”

“I trust that Zeus and Jove took adequate care?” Frank stepped back, welcoming them to the house.

“Indeed.” Vincent followed him up the stairs and into the welcome cool of the veranda. “Is the overseer present? I saw some things en route I should like to discuss.”

A bare hesitation preceded Frank's answer, which Jane might not have noticed were she not looking for additional similarities between him and Vincent. “Mr. Pridmore is indisposed. But you must be tired. Allow me to show you to your rooms.”

“That is most kind.” Jane murmured, wondering what brand of indisposition the overseer was afflicted with.

The entry of the great house opened onto a long gallery that spanned the width of the house, lit by tall windows overlooking the veranda. At either end of the gallery, broad doors opened onto parlours, through which yet more windows showed views of the valley below. The house had a fortune in glass alone, to say nothing of the furniture filling the rooms. They were led to the left into a charming blue parlour whose tall ceiling was open to the roof. A door at the back of the parlour opened to a short hall, where they found their rooms.

The apartment was well appointed and had more elegance than Jane would have expected. The tall bed was hung with thin lawn curtains, drawn back presently. The mirrors were still hung with crape, and not a scrap of glamour appeared anywhere.

Jane pulled off her bonnet and set it on a small table beside their bed. From the door, Frank said, “When you are settled, I will take you to your father.”

Vincent grimaced. “I suppose it is best to have that over with.”

Jane, too, would rather have waited to view the grave, but the forms of propriety must be obeyed. Putting off the task would make it no more pleasant. Then, too, she was hoping that seeing the grave would put Vincent somewhat more at ease and allow him to concentrate on the attendant tasks associated with the disposition of the estate. She picked up her bonnet and followed the men back to the front of the house. Frank led them across the long gallery to the other wing, a route that was much appreciated as it kept Jane out of the sun for a bit longer.

The parlour at this end of the house was white and airy, with ferns on stands scattered around the room. Frank opened a door set in the back of the room. Vincent stepped through and stiffened. Jane could only stare past him.

In the room was Lord Verbury, quite alive.

 

Five

Discreet Matters

At the sight of Lord Verbury, Jane drew back involuntarily. Vincent's father was much changed, wasted and bent, but unmistakable. His mouth was a little open and he wore an expression of clear shock. She could not understand why he should be shocked when he had sent the carriage for them. That brief unguarded glimpse lasted only a moment before he turned to pick up a cup of tea, as though there were nothing unusual in meeting them like this.

Vincent had frozen upon entering the room. Not out of fear, but as though he had, on instinct, stepped into the role of a young man of fashion, full of cold disdain. His shoulders drew back and his posture stiffened into a frosty perfection. Tucking his hands behind his back, he clasped them together. When he spoke, his voice was so even that Jane could scarcely credit it. “I thought you were dead.”

“You were meant to.” Lord Verbury sipped his tea.

“The stroke?”

“I was not expected to live, and am as you find me now.” He nodded towards his left side. Only then did Jane see that his arm was twisted into a claw next to his body. “It seemed expedient to allow the falsehood to stand, rather than return to face charges of treason.”

“I see.” Vincent remained in the same precisely etched posture. “The conditions in your will make keeping that secret rather difficult.”

“Not at all. Only Garland and a handful of the slaves know.” He tilted his head back and contrived to look down his nose at them, in spite of being seated. “Why are
you
here?”

Jane inhaled sharply. He did not know about the carriage accident.

Vincent tilted his head to the side, studying his father. “There was an accident. Garland is dead.”

A spasm ran through Lord Verbury, slopping tea over the side of his cup. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged.

“Richard is the earl now, but crippled in the same accident. Not knowing you were alive, he asked me to attend to business.” Vincent straightened his head, and pursed his lips slightly. “No doubt you have much to think about. We will speak later.”

He backed out of the small room, shutting the door on his father. Frank still stood in the parlour, his expression as fixed and remote as Vincent's. Looking out the window, Vincent wiped his mouth and took a slow breath. “Frank, would you attend my father? He has received a shock.”

“Of course, sir.”

Turning so that he almost looked at her, Vincent put a hand on Jane's back and drew her away from the door. Without softening his posture, he strode through the parlour and down the long gallery. His free hand went to his mouth again and covered it. He dropped his hand from her back and sped his steps, almost to a run.

He flew through the blue parlour and flung the door to their rooms open. Jane entered the bedchamber in time to see him step onto their veranda. He leaned against the rail and braced himself there, as if he were about to be sick.

“Vincent?”

“Shut the door.” His voice was a grating wheeze. “Please.”

Jane did, her heart finally remembering to beat again when the door shut. Lord Verbury was alive. She shuddered. Of all the things she had expected to find here, that had not been a consideration.

Behind her, Vincent retched forcibly.

Turning from the door, Jane extracted her handkerchief from her reticule. The square of lawn and lace seemed inadequate, but she carried it to her husband.

His hand shook as he took it from her. “My apologies.” The other gripped the rail, and he remained hunched over it. His breath grated in his throat. “It has been some time since I experienced this. I fear it will not be pleasant for you, Muse.”

“For me? I assure you, my thoughts are more occupied with you.” She put a hand on his back.

He flinched away from her touch. “Again, apologies. I am not myself.”

Jane withdrew her hand and stood back, aching for something to do for him. “Should you prefer to be alone?”

He shook his head.

She waited as he leaned against the rail. He wheezed like an asthmatic with each deep breath he drew in. Jane crossed her arms, clenching her hands into fists. Witnessing this unprecedented level of distress, she could not imagine the effort it must have cost him to be so composed when addressing his father. A rush of anger heated her through at the thought of that man. Jane bit her lips, finding it severely taxing to conceal her vexation. She must be steady for Vincent.

He coughed once and cleared his throat. “Is there water?”

“I do not—yes.” By the bed, she spied a carafe of water with slices of lime floating in it, and she sent a silent blessing to Frank for having it ready for them. Jane hurried to the bed and poured a glass. A pair of fine linen napkins lay on the table, so Jane picked up one and doused it with the water. Thus armed, she returned to her husband's side.

Standing well back, she held them out to him. Still not looking directly at her, he reached for the water. Tremors shook his hand, but when it closed on the glass, the shaking was nearly concealed. He took a sip, staring at the horizon, then spat the water over the side of the veranda to rinse his mouth of the sick.

God. Her heart ached for him. Jane held out the cloth again, longing to embrace Vincent and keep him safe. Right now, though, he was as a man flayed.

“Thank you.” He took the cloth, setting the glass on the broad rail of the veranda. He wiped his mouth, and then slowly let his breath out. Much of the wheeze was gone. Vincent cleared his throat again. Lowering the cloth, he coughed into his fist, still looking at the hills in the distance.

The sun had touched the horizon, turning the clouds into a confection of orange and pink. With the blushing of the sunset, the wattle and daub houses were picturesque shadows in the distance, the neglect and dirt masked by the warm evening light.

Vincent turned a little to sit on the rail. “Forgive me, I should have asked sooner. Are you all right?”

“Well enough.” Truly, Jane was by turns angry at Lord Verbury and frightened for Vincent, but he did not need to hear that in the present moment.

“Good.” He glanced down to the flowerbed below the veranda and scowled. “Well. Someone will report the mess to my father. It has been years since we have had that conversation. How delightful to revisit old times.”

Jane could only stare at him, aghast.

“Muse … I know I look a fright, but it is not so bad as it seems. There was a period at Eton when I did…”—he gestured at the mess in the flowers below them—“
this
, with some regularity. I enjoyed school, until the holidays, when my father would come to fetch me himself. He terrified me.”

There must be something she could do. “What helped you in the past?”

“I replaced my fear with anger.”

Accompanied by pinpricks of chill, Herr Scholes's words returned with force:
Your husband was marked by fury …

“Truly, Muse, it will pass, and I ask for your patience.” His voice did sound steadier, and when he sighed, the wheeze had gone. He glanced at her, then away quickly, as if meeting her gaze hurt. “But he will take great joy in reminding me of my weakness.”