Valour and Vanity (16 page)

The
capo
tapped his pencil upon his note book. “We received a hint.” He shifted in his chair. “This seems an elaborate scheme for the small amount of money that your banker transferred. Would they have had reason to suspect you had more?”

The small amount of money? They had near five thousand pounds saved. But when Jane reflected on what it must have cost to arrange the pirate attack, it did seem incredible that they had made the attempt. “Perhaps they were after the other passengers’ funds as well?”

The
capo
said nothing, merely gazed at Jane so coolly that she had the sudden suspicion that there were no other passengers. Vincent suppressed a curse and bent his head again.

“You have thought of something, sir?” The
capo
raised his eyebrows.

“Merely comprehending the situation.” Vincent knotted his hands together so tightly that his tendons stood out. “What will you do with us?”

The
capo
sat back in his chair and pressed the pencil to his mouth, as though using it to quiet himself. He sighed and lowered his hands. “That is the question, is it not?” He gestured to the papers on the desk. “I do not think that you are anything but naive victims in this, but you owe upwards of two thousand pounds to various creditors. Have you family you can apply to for aid?”

Jane’s throat was dry as she answered. “They are travelling. They were bound for the Dalmatian coast when we parted.”

“And you, sir?”

“My family and I are estranged.” Vincent made his small noise of protest, near inaudible even to Jane. It was as though he had imperfectly held his breath and a small stream of air leaked out as he thought. He straightened. “I can write to the Prince Regent and request an advance on a project we will be creating for him. And meanwhile, I am—we are both—professional glamourists. Tomorrow I shall seek employment to pay our debts.”

“From whom?”

“I—I have not yet had the opportunity to explore that.”

“And have you any credentials? Letters of recommendation?” The
capo
remained placid, yet Jane could feel his disapprobation as clearly as if he had stated it. “I think you will find it rather more difficult than you might expect.”

“Difficult or not, what choice do we have?” Jane said.

The
capo
grunted, but betrayed nothing else of his thoughts. He then removed some sheets of paper from his desk and slid them across to Jane and Vincent. “I expect you will want to write some letters.”

“Thank you, sir.” Vincent rose to take the paper and looked at it, frowning.

Jane shared his concern. Letters within England were often expensive, but the cost was paid by the recipient. To send a letter between countries required either asking an acquaintance who was travelling to that country or paying for the service. They had no resources in either regard.

“Have you recommendations for a courier?” Jane was not certain why she asked, since they could not afford such a thing. And yet, what other choice did they have?

“Write your letters and instruct the replies to return here. I will send them for you.” It was an exceptional kindness. Or was it meant to grant control over their correspondence? The
capo
leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Meanwhile, though I would be fully justified in putting you into debtors’ prison, I shall not hold you. However, because you might still prove to be swindlers, you may not leave Murano until your debts are cleared. It is too easy to catch a ship from Venice. I will circulate your descriptions to our gondoliers, to ensure that you remain here. I shall also require you to report daily until such time as your debts are repaid.” He gestured to the officer who had searched Vincent’s pockets. “
Gendarme
Gallo will receive your report.”

It was more fair than Jane had any right to expect. They thanked him profusely, but all the while Jane wondered how they would manage. They had no funds and no friends at all. The only resources they had were the clothes upon their backs, and even those they owed money for.

*   *   *

Jane and Vincent stood
on the street in front of the station house for a moment, both of them too stunned to do much more. They had been released, but released to where? They were not allowed to leave the island of Murano. Even if they could gain entrance to Lord Byron’s apartments, those were in Venice. Jane took Vincent’s hand, for her own comfort as much as for his.

He looked down with some surprise from wherever he had been lost in thought. His skin still had an unnatural pallor. He squeezed her hand. Jane began to walk. She knew not where she was going, only that she did not wish to remain in front of the station house any longer, lest the
capo
decide that he had made a mistake and imprison then after all.

“Why did you curse when he asked us if the swindlers might have thought we had more money than we did?”

“Because our glass would have … It could be sold to a military bidder.”

A chill spread from the base of Jane’s stomach. “How? I mean, how could they have known?”

“Sanuto. Pretending to be a spy. It played exactly upon my sympathies. He had to have known about my work for the Crown.”

“That is common knowledge, though, after the trial. Or rather, it is known that you were an agent for the Crown, but not what you did, and certainly nothing about the
Verre Obscurci.
Unless—do you think … Mathieu?”

Vincent shook his head. She could just hear his hiss of distress over their footfalls. “I think it was me.”

“But you—when Napoleon’s men had you … you said nothing.” He had been flogged. She had watched from a hill, unable to do anything, as they tried to beat the information out of him.

“My desk. Recall?”

Jane gasped with the recollection. When Lieutenant Segal came for Vincent in Binché, he took the travel desk that her husband had carried. It had contained their notes about the glass and their efforts with it. Scanty, to be sure, but enough to see what they were considering. She let her breath out slowly. “And I wrote out more notes just this morning, which they must also have.”

Vincent cursed again. “We should never have stayed with Sanuto.”

His vehemence stung, reminding her that she had been the one to urge that they remain at the palazzo. She protested, “How could we have known?”

“But we did, the moment that Byron pointed out the inconsistencies in the pirate attack. I should have known—I
did
know—and should have urged us to leave.”

“Is the fault mine, then? Oh yes—yes, I can see that.” The sarcastic words rose in response to his implication, and her own sense of guilt. “
I
urged you to be forgiving. So it is then my fault that we are in this state.”

“I would not have said so, no.”

Jane stopped, pulling her hand out of his. Just barely did she manage to check the angry words that flew to her lips, and lock her jaws tight around her response. Vincent halted a few paces further and bent his head. He held his hands out from his sides in a gesture that spoke eloquently of his helplessness.

When he spoke, his voice was rough. “Jane, I am sorry. That was uncalled for, and not true. I trusted him, too. By his design.”

With care, she said, “Allow me to suggest that attempting to discover which of us is more at fault will not help us with our present situation.”

He rubbed his face, before lifting his head. “Thank you for your patience, Muse. I am…” He clenched his fists and stared at a flower box in the closest window, as though it demanded all of his attention. “I am distressed. Being in debt reminds me too much of the days after I first cast off my family name. My father predicted that I would wind up in penury, performing on a street somewhere.” He forced a laugh that fooled Jane not at all.

Thought of in those terms, though, it was not at all surprising that Vincent was struggling with his sensibilities. Jane was distressed as well but did not have Vincent’s history with his father to add to the burden of feeling. Yet she had allowed her emotion to carry her tongue as much as his had.

Jane reclaimed his hand. “I am anxious, too. My only hope now is that we do not discover that I have inherited my mother’s nerves.”

“That seems unlikely.” He tucked her hand under his arm and resumed their walk. Most of the day had vanished to answering questions and then raising others.

Indeed, the remaining questions focused her attention on the parts of Murano that she habitually let her gaze glide past.

The beggar sitting at the base of a bridge. Children in much-patched clothing playing in a doorway. A juggler tossing balls for a few coins. And the pastry shop. Every time they passed a shop redolent with the smell of baked goods, her gaze would drift to the sticky rolls, her stomach would clench in hunger, and she would remember that they had no money at all. The officer who had turned Vincent’s pockets out had left them with nothing.

How had the
capo
thought they would make their way in this state? It was not his concern, so she supposed that he did not trouble himself with such questions. Jane tried to think of what they should do to attend to their immediate needs. She had never been on the receiving end of charity, though her family had always made certain to take care of the poor on her father’s estate. But she could hardly expect a gentleman’s daughter to suddenly appear on her threshold with a basket of produce and eggs. They wanted even a threshold.

Lady Stratton, the mother of Melody’s husband, often went on charitable errands, but Jane had no notion at all where the lists of those in need came from. In her own household, her father had assembled the list from … somewhere. There must be, then, a way to apply for aid. The vicar in their neighbourhood did much charitable work. There were poorhouses enough, though her only knowledge of them was through fiction. They could not be as awful as Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels made them appear, but she found herself reluctant to seek one. Even if they were not full of bugs and squalor, she and Vincent would be separated, and that could not be borne at the present moment. “I think … I think we need to find a church.”

“Eh? Why?”

“Because they are used to dealing with the poor and will know where we can sleep tonight.”

He seemed to hold his breath for a moment. “Of course. That makes good sense.”

“And yet you hesitate.”

“Only because I find myself unprepared to trust anyone who is kind.”

*   *   *

Murano had churches in
abundance. The structures seemed part of the fabric of the island, though they varied widely in style from a fifteenth-century convent to a modern structure built no more than fifty years prior. None of them were Anglican. Jane’s feelings with regard to Catholics had changed considerably over the course of the last year, so it was not a question of
if
they would seek aid at a Catholic church but of which one. The Vincents needed only to turn another corner to encounter additional choices.

Though neither would admit it, there was a certain amount of fear involved in begging for the first time. And there was nothing else that Jane could name their task. The first church she felt comfortable approaching was a humble structure save for its glorious stained glass, which seemed essential in the Murano churches. Of all the churches they had seen, this one reminded her somewhat of home, with a vine clinging to the stucco walls of the church’s clock tower.

After the brilliant afternoon light, which had reflected off the displays of glass on the street, the dim interior gave a soothing welcome. Jane felt her shoulders soften a little. Vincent, too, seemed to walk easier in the interior of the church. Along the walls, candles burned under small altars to Mary and saints that Jane did not recognise. The crucifix that hung at the front of the church had a gentle glamour about it so it shone as if with its own light.

Scattered on the pews, a few old women and one man with the curved spine of the very elderly sat with their heads bowed in prayer. Jane looked around for any sign of the vic—no, of the priest, or for someone who could tell them where he might be found.

Fortunately, the priest was instantly distinguishable by his long black cassock. He appeared to be in his middle years, with a slight belly and very red cheeks. His hair had once been brown, but had faded to the colour of nothing. At the sound of Vincent’s boot upon the stone floor, the priest turned round. His eyebrows raised in a slight question, as if wondering why these two people, who were not part of his congregation, had arrived.

Vincent dipped his head in lieu of touching his hat. In Italian, he said, “Good afternoon, Padre. We are … we are in need of advice and possibly aid. If you have a moment?”

“Of course.” The priest tucked his hands over his little belly and waited.

Gesturing to Jane, Vincent hesitated. She could see him trying and disposing of several sentences before he said bluntly, “My wife and I have been robbed and have no money for lodgings. Do you know of a place where we might stay the night?”

The priest frowned and shook his head. He looked to Jane with some sympathy. “Lost it all gambling, has he?”

Vincent flushed a deep red. Jane put her hand on his arm to still his chagrin. “No sir. He has over-simplified, perhaps. We were victims of a swindler, but I assure you that this was not my husband’s fault.”

The priest shook his head again, clearly not believing her. His gaze darted to Vincent and then back to her. “I have heard many such tales as yours, from gentlemen who found the pleasures of Venice to be more expensive than—”

“I do not lay wagers, sir.” Vincent’s voice was low and sharp.

The priest raised his eyebrows and turned his attention again to Jane. “How long have you been in Murano, madam?”

Jane took a breath to calm herself. They had few places to turn, and they needed this man’s help. “We have been in Murano these three weeks.”

“And you have made no acquaintances in that time?”

His scrutiny of their situation angered Jane, and yet made her feel unaccountably embarrassed, as though they were at fault for having been robbed. “We were, the entire time, with the gentleman who misled us. The English consul is not in residence at the moment, or we would apply to him for assistance.”