Valour and Vanity (21 page)

He snorted.

“The shadow plays in particular astonished me.”

“Jane, I would—may we talk about something else?”

“Of course…” She began to tell him of her day, but found herself tailoring her stories to leave out the work she was doing contriving the glamourist choir and to focus instead upon a particularly troublesome student. Vincent grunted or nodded in response whenever she paused. To someone who did not know him, he would have seemed fully engaged, but Jane could see that he wore a mask as carefully controlled as the figures in
The Broken Bridge.

He listened to her, nodding at the appropriate moments, but his attention was turned inward. When she paused in her recital, he said, “I spoke with one of Signor Nenci’s apprentices.”

“Who?” The change in subject caught Jane off guard, and she did not recognise the name.

“The glassmaker we first approached about the
Verre Obscurci
.” The breeze had dried the sweat on Vincent’s brow, and he walked with his hands tucked into his pockets. “Querini used to be an apprentice of Nenci’s. I wanted to see if I could learn anything.”

“I take it you did.” Jane raised an eyebrow. “And are you now going to drag it out to fill me with suspense?”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Querini had only recently started his glass factory, which we knew. The apprentice said that it was a matter of some curiosity as to how Querini could have afforded to start the studio. He boasted at first about a ‘large commission,’ but the apprentice did not know what it was.”

Jane gave a shiver that had nothing to do with the wind. “Likely us.”

Vincent nodded. “He had also never heard of Biasio, and given the tight-knit nature of the community, that seems…”

“Unlikely, at best.”

“Exactly, unless Biasio was hired by Sanuto to steal the
Verre Obscurci
technique.” Vincent walked a few more feet before continuing. “There is one other thing of note. Querini announced his intention to set up his shop only a few weeks after we wrote to Byron asking him if we could visit.”

“After we wrote, or after Byron received the letter?”

“Both. The timing is such that someone in London could have read our letter and written here, or someone here could have read the letter after it arrived at Byron’s.”

“Surely you do not think that Lord Byron is involved.” Jane’s stomach turned at the thought. “He was the one who warned us about the pirates.”

“It is not in his character as I know it. But he was in dire financial straits when he left England.” Vincent shook his head. “Still, I think it is more likely to be someone who had access to his mail. Mr. Hobhouse, for example, or Marianna, or even
il Dottore
.”

The next thought that occurred to Jane made her wince. “And then there is the timing of his departure.”

“Yes, that is quite convenient as well.” Vincent stared at the ground as he walked. His brow was contracted, as if the very thought pained him.

*   *   *

Jane went twice more
to see Vincent perform, until it became clear to her that it troubled him to have her watch. Though he made an effort to hide the fact that his spirits were depressed by being a street performer, neither would he hear of stopping. In truth, as they moved farther into November, Jane had good reason to be glad of the coins that he brought home.

Murano had been a delight in the late summer, with its golden light reflecting off the canals and the tumult of flowers in the window boxes. The autumn, though, was cold, grey, and dreary. Their little garret had a draught that would have overwhelmed a larger fireplace than theirs. In spite of Jane’s efforts to find the holes and patch them by shoving cloth into the spaces between plaster and the window or pasting paper over the cracks, the room was perpetually cold. With their combined efforts, they were able to afford wood for the hearth in spite of the scandalous price it fetched on an island with no trees. Like most of their food, the fuel for the fire came from the mainland.

As the season went on, the crowds that watched Vincent became scarcer, as well. Grumbling at the fickle nature of the Crown, Vincent sent another letter to the Prince Regent, and Jane sent another to her parents, since by this point they should have left Prague and be en route to Copenhagen. More than once, Jane thought of using the coins from the sale of her wedding ring, but those were set aside to recover the band, and Vincent would not hear of spending them. She was grateful for the work the nuns had given her, else they would have been cold
and
hungry.

She was therefore vexed when she realized that her “flower” had arrived. Before, it had never been more than a minor inconvenience and an excuse to spend a day or two reading in her room. Now, though, Jane could ill afford to spend the day at home as it would affect her wages at the convent. She tore a length of stained muslin into rags with more force than was strictly necessary.

“What is the matter, Muse?” Vincent paused in the process of pulling his boots on.

Jane stared at the cloth in her hands. After three years of marriage, surely he knew what the signs were. Though, to be fair, her monthly time had always been somewhat irregular due to the toll that glamour took upon her body. Even when her time arrived, there were usually only two days in which it was not possible for the cloth to contain her courses. And of course Jane usually had a maid who would prepare the cloth for her.

She sighed and ripped another piece of cloth to size. “It is my time of the month.”

“Well, that is good news.”

“Good news? How is it good? I cannot work today.”

“Why not?” A moment later, he looked anew at the cloth and reddened. “Ah. Ah, yes. I see.”

“And even if that were not the case, I can assure you that this is not a time of delight for me.” She tore another strip from the cloth. “Why should you think it is good news?”

“Because, it means you are not—” He shook his head and drew his boot the rest of the way on. “It does not matter. I am sorry that you are uncomfortable.”

Jane gripped the cloth in her fists. It meant that she was not with child. Given their straitened circumstances, of course Vincent would think that it was good news.

He stood. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Jane forced her fingers to relax. “Would you be willing to stop by the convent and let them know that I will not be able to be there today or tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Crossing the room, he stopped to kiss her on the forehead. “Shall I stop in later to see how you are?”

She shook her head and stacked the rags into a neat pile, but waited until Vincent left before attempting to make herself somewhat more comfortable. Without a book to pass the time, this would be a long and unpleasant day.

*   *   *

Jane sat by the
window, where the light was best and picked out the stitches in her other dress. She had played with glamour for a while, but, having reached a point where she was too winded to continue, she had decided to remake the dress for some variety. The years spent in needlework in her parents’ drawing room had some practical application after all. Jane would never have guessed that while embroidering chair seats.

The door downstairs slammed, and she heard the unmistakable sound of Vincent climbing the stairs. He ran up them two at a time. Something had happened. Jane put her sewing aside and stood as he flung the door open.

His face was wind-reddened from his run and his hair looked as though an owl had mauled it, but he was smiling. “We have a letter. A parcel, in fact.”

He was smiling. Jane found herself unable to speak, could only clasp her hands against the incongruous desire to meet his smile with tears. She swallowed. “From?”

“Your sister. I have not opened it. Thought you would kill me if I did.” From his coat pocket he pulled a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and glued shut. “Thought it would kill me to wait, so I ran. Must have seemed a madman.”

“The light is better by the window.” Jane pushed her sewing aside to make room for him and took the parcel. It showed the wear of its journey, with water stains at the edges of the paper and a great smear of mud along one side. She had expected her father to reply to their inquiries, not her sister. Turning it over to tear it open, she paused. The return was from Vienna, but her family had already visited there. They should be in Copenhagen now.

Wetting her lips, she pulled off the paper. Inside was a cloth bound book and a letter.

Vienna

7 October 1817

Jane, Lady Vincent

My dearest sister,

You must be surprised to see that we have returned to Vienna instead of continuing on to Prague as we had planned, but I have had a Happy Change in circumstances, which I am certain that you might guess at, and made the Mistake of intimating that to Mama, who can now think of nothing but my health, and she was set for us to return to England, if you can imagine that, but Alastar—the dear—convinced her that Vienna would do as well since he has so many friends here from when he was abroad with his parents, which includes a Doctor of Good Repute, who attended the Empress Marie-Louise during her lying in—is that not a Wonder—and he shall attend me as well!

Oh, Jane! I am the Happiest of Creatures! Alastar is beside himself with Joy, as are his parents, who are being so gracious and attentive. I trust that you are enjoying yourself in Murano and wish that you would leave off your work and come join us right away, because I know how long travel takes and it will be a month before you receive this and another month before you could possibly arrive, but I should very much like for you to be here. My confinement is not until February but you know I should be easier to have you close by. You are such a steadying influence.

I include an anniversary gift for you from a Favourite Author of mine, although I understand that she passed away this year, which is Decidedly Tragic, still her volumes remind me of us at times more than I am entirely comfortable with, but I do so enjoy them. For your Vincent, I have something as well, but it shall not travel so nicely, so you both must come to collect it. There, if that does not tempt you, I do not know what will!

With all my fondness and a heart overflowing with joy, I remain your loving sister

Melody

(Mrs. O’Brien)

This was why they had heard nothing from her parents. They had never received the letters.

Vincent sank upon the window ledge. He leaned forward and put his face in his hands. “That is wonderful news, for your sister and Mr. O’Brien.”

“Yes. It is hard to imagine her being a mother.” It would be no hardship for
her
of course—with Mr. O’Brien’s fortune, they could have as many children as they wished. Jane recoiled at the petty jealousy in her own thoughts. She had never desired a child before, so had no cause to envy her sister. Indeed, given Jane’s history she had more reason to fear for her. A February confinement meant that Melody was six months along now.

Jane sat beside Vincent and looked at the letter again: Seventh of October. She counted the days to see how far Melody had been when she had written the letter and grew a little colder. It had taken over a month for the letter to arrive, and the roads would be worse now.

“Please include my regards when you write back.” By the leaden weight in his voice, it was clear that Vincent’s mind had already leapt ahead of hers. There would be no quick relief of their circumstances from that quarter.

“Of course.” As much as she had wished for a book earlier that day, now Jane stared at the novel as if doing so would cause it to be something different. Even if they sent a reply today, they could not expect to hear from her family until January.

Fourteen

A Matter of Perspective

November in Murano was typified by heavy rains without any of the charm of snow. Even the incessant pigeons crowded under stone pilings and huddled in windows to avoid the rain. Their fat grey bodies seemed like cobblestones piled in every damp corner.

Jane had been caught by such a shower on her way home, though speaking of their single room as “home” was dispiriting even without the rain. She pulled her heavy woollen shawl, a gift from the nuns, over her head and ran down the street. Without pattens to lift her above the walk, the hem of her skirt quickly became heavy and damp with rain. Jane ducked into a small grocer close to their lodgings as the downpour increased too much to ignore. Other passers-by crowded into a café across the street to pass the time with a cup of coffee and a pastry.

The more wealthy simply rode through the rain in sedan chairs or upon the water in gondolas, leaving the task of getting wet to their drivers. In that moment, Jane would have been happy just to be able to afford an umbrella. Wanting even that, she must wait out the heaviest part of the downpour in the shelter of this small shop. Happily, she had some purchases to make for their dinner, so the time need not be a total waste.

Jane eyed the brace of ducks hanging from the ceiling with some longing, though she had not the slightest idea of how to prepare them. Simply the thought of warm duck, roasted perhaps, was enough to make her mouth water. She turned away from them, and from the rabbits hung beside them, and slipped past another customer to the dried cannellini beans. They already had rice and some onions in their room. She measured the beans into a small burlap bag and thought that she might go to the butcher and get a little rasher of pork fat to add to the beans for flavour. Vinegar, too. They were nearly out.

The thought gave her pause, that they had been here long enough to empty a bottle of vinegar. She almost had not purchased it, thinking that they would not be here more than a few weeks. She now suspected that they would have to spend the winter in Murano.

“You have to pay for that directly.” The woman who ran the shop, a matronly widow with her hair pulled back into a severe bun, stood with her arms crossed.

“Thank you for the reminder, Signora Rotolo.” Jane put the beans on the counter.