Valour and Vanity (3 page)

The use of her Christian name, rather than his pet name, almost undid her resolve. That, more than his talk of swords or guns, told her how very serious the coming encounter was.

She stood on her toes and kissed him in answer. His hands tightened on her shoulders, and he replied with a fervour that he had only ever shown in the privacy of their own home, heedless of the crew members around them.

Vincent stepped back, cheeks flushed. “Now. Go below, and I shall see you after.”

Clutching the cloth with the remnants of their nuncheon, Jane followed the other passengers below deck. There, a sailor led them down a dark, narrow passage to what must be the captain’s cabin.

As he locked the door to secure them, Jane pulled off her bonnet. The cabin had a single berth affixed against one wall and a broad table with chairs enough for a dinner of eight. Windows looked out the side of the boat to provide illumination as well as a view of the sea. In the distance, they could see a dark smudge along the horizon. The Italian coast was so close to hand.

If they could but outrun the corsairs, then they would be safe.

The cabin was occupied with the other passengers on the ship. Two gentlemen stood in tight conversation in one corner and only glanced round as Jane came in. The younger of the two raised his eyebrows in astonishment. Jane ran a hand over her close-clipped hair. She had been travelling with family so much that she had forgotten that it would seem strange to other people.

The other inmates consisted of three women and their children—two daughters approaching marriageable age and three boys, one still in leading strings. One of the older women knelt with her head bowed in prayer in front of a gilded crucifix, which the captain had affixed to one wall. Her hushed voice tumbled out in Italian at a rate too fast for Jane to make out.

Another woman had taken a seat on the captain’s berth with two girls on either side of her. Were it not for the looks of terror on their faces, they would have made a pretty picture in their dark curls and simple travelling dresses. One of the little boys sat at the woman’s feet, playing with a toy soldier. He was no more than two, the same age Jane’s child would have been if she had not—she pushed the thought aside as indulgent, and continued her examination of the room.

The other two boys had their faces pressed against the window, clearly trying to see the corsairs. Their faces were bright with the elation that comes of ignorance. To them, this was nothing but a game. Their mother stood behind them, hand pressed to her mouth as though to keep herself from speaking.

She looked round as Jane entered, saw that she was merely another woman, and went back to studying the sea.

The older of the gentlemen broke off his conference and crossed the room to her. He walked with a slight limp, assisted by a fine ebony cane. His hair had silvered, but aside from that, he still had the bearing of a younger man.

He addressed her in Italian. “Madam, please make yourself easy.” He frowned and looked past her to the door. “But where is your husband?”

“Sir?” Jane replied in the same language.

“I saw you on deck. He is a glamourist, is he not?”

“I—Yes.” She did not need to make the point that she was Vincent’s creative partner—in this moment, the error was a trivial concern. “He stayed above to assist the captain in repelling boarders.”

The gentleman winced. “I see that my conception of artists is an ill-founded one. Most would not choose to stay, I think.”

Jane raised a brow. “I do not believe that is a motivation confined to artists.”

He offered her a small bow. “A fair point, madam. It is likely, however, that his valour will be unnecessary. We are not far from the coast, and the captain will outrun them.”

“But if he does not?”

He raised his cane. Twisting the head, he withdrew it enough to allow a peek of the shining steel blade encased within. “Then … that would be unfortunate. But there is no need to worry about that which might not be.” He pulled a chair out for Jane. “Please, madam.”

Jane took the seat he offered, though a part of her wanted to join the woman who was praying. After seeing her settled, the gentleman took his leave and returned to his conference with the other man. The younger man had a dissipated look, which sometimes afflicts young men of fashion. He held a satchel and fidgeted with its catch as he stared out the window. He, too, looked as though he wanted something useful to do.

In many ways, the only one who was not waiting for someone else to take action was the woman who prayed. She was at least making a direct appeal instead of fretting idly. Their course had been set the moment the corsairs had spotted them. The only hope now was that they might outrun the pirates and reach the safety of the Venetian coast.

Jane pushed her chair back and crossed the room to kneel in front of the crucifix. Perhaps prayer only provided an illusion of control, but Jane was too accomplished a glamourist to deny that illusions could provoke emotions. That same perception allowed her to see beyond the curtain of bravery to the fear in her husband’s eyes. The truth was that Jane had no way to sway the resolution of this battle. She could only pray that they reached safety in time.

She could only pray that Vincent was not injured.

So Jane bent her head. She clutched the topaz cross she wore beneath her fichu and prayed. The ship swayed around them, rocking her on her knees. Overhead, footsteps sounded as men ran back and forth preparing to meet the corsairs. She listened to the footfalls, trying to ascertain each time if one of them were Vincent’s. When she finally did hear him walk overhead, she wondered how she could have thought any other set was his. She recognised the steady tread as surely as the beating of her own heart.

When she had read of pirate attacks in “The Corsair,” by Lord Byron, they had seemed a swift and brutal thing. The author had left out the interminable period before the arrival of the corsairs, the period of tense waiting in which hope built that they might reach the coast in time.

The frantic pace overhead gradually slowed, and the entire ship seemed to hold its breath. They all waited as the minutes turned towards an hour and then past it, and still the ship fled with the wind.

This was not how Jane and Vincent’s life was meant to be. They were supposed to create art for princes and explore the boundaries of their craft. They had left London to escape the intrigues there and the undesirable excitement of political unrest. Attack by pirates belonged to another’s life. Oh … her mother would be in a state after this. Assuming they lived to tell her.

Jane lifted her head and looked to the window to escape her own thoughts.

The woman there had her hand on her younger son’s shoulder now, and had joined in staring out the window. The smudge of land was larger. How Jane wished she could see the pirate ship behind them.

If they had outrun the ship, then someone would have come to say so. Jane closed her eyes again. If she stared at the land, she would go mad wishing that they were on it.

A cannon boomed over the water.

Jane flinched at the sound. One of the other women shrieked, and the younger of the two girls began sobbing in Italian. “They shall sink us, Mama!”

A moment later, the cannon sounded again, distinctly closer, but there was no answering crash of wood splintering beneath a cannonball. Jane wet her lips. She said, “They are warning shots. They do not wish to harm the prize.”

The girl continued to sob as though she had not heard Jane, but her mother gave Jane a grateful look and smoothed her daughter’s hair, whispering to her.

Jane got to her feet, unable to remain still any longer. Her knees ached from kneeling, and she staggered as she stood. At first she thought it was due to stiffness from being still so long, and then she felt the ship shudder again.

The corsairs were boarding. Shouts of alarm sounded, only slightly muffled by the stout wood of the cabin. Gunfire sounded in volley after volley, amid savage cries. Jane snatched up their nuncheon and emptied the contents of the oilcloth on the table. Taking the travel cups, she tied them into a corner of the cloth, thinking to use it to club someone. It weighed so little that she abandoned the effort.

She lifted one of the chairs and tried its weight. Senseless—senseless to think that would keep them from being taken should the worst occur, and yet she could not sit by and do nothing. She had faced Napoleon’s army and would not be cowed by barbarians.

The gunfire overhead ceased almost as abruptly as it had begun. No more than five minutes could have passed. A set of footsteps sounded in the hall—not Vincent.

If they were safe, Vincent would have been the first down the stairs. Jane turned toward the door, the chair held ready.

The handle of the door rattled, but the lock stood firm. The older gentleman who had spoken to her earlier finally drew the sword from his cane and came to stand in front of Jane. “Behind me, madam.”

The door crashed open, splintering around the lock. In the opening, a corsair lowered his booted foot. Behind him stood a cluster of other pirates, equally alarming. There could be no doubt as to what he was. A long tunic striped in yellows and reds flared around the strange ballooned trousers of a Turk. His curved scimitar preceded him into the room. Jane had seen drawings in
Punch,
but had always thought they were wild exaggerations for the purposes of attracting readers.

Faced with this new reality, she acted on instinct and tried to weave a
Sphère Obscurcie
to hide behind. For a moment, she thought that it would work with the ship standing still in the water, but the waves tossed them, and she lost her grip. The glamour evaporated into an oiled rainbow.

The corsair shouted at her and sprang forward. With a sweep of his hand, Jane’s chair flew to the side. Before she could draw breath, he had her arm twisted behind her and the scimitar pressed against her neck. Jane shivered. His breath stank of beer and was the least noisome part of his person.

“Drop your weapons,” he said, in heavily accented Italian. He tightened his grip on Jane, lifting her on to her toes to assert his point.

“Sir, release the lady.” The gentleman wet his lips and stepped forward, sword held at the ready.

One of the others stalked into the cabin and, with a single twist of his scimitar, disarmed the man. With the next stroke, he clubbed him upon the head. The gentleman dropped to his knees, stunned but not unconscious. He struggled to rise.

The scimitar felt as though it would stop Jane’s speech but she forced the words past. “Sir—please. No more. Do not resist them.”

He nodded and stayed on his knees.

“Good.” The pirate who had struck him gestured to the others. He issued some order in a rippling language that Jane did not recognise. In response, his men herded the small group of passengers out the door.

At every step, Jane was certain the blade at her throat would slide across her skin. The fichu of lace seemed inadequate to the task of protection. The corsair relaxed his grip only when they came to the ladder leading back on to the deck.

Jane was under no illusions that he was any less vigilant for this relaxation. She climbed the ladder without protesting or attempting to spring away. Where would she go?

After the dim confines of the passage below, the sun stung Jane’s eyes. She winced, wishing for an idle moment that she had not left her bonnet below—but of what import was that? Propriety, and her complexion, were matters for another day.

As her eyes cleared, she peered around the boat. The corsairs’ captain strode up and down the deck—his height made him obvious, even if his bearing did not. He wore a long moustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face. The ends hung below his chin and accented his shouts with their movement. He carried a brace of pistols tucked into his waistband. The wind whipped the ends of his bright sash through the air like blood in water.

A group of sailors sat along the rail, guarded by corsairs who held pistols at ready. Vincent lay crumpled next to the sailors, as though he had been tossed there like a rag doll. Utterly limp.

Jane darted forward, only to be snatched by the corsair behind her. Now she twisted in his grasp to no effect. He shook her and raised the scimitar. Jane struggled to control herself. It would help no one if she were to be made an example.

With an effort, Jane steadied her breathing and pointed to Vincent. “My husband. Please?” The pirate grunted and walked her across the deck. He growled something to his fellows, of which Jane only caught the word, “Glamourist.”

With a shove, he hurried her the last several feet toward Vincent. Jane stumbled on the hem of her dress and dropped to her knees beside her husband. She lay a hand on his chest.

Through his waistcoat, the strong beat of his heart gave her a relief beyond measure. She could now look at him for injury. Blood clotted the hair at the back of his head, but he appeared otherwise unharmed. Jane undid his cravat and loosened the high collar of his shirt to give him more air.

With the cravat, she dabbed at the wound on the back of his head, heedless of what went on around them. He groaned and shifted at her touch.

Jane lifted her head and looked to the closest sailor. “Have you any spirits?”

He looked at her without comprehension, so Jane repeated the question in Italian, and then her poor French. He continued to stare at her without any sign of understanding. A hand appeared on her right, holding out a silver flask. Jane turned to thank the person for the offer, and discovered it was the older gentleman from below. The other passengers had also been herded to the rail to sit with the sailors, and the pirate who delayed her had apparently only been committing another small act of cruelty.

“Thank you.” She poured a small measure of liquor on to Vincent’s cravat and spared the gentleman a glance. “Are you injured, sir?”

“My vanity only.” The gentleman shifted to lean against the rail. They had taken his sword cane, and he stretched his leg out gingerly in front of him now.

Jane granted only a nod of acknowledgement, for the greater part of her attention was fixed upon her husband. Dabbing carefully, she cleaned the blood away as best she could. When he stirred again, she passed the flask under his nose, in lieu of smelling salts. Vincent coughed and his eyes fluttered open.