Valour and Vanity (5 page)

“It is the least I could do.” Signor Sanuto looked down and tapped the floor with his walking stick. “May I do more? Would you stay with me at Ca’ Sanuto? The truth is that my family is away, and our palazzo is too large for one person. After the events of today … Well, I would not like to be alone tonight. If you do not mind going to Murano, that is. It is a small town, another island like Venice, but just a short gondola ride away.”

Jane did not hesitate or pause to consult Vincent. She did not want to chance a trip to Lord Byron’s home only to be turned away, not with Vincent in the state he was in. It would be different if they had funds and could seek a hotel, but they had no resources at all. “Thank you. That is very kind.”

Vincent made the small whine that sounded as though he were imperfectly holding his breath, which so often indicated that he was conflicted. It was clear that his pride did not like this solution, but he did not object. “Yes, thank you. In fact, we have business in Murano.”

“Good. I have but one favour to ask.”

“Of course.”

Signor Sanuto clapped Vincent on the shoulder. “I only ask that you sleep in tomorrow, so that I might do the same.”

Vincent offered one of his rare public smiles. “I think we may assure you of that.”

*   *   *

Jane had no trouble
making good their promise to Signor Sanuto. She woke as the sun came streaming in through the large windows of the bedroom the signore had provided for them. The light revealed details lost in her fatigue of the night before. The ceilings rose to at least twelve feet and were adorned everywhere with delicate plasterwork reminiscent of waves. Shells and seahorses completed the theme, reminding her that Venice was once known as La Serenissima, the Bride of the Sea. Murals that were a mixture of paint and glamour adorned the walls to make each seem vibrant and alive. The furniture, while in an older style, displayed exquisite marquetry and had no doubt been in the family for generations.

Rolling to her side, Jane studied Vincent. He lay sprawled on the feather mattress in the nightshirt that their host had provided. His broad chest rose and fell in deep slumber. His cheeks still had the red of too much time in the sun, but some of the unhealthy grey tinge had left the space under his eyes.

She snuggled closer, intending to take comfort in his presence for only a few moments, but when she opened her eyes again, the sun had risen nearly to noon. Stretching, Jane could not restrain a sigh of contentment.

“Awake?” Vincent’s voice rumbled with disuse.

Jane tilted her head back to look at her husband. His eyes were still hooded with sleep, but he looked remarkably improved. “I am. How do you feel?”

“Better.” He rolled onto his back and pressed both hands to his face. “My head aches still, but I suppose that is to be expected.”

“I am only grateful that it was no worse.”

Vincent caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. “When I think of all the ways in which it could have been … I should have listened to your mother.”

Jane laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “If we listened to Mama every time she was frightened of something, we would be guarding for wolves and wearing flannel with liniment around our necks, even in summer.”

“True. And yet—”

“Please do not torture yourself in this manner.” Jane pushed herself to a sitting position. “I propose that we count our blessings that it provided us with the opportunity to meet Signor Sanuto—who, I might add, we should pay our respects to before it ceases to be morning.”

Jane padded across the marble floor to the lounge. She had received the loan of clothing from the closet of Signor Sanuto’s wife—who, he assured her, was “such a good creature that I am certain she would join me in urging you to make use of her closet.” She had borrowed a day dress of sturdy muslin. The dress itself was a simple round gown, but the fabric was sprigged throughout with small flowers. The peach sash seemed exactly calculated to please her. Vincent had taken the use of a clean shirt. His coat had been brushed and mended till it looked new, and hung waiting for him on the back of one of the chairs.

As she undid the ties on her borrowed nightdress, she said, “Do you know that when we were in the captain’s quarters, I thought Signor Sanuto a coward for staying below. I am quite ashamed of that now.”

“He is older and has a limp besides, probably attained in the war.” Vincent stood and winced, steadying himself against the bed. “Also, I believe that his was the better choice. I was hit so early that I do not even recall the pirates boarding.”

“What? No tales of valour? No stirring epic with which to delight Lord Byron? With whom I am quite vexed, I might add. Did he not say he was looking forward to our visit?”

“Yes, but where women are concerned, Byron is not entirely his own master.” Vincent scratched his chest and stretched again. He paused in the middle of his stretch as the last of the ties on her gown came free. “I have a certain understanding of that, in this moment.”

Jane raised her eyebrows, heat flooding her cheeks. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” He crossed the room and brushed her hair back from her face. “Our host did ask us to sleep in. I should hate to forswear that promise.”

“With your injury? You astonish me.”

“I very much hope to.” Vincent picked Jane up and carried her back to bed.

*   *   *

When they exited their
bedchamber, they discovered that their host had been called away in the morning and would not have been at home even if they had emerged when they first awoke. His staff, however, made them comfortable, and said that the signore had urged them to make use of the palazzo. It was a glorious structure, filled with rare antiques and art by the best painters.

They had been offered a light repast on the balcony by their host’s cook, Letizia, a delightful older woman with hair still dark in spite of her years. She had left them with plates of dried figs, olives, and pastries, and a shining silver bell should they require anything else. The sunlight rippled upon the canal and reflected back upon the boats that plied the water.

It was easy to loose oneself in watching the gondolas speed back and forth on their various errands, and though Jane knew that it was no more unusual than the street traffic in London, the novelty made it charming. The houses, too, with their marble entrances straight to the canal, seemed the most delightful of prospects.

Signor Sanuto arrived later that afternoon as Jane and Vincent were sitting on the balcony overlooking the canal. Their host’s gondola, with the traditional low profile, had been polished until it shone. Inlaid silver picked out the details in the wood.

The signore stuck his head out of the black coffinlike cabin on the low boat, hallooing them from the water in Italian. “I shall be up in a moment. It is good to see you.”

The gondola turned into the water entrance to the palazzo, sliding from view to allow their host to step out of the water directly into his home. Not long after, he appeared in the parlour and limped towards the tall glass doors to the balcony. Jane rose to meet him as he walked outside, leaning heavily on his cane with his limp much exaggerated. “Signor Sanuto, are you well?”

“I was about to ask the same of you, my dears.” He smiled at them, but the skin around his eyes seemed pinched.

“We are well, thank you.” Jane urged him to sit and laughed. “I am afraid I must offer you your own refreshments. Your cook has been so good as to lay out this nice table for us.”

“I would take a little wine and enjoy the afternoon with you. Letizia is wonderful. She has been with the family since my father’s time.” He shifted in his seat and winced. “I have been thinking of you all day and feeling dreadful to have abandoned you here.”

“I have never felt so comfortable in my life.” Jane did the honours as hostess and poured a glass of the excellent amarone that Letizia had set out. She must have known her master would want some, for she had laid out three glasses.

“That is exactly what I wished to hear.” He accepted it and saluted her. “Now. Tell me what brings you to Venice. We do not see so many Englishmen since the Republic fell.”

Jane hesitated, trying to decide what to say. The reason they had given her family—that of visiting Lord Byron—was only an excuse, required by her mother’s want of discretion. They had therefore agreed to tell no one of the glamour in glass unless absolutely necessary. Vincent, in particular, after seeing how his
Sphère Obscurcie
had been turned into an instrument of war, was loath to share the knowledge that they had come up with a way not only to record glamour but also to move with it. And yet their host had been so kind, so very generous, that she felt they could trust him. She glanced to Vincent. He had a small furrow between his brows and gave the slightest of head shakes.

No. Well … she would discuss it with him in their chambers that evening, but for the moment she would stay with the same tale they had told her mother. “We were to visit Lord Byron, but … I am afraid he has left town unexpectedly.”

He tilted his head to the side as if wondering about her hesitation. Jane saw with dismay that he had attributed it to something else. He thought she was hinting for an invitation to stay longer, and his next words proved her guess to be correct. “Ah—and you have nowhere to stay without him. Then you shall stay with me until he returns.”

“Oh, we do not want to impose. That was not my meaning—” But, they did not, in fact, have anywhere to stay. “I only…”

“It is only that you have already been so generous.” Vincent leaned forward with such a severe expression that Jane wished she could tell Signor Sanuto that he was not angry, only uncomfortable at accepting charity. “On that subject, I am afraid that I will need to ask for your help once more. You said you were with a bank. Might we make arrangements through that institution to reach my banker in London?”

“I am only too happy to arrange a line of credit so that you are not in distressed circumstances.”

“I had intended it as a means to repay you.”

The signore demurred. “It is unnecessary.”

Vincent set his jaw. “I cannot let this pass. You must accept something.”

Signor Sanuto appeared ready to match Vincent in stubbornness, but finally shook his head with a sigh. “If you are truly troubled, then make a donation to Santa Maria degli Angeli in my name. It is to my faith that you owe your freedom, not my pocketbook, so that is the best way of repaying any debt.” He straightened his leg and winced with an audible gasp.

“Sir! Are you hurt?” Jane reached for the bell to call someone to aid him. He had suffered just as much the day prior as they had, without the benefit of rest. It was thoughtless of her to make him play the host also.

“I am well.” He held up one hand to stay her. The other hand rubbed his knee. “Apologies. It is an old wound from when the Republic fell to Napoleon. Fatigue sometimes causes it to seize, and I am afraid I twisted it at the bank today. They are doing some construction in my office, and I slipped on plaster. Felt the fool. But … I am getting old, and I am not so steady on my feet with this stick.”

Jane could not forget how he had lost the other walking stick, in defence of her and her imprudent thoughts of resisting. Privately, she decided that they would not only make a very substantial contribution to his church, they would buy him a new walking stick besides.

She rose, smiling. “Then, shall I entertain you? In the boat you had said you wished to see me work glamour. You have me now at your disposal.” She had seen a piano in the palazzo and could easily play a little to amuse him.

His face lit up for a moment, and then he shook his head. “But you are tired. Yes, I would very much like to see your work, but my curiosity is not so insatiable as that.”

“Then let us show you a
tableau vivant.
” Vincent rose to stand beside Jane.

She turned so her back was to Signor Sanuto and whispered, “Are you well enough?”

“I have a headache, nothing more. See?” Vincent wove a
Sphère Obscurcie
so that they vanished from view. He followed it with a similar weave to mask their sound. Neither weave was as quick as his usual, but still fast enough to cause Signor Sanuto to jump in his chair and gasp. She never tired of the response from people witnessing Vincent’s technique for the first time. Most glamourists needed months of careful work to create a glamural detailed enough to mask anything, but with this simple weave, it was possible to vanish instantly. Small wonder that Wellington had taken advantage of it in the war against Napoleon.

But while these illusions usually cost Vincent no effort, his breath had sped with those simple folds.

Jane shook her head at her husband. “I was going to offer to play the pianoforte with the accompanying glamour.”

“We could show him Cupid and Psyche. You like that one.”

“When you are in best health, yes. Recall how long you had to work to master the wings. Vincent. Be reasonable, please.”

“What about Zeus and Io?”

“I cannot be comfortable with the theme of that myth.” Jane crossed her arms over her chest.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“I suggest that you do not always need to be the master glamourist. I suggest that you sit down. I
suggest
that you wait until you are well.”

A muscle pulsed in the corner of his jaw. “I thought I had established my health this morning.”

“Very well.” Jane dropped her arms. “Then let us do Cupid and Psyche, since you are so confident in your health.”

“Good.”

One day his stubbornness would be the death of him. Biting her tongue, Jane pulled folds of glamour out of the ether and wrapped them about herself in a quickly rendered sketch of Psyche. She twisted a skein to create the unlucky oil lamp in the young Greek woman’s hand. Carefully, she added a suggestion of flame above the lamp. In a fully realized glamour, this would be no more than the foundation to more detailed work atop it, but part of the charm of a
tableau vivant
was in the looseness of the glamour, in much the same way that a quick pencil sketch could sometimes capture a subject’s essence more fully than the finest oil painting. It was about the gesture. She posed her Psyche in the moment of discovery, pulling back with wonder and the dawning horror of what she had done.