Of Noble Family (22 page)

“You threatened my wife.”

He winced, and it seemed unfeigned. Jane did not trust him, but when he turned back from the window she was stunned to see that his eyes were wet. “I was—am—grieving, and I reverted to old habits from the shock. I think … I think you know what that is like.”

“These are very pretty words, but the fact remains that we are prisoners in your house.”

Lord Verbury dipped his head. “Frank? See to it that Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton are given safe passage to St. John's whenever they wish to go.” He looked back to Vincent. “Now, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“All I ask—and I want to make very clear that this is a request, and not a disguised threat—all I ask is that you take advantage of Sir Ronald's expertise, or at least speak with him, if you do not trust him with an examination. Or allow me to call back the Negro, if that is truly your preference. But please, please do not go without a doctor's advice.” He wet his lips. “I will admit to having an interest, given Jane's condition.”

Vincent's breath stopped altogether. Jane clutched his arm to keep from wrapping her arms around her stomach. She stared from Frank to Louisa, wondering which had told him. Likely Louisa, given everything that had occurred.

Lord Verbury indicated Louisa and Frank with a little turn of his head. “They both knew? Well … the fact that neither of them told me is something to consider.” He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a piece of paper. “I learned of the child from Vincent, via the laundress.”

He held the note that Jane had given to Vincent when the baby kicked.

The paper trembled in his grasp. “I have known for two days and done nothing. Will you not take that as a sign of my good intentions? When I heard that Jane—”

“Do
not
use her name.”

Red flooded Lord Verbury's cheeks, but Sarah put a hand on his shoulder. He clenched his jaw and nodded. “Of course. It is too familiar, given our relations. When I heard that your wife was with child, I consulted Sir Ronald. That is all I have done, and you know well that I could have done more.”

Jane had no doubt of that, though she very much doubted his reasons. “This all comes as a shock. Will you give us leave to discuss it?”

“Of course. We shall be in my rooms.”

Vincent led Jane back through the blue parlour to their bedchamber. He shut the door with his foot and took Jane straight to the bed.

“Vincent, are you—?”

“Not yet. Please.” He threw the counterpane back with one hand and helped her sit. Once she was settled, he stepped back from the bed and rolled his shoulders. Reaching into the ether, he wove the shape she recognised as a
Sph
è
re Obscurcie.
She could tell by his concentration and the spread of his arms that he had widened the fold to cover the bed and half the room. Its edges must pass the outer wall, but the gossamer thinness of the strands would wrap around any corporeal objects, leaving only those in its centre invisible. He followed this with the weaves for silence, executed with precision.

“Vincent, are you all right?”

He turned from the bed and walked to the washbasin. “Would you like to wash your face?”

“I am more concerned about you than my cleanliness.”

With his back to her the way it had been to his father, he seemed at his ease, but he stopped with his hand on the pitcher. For a moment, she thought he was not going to answer her. When he spoke, his voice was low and flat. “I am very close to breaking.”

“What may I do?”

“Please pretend that I am not and allow me some time.” He poured water into the basin and dipped one of the linen cloths into it. “Now, you once told me I would feel better if I washed my face, so I shall apply the same theory to you.”

“It was my governess's theory, but I have adopted it.” When he turned back to her, she tried not to search his face or let her concern show, but she did not need to worry about being immoderately expressive, because Vincent kept his attention fixed on the cloth.

He handed it to her and sat on the edge of the bed. “I am only sorry that I do not have any lavender soap.”

If Jane had not raised the cloth to her face, her spasm of grief for her husband would have been all too clear. She pressed the cool fabric against her face and breathed through the damp fibres. That horrible man turned kindness into cruelty. She wiped the cloth across her face, removing much of the grime from their walk. While Jane did not feel anywhere near restored, the cool cloth soothed her.

Vincent took the dirty linen from her and folded it into a square. Not even a hint of a frown spoilt his fa
ç
ade of composure. He smoothed the cloth with his thumb, the way he might straighten a fold of glamour. Abruptly, he stood and walked back to the washbasin. “What would you like to do?”

“Leave. Immediately.”

“I mean about the doctor.”

“Oh…” Jane rested a hand on her stomach, feeling for movement within, but found only a faint whisper that might simply be digestion. It was not enough to be truly assuring. Given her sickness earlier, the generally inelegant state she was in presently, and the miscarriage … she should take no more risks. “I should like to talk to the doctor, just to be certain.”

Vincent let out a breath. “Good. Thank you. I will feel better after he examines you.”

“He? I meant Dr. Jones.”

He dropped the cloth in the basin and turned. “The Negro? Sir Ronald seems the more experienced of the two.”

“You have not met her.”

“No, but as a Negro and a woman, she cannot possibly have had the opportunity to receive the same level of training.”

“As a navy surgeon, I cannot imagine that he would have had much experience with expectant mothers. I should rather trust myself to someone who has delivered babies in practice.”

“But what of the low birthrate among the slaves? Might that be related to who attends them?”

Jane had no ready answer for that. If he had met the doctor, then he would have seen how competent she was and would be less uncertain. “I do not trust him.”

“I would not either, except—” He was still for two moments, then crossed the room to the windows to stand with his back to her. He cleared his throat. “I think my father is sincere insofar as his concern for the health of a possible heir goes, and hence will do nothing to place you at risk. It is consistent with his character.”

“It would also be consistent with his character as I understand it to instruct Sir Ronald to say that I was unfit for travel, regardless of my general health.”

“He said he would let us go.”

Jane stared at Vincent, utterly confounded. “I do not understand you. Why would you trust that statement, given your history with him?”

“Because he has never—” He stopped and cleared his throat. Jane very much wished he would turn around so that she could see his face, but right now she had only the set of his shoulders to guide her, and those said that he was in control of his sensibilities. “As a contrivance, there are times when it would have made considerable sense to … and yet, he has not. I cannot understand why, so I am … struggling. Some of my disquiet is lingering fear from this afternoon, but most of my confusion stems from … I do not understand why he would…”

“Why he would what?”

“Apologise. To me. He has never—” Vincent's voice cracked and he stopped, putting a hand over his mouth. The thin keen leaked around his fingers, and then even that cut off.

“Vincent…” Jane slid her legs to the side of the bed.

“No.” His voice sounded torn from cloth. “Please. Do not. Please—I do not want to grant him this. Let me … just give me a—”

His hand flashed to the side, and Vincent disappeared. Jane stared at the spot where he had been, where he still was, wrapped in a preservative sphere. The cry that had not escaped from him swelled in Jane's own chest. She clenched her jaw around it, knowing that Vincent could still see her. Even with something that looked like humility, Lord Verbury had the power to hurt his son.

Only once previously had Vincent hidden from her in this manner. That time, she had pushed into the sphere. Today, she thought it would do more harm than good. Let them escape this place, and then he could unravel safely.

If Vincent needed a moment to govern himself, then she would give him that. Jane pushed herself back up onto the bed and leaned against the pillows with her fingers laced over her stomach. Looking out the window at the unbroken blue sky and the orange trees, she waited.

*   *   *

Perhaps no more than
ten minutes passed before Vincent reappeared. His eyes were shot with red and his hair disordered. He walked straight to the washbasin and filled it with water from the pitcher. Eschewing the linen cloths, Vincent splashed water on his face and let it dribble back into the basin. Only after he had dried his face did he turn to face Jane. Even then, he addressed the pillow by her head.

“I am—I would rather be too cautious with your health than not enough. You were … unwell today. My concern seems reasonable to me, but I am … I am aware that my thoughts are disordered.” Vincent glanced at her and away, swallowing. “Tell me what to do.”

“I would not trust anything Sir Ronald said to us. As you said, it is likely that this is a contrivance of your father's to convince us to stay. Dr. Jones is a disinterested party, so I would set more stock by her recommendation.”

He stared at the carving on one of the bed's posts, breath a little too quick and too shallow for comfort. “That seems sensible.” Vincent rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. “I am sorry that I am … that I am having such difficulty.”

Jane had to swallow to answer him. “You have no need to apologise.”

He made a low rattling moan and turned from her again. His hands clenched into fists at his side. For a moment, Vincent held his breath, and when he next spoke, his voice was creditably steady. “If you do not mind, may I ask that you avoid being expressly kind to me?”

Now Jane had reason to be thankful that his back was to her. She pressed both hands over her mouth to hold in a cry of anguish for her husband. When she could, she said, “Of course.”

“Thank you. I will fetch Dr. Jones.” As Vincent turned to go, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He hesitated, then pulled the stained and dirty shirt over his head. He quickly donned one of the clean ones they had left behind. The shirt was followed quickly by a clean waistcoat, cravat, and coat, creating a fashionable young man out of the deranged glamourist. The last touch was to run his hands through his curls and sweep them into something resembling order. It was an unexpected effort from a man who would rather wear a coat out of fashion than suffer a tailor.

“Do I look less … disordered?” He gestured towards his face, and not his clothing.

The red had faded from his eyes, which she suspected was his real concern. Jane nodded. “It will do.”

He stepped out of the door, shutting it carefully behind him. Jane listened to his footsteps fade and judged that she had perhaps twenty minutes in which to indulge in hysterics before he returned. She rolled onto her side and pressed her face into the pillow.

As quietly as she could, Jane wept, but before even a minute had passed, two sets of footsteps headed back towards her room down the long gallery. Their echoes gave her plenty of time to return to a seated position and turn the damp side of the pillow down. There was a gentle knock at the door.

Jane sat up further in bed. “Enter.”

Sir Ronald opened the door, carrying a leather satchel. He was accompanied by Zeus, who gave Jane a brief smile before shutting the door and taking up a place by one of the walls.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hamilton. Your husband asked me to look in on you.”

Fury sent a wave of heat through Jane. She knew that Vincent was upset, but that did not give him leave to completely disregard her wishes. “I appreciate your time, but I am afraid there has been a misunderstanding.”

“I do apologise for the irregularity of our introduction earlier.” He drew a chair up to the side of the bed. He had with him a black leather satchel, which he set on the side table. He glanced over his shoulder. “Face the wall, boy. I have asked Zeus to act as my assistant, thinking that you should prefer someone familiar to a stranger.”

“Thank you, that is very kind. But I do not require an examination.”

“Oh dear … forgive me, but this is an awkward situation. Because your husband made the request, I am obliged to carry through at least a passing examination. I believe we can confine it to questions only. Would that be acceptable?”

The difficulty that Jane faced was that Sir Ronald seemed genuinely concerned that she be comfortable—it would be far easier to resist him if he acted the villain. Given that Vincent had asked him to attend her—and Jane would have serious words with her husband about that—she did not feel entirely able to rudely dismiss Sir Ronald. Her distrust of him came largely from a violent dislike of Lord Verbury. That dislike, however, made her wonder how her answers could be twisted and used against them. “What sort of questions?”

“Your courses, diet, general history.… I understand your concern, since we shall be discussing matters of some delicacy. Allow me to assure you of complete privacy and discretion.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Zeus. “Sometimes they peek. Let me know if he so much as glances this way. Now, we shall start with some simple questions.”

Jane relented. For all that she had complained about a navy surgeon having little experience in childbirth, Sir Ronald was thorough and seemed to know his business. He was gentle with his questions and apologised for those which bordered on indecorous.

Nevertheless, it reminded her so thoroughly of the last time a military surgeon had examined her that Jane found that the tears she had not shed when she miscarried were now on her cheeks. “I am so sorry. It has been a difficult day.”