Of Noble Family (39 page)

Nodding, Frank sat across from Jane. “I also did things that made sense at the time, but I regret now. I cannot change my actions in the past, but I can work to make sure that I repair their damage in the present.” He sipped his sherry and cleared his throat. “May I tell you about one?”

“There is no need, unless it will ease your mind,” Jane said.

“Thank you. I would rather you hear it from me. The first day, I lied to you about the ship. Lord Verbury ordered me to tell you that the packet ship, the
Marchioness of Salisbury
, had left. She had not. She was in harbour for two more days. Second … there is almost always a private ship bound for England.”

“We could have left at any time?” Jane scarcely recognised the sound of her own voice.

“Please believe that I would not make the same choice again.”

“You did not know us…” Still, the idea that they might have left this place, even be in England by now, made tears of upset spring to her eyes. Jane wiped them away hastily before she could cry. With the hold that Verbury had over Frank, was it any wonder that he acted as he did? “You did not know us.”

Vincent leaned back in his chair, face mild, but he drank half the contents of his glass without seeming to notice. “Were there any other deceptions?”

“Nothing after the first week.” Frank held up his hands as Vincent stiffened in his chair. “Those you know about already: the coldmongers, Louisa's spying, my spying … but after your attempt to escape your father, I became convinced that you were as you presented yourself to be and not an instrument of his. It is … it is not what I had come to expect from the Hamiltons.”

Vincent snorted. “Well, I can hardly fault you for that determination. And I am tired as the blazes of not trusting you. So—thank you for telling us.” He sat forward and lifted the sherry decanter, refilling Frank's glass and his own. He raised his glass. “May I offer a toast to trust? Better to have it come late than to have none at all.”

Raising his glass, Frank tapped it against Vincent's and then Jane's. “To trust.”

Jane barely subdued a sob of relief, but could do nothing to stop the tears that flooded her eyes this time. She wiped them away, deeply annoyed to be crying once again.

“Muse?”

She half laughed, waving at her face and then her stomach. “It is just the … I seem to cry very easily these days.”

“My wife is the same whenever she is in a family way,” Frank said. She was grateful to him for making her feel less a ninny.

Jane was aware that they were all pretending, rather desperately, that their clothes were not stained with blood and smoke. Their laughter was louder than the humour warranted and the pauses too long, as they listened for cries from the sick rooms. But she encouraged the gentlemen to relax a little by making sure that their sherry glasses stayed filled.

As the night wore on, Frank's speech shifted at times from the British pronunciations she was used to from him. The softening of consonants and lengthening of vowels happened mostly when he spoke of his children, with a look of relaxed fondness. Once he said, “The boy fu me—” And then caught himself, language stiffening into British starch again: “My son is doing quite well in mathematics. His mother and I are pleased.”

Strangely saddened to hear the veil of language in place again, Jane could not think of how to draw it back. “I should like to meet your wife. Might we have you for dinner?”

Frank's brows drew together. “I honestly do not know. I will have to think about the ramifications of your entertaining us…” He looked at his glass. “But perhaps I will do so on an evening when I have consumed a little less of your sherry.”

“Allow me to join Jane in issuing the invitation, and to add that I care not a grain for the ‘ramifications.'”

“Be that as it may…” Frank pushed his chair back from the table. “I should bid you both a good night. We will all have a long day tomorrow.”

“Indeed.” Vincent began to rise and then dropped awkwardly back into his chair, grabbing the table with one hand. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “Well … this is embarrassing.”

Jane was at his side with no real memory of having moved. “Vincent?”

“I forgot how much glamour I worked this morning.” He reddened, eyes still closed. “And that I had not eaten since breakfast. I am afraid that I misjudged and will require some assistance.”

“Of course.” Frank moved to his side smoothly. “Forgive me for asking, but is the nature such that I should fetch a basin?”

With a breathless laugh, Vincent half shook his head. “No, nothing like that, thank God. Just deucedly dizzy. Glamour and strong drink … I am terribly sorry. ‘No Drinking' was one of Herr Scholes's three rules, for this very reason.”

Jane patted him on the shoulder and exchanged a look with Frank. “Well, I shall not fret, then. I have seen you too dizzy to stand before. At least you have not passed out.”

“No. Not yet.” Vincent sighed.

Frank crouched by him. “We will stand very slowly, then. Jane and I will assist you to the bed, and then I shall finally have the opportunity to show my skills as a valet.”

“Very kind.” Vincent transferred his grip from the table to Frank's shoulder. “And again, you have my profound apologies.”

With Frank on one side and Jane on the other, Vincent rose slowly and did not lose consciousness. They were able to guide him to the bed, accompanied by a steady refrain of apologies and begging of pardons. Jane had seen Vincent inebriated exactly once before, though in that instance he had not combined it with an excess of glamour. In both cases, though, his speech became more precise and defined, as though he was trying to compensate for a muzziness of thoughts.

As he sat on the bed, Vincent gave a sigh of relief. “If you would not mind helping with my boots, Frank, that would be much appreciated. I can manage my shirt on my own, and Jane is familiar with my bree— God. I really am in a shocking state. So terribly sorry.”

Jane had to cover her mouth, torn between laughing and being completely embarrassed at the implications of her intimate knowledge of her husband's breeches.

With a chuckle, Frank knelt to pull one of the boots free. “Please believe that I am glad of an opportunity to help.”

Still blushing, Vincent bent his head and fumbled with the buttons on his cuff. Jane stepped in and undid them both for him before he had the opportunity to protest that he retained some dexterity. In very little time, Frank had his boots off, and Jane had helped Vincent draw his shirt off over his head.

“I will take your boots with me to have them cleaned this evening.” Frank rounded the end of the bed, turning to look back at them. “Will there be— God.” He had stopped, staring openly at Vincent's back.

Jane had become inured to the scars and accepted them as part of the landscape of her husband's body. She had forgotten what it was like to see the knotted mass of wheals for the first time. They had faded over the years to a ruddy grey, though in some places, the skin was white and shiny and bloodless. It looked like a topographic map of some landscape with twisting fjords and unexpected ravines.

Vincent looked over his shoulder, countenance sobering in an instant as he realised what Frank was looking at. “Ah.”

“What happened?”

“I was flogged.”

“Forgive me, but I can see that. I've seen it often enough, but you're…” Frank's expression was confused, and it seemed clear that at least part of it was because Vincent was white. “Did your father—?”

“No. He was always careful not to leave marks.” Vincent shrugged, making the mass writhe with his motion. “Napoleon. I was a captive for a fortnight.”

Frank drew his hand down his face and shook his head. “Well … well. I suppose it makes a little more sense now why you are so opposed to having anyone whipped.”

With a bitter smile, Vincent said, “Quite apart from benevolent reasons, I can say with absolute certainty that a whipping will do nothing to make a man more cooperative.”

Frank drew breath and hesitated. “May I suggest … may I suggest that you find reason to take your shirt off the next time you are in the fields?”

“What happened to me was not the same. It was only a fortnight.”

Only a fortnight. He was correct that it was minor when compared with a lifetime of whippings, which made the slaves' reality no less horrible.

“It will lend you credibility.” Frank studied the boots he held. “We are very used to Englishmen coming and wanting to make reforms, and then nothing changes. If you are serious that there will be no more whipping here … let them see the marks.”

“If I had any doubts that you were a Hamilton, that would answer them.” Vincent sighed and looked forward again. His face, in profile, was grave. “Let me think on it when I am sober.”

*   *   *

Two days after the
accident, Jane was helping Dr. Jones with Julian, a young man who had been scalded along much of his right side. Those burns were atop fresher wheals from a whipping, and the wounds showed signs of becoming infected. Dr. Jones had given him a grain of opium, so he was not entirely conscious as they changed his bandage, for which Jane was grateful. She took the soiled bandage from the doctor and dropped it into a metal basin.

Opening a jar, Dr. Jones studied the young man's back with a frown. “I have been asked about your husband's scars.”

Startled, Jane paused before picking up a roll of fresh linen. She had not been certain that Vincent would follow Frank's counsel. “What do people want to know?”

“If they are real. How it happened. If he is really white.”

“If he is really … I do not understand that last.”

Dr. Jones peered at her over the young man's shoulder. “You know Mrs. Whitten.”

Thrown by the apparent change in subject, Jane could only nod.

“She is in a family way. Her husband is almost as fair as Mrs. Ransford, so their child will likely be lighter than the mother and, to someone who does not know the heritage, appear white.”

“Yes, but—”

“But if Mrs. Whitten were a slave, that child would also be a slave.” She took the cloth from Jane and dipped it into salt water. “So the fact that your husband has scars from being flogged raises the question for some people of how he could have them if he is truly white.”

As she applied the cloth to the wounds, Julian stiffened, even with the opium cutting the pain. Jane was hard pressed to steady him as Dr. Jones worked, and it was some moments before she could answer. Vincent had not been burnt on top of the whipping, but she remembered the saltwater treatment all too well. He would not let her be in the room with him while his wounds were being cleaned, but his exhaustion afterwards had been clear enough.

When Dr. Jones finished with the cloth, Jane said, “My husband was caught by Napoleon's soldiers. He had certain information that they wanted, and he would not give it to them. They had him for two weeks.”

“That explains why the scars sound so impressive.” She turned to her satchel and searched through it. “Out of appalling curiosity, I would like to see them. I have only seen raised scars on dark flesh. The pigmentation differences intrigue me.”

“I will … I will see what I can do.” Privately, Jane could not imagine Vincent willingly removing his shirt in front of a lady.

Dr. Jones laughed, clearly perceiving Jane's doubt on the subject. She pulled out a jar and, removing the top, turned back to their patient. “When are you going back to work on the glamural for the charity ball?”

“I had not thought to, under the circumstances.”

“May I counsel against that?” She smeared a liniment with a sweet, almost honeyed character across the seeping wounds. “Having some activity will help those who lost family.”

The number of dead had risen to nine, when they lost Bodelia, Smart Martin, and Jos. Sukey still hung in the balance, but her mother tended her diligently. Having something to do had seemed to help Nkiruka, and Jane knew the value of activity in staving off melancholy. “I suppose … I suppose I am simply too Anglican to feel entirely comfortable with the idea. At home, we strip the glamour from houses during the mourning period. But … but this is not England.” She sighed, a bit annoyed with herself for being even a little surprised that there were differences in customs. “Do you really think it would help?”

Dr. Jones wiped her hands off on a cloth, still looking at the young man's wounds. “All I can tell you is that several of the women have asked when they could go back. So … yes. I think it will help.” She took the roll of linen from Jane. “And how is your own situation? Seven months now, yes?”

“Well, he or she kicks with astonishing vehemence at times. Is there … is there a way to tell the sex?”

“Ha! I can tell you a hundred different ways, and none of them reliable. Lift his arm for me? Like that … good.”

For a few moments, they were occupied with wrapping the bandage around his chest and shoulder. Doing so, it was difficult to avoid noticing how many times Julian had been whipped. Jane ground her teeth together as they worked. This was not England, but England was still responsible. “I will speak to Nkiruka about setting a new plan for the glamural.”

*   *   *

Three days later, with
only nine days remaining to finish the glamural, Jane and Nkiruka needed to alter their plans significantly. Vincent could no longer devote his time to working on it, and the last of the ceiling panels remained to be woven. After staring at it for a while, Jane decided to call the opening in the ceiling “intentional” and move on.

Without Louisa to run errands for her, Jane felt every month of her expectant state. She sat at the table going over lists and pressed the fingers of her left hand to her temple. She rubbed a small circle, trying to ease the dull ache. Sometimes it seemed that when she was seated, all of the discomforts of her condition made themselves known with renewed clamour.