Valour and Vanity (20 page)

Vincent frowned. “Do you think we will still be here in two weeks?”

“I—well, I hope that we will have had some relief by then, to be certain. But, even if we do go, Sister Maria Agnes can conduct them in my absence.” She peered at him. “Did you have a chance to stop round at the
polizia
station?” He had made it part of his daily rounds to visit the station house to report that they had not left Murano and to see if they had received any mail.

“Nothing has arrived.”

“Well … it has only been three weeks, so I suppose that is not surprising.”

“I had hoped to hear from Byron, but—well.”

They turned on to the narrow street that led to Querini’s glass factory. As they walked down the twisting passage, Jane had a sudden fear that the glass factory would have vanished. It was with immeasurable relief that she saw the small sign over the door. Vincent released her arm and set his shoulders. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

He smiled without any mirth and knocked upon the door. After a moment, it was opened by a young man who, for a moment, Jane thought was Biasio. However, he had only a general build and colouring in common with the apprentice. “May I help you?”

Vincent inclined his head. “Would you be so good as to tell Signor Querini that Sir David Vincent and his wife would like a moment of his time?”

“You’re—? Um … Wait here.” He backed away from the door, eyes quite wide, before he shut it hastily. There followed the unmistakable sound of a bolt being shot as he locked the door.

Jane had not heard the corresponding sound of the door being unlocked when he had first opened it. “Well. I suppose Signor Querini has spoken of—”

Within the glass factory, she heard, quite clearly, Signor Querini roar, “What!” From there, his voice dropped to a mutter, which, though incomprehensible, was constant, and grew steadily louder as the glassmaker approached the door. Jane found herself stepping back involuntarily as the bolt snapped back.

Vincent stood his ground, head high. The glassmaker threw the door open and stood framed in it against a vivid, glowing background of molten glass. “You! Have you brought my money? My money, sir! Hours I spent, wasted, working in the night. In the night! For what? Well? What have you to say? Hm?”

“We are without funds, but I thought—”

“Then why are you here? Why do you waste my time?”

Jane could imagine, rather than hear, her husband’s teeth grind, but when he spoke, his voice was admirably calm. “I had thought to offer to work for you in recompense for our debt.”

The glassmaker stared, his mouth gaping. He snapped it shut. “Doing what?”

“As you know, I am a glamourist of some skill.”

“All I ever saw you do was wave your hands and make useless spheres. Glamour? Glamour makes pretty pictures. What do I need of those?”

Jane said, “It can also create a breeze to help the furnace or cool the workers.” Though, to be fair, he had Biasio for that.

Behind Querini, his workers gradually stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. Lit in the orange glow of the ovens, they seemed like supernatural creatures come to labour on the earth. Jane looked among them for Biasio, but the apprentice was not immediately visible.

“Thank you, no. No, I have no need of that. No. Nor of you. Either of you. I only want my money.”

“And might I not do something else? Work the bellows? Some apprentice labour?” Still, Vincent’s voice was utterly calm.

“Teach a foreigner my craft? Bah! Never again! Bad enough that I let you into the factory to work. Do you know what that has cost me? Do you? The other glassmakers are furious. Furious, I tell you. And for what? Hm? For what?”

“We will pay you, sir.”

“Will you? In the meantime, what am I to do? What? Your funds were to have paid for—” Suddenly, he looked furtive rather than angry. “Bah! You are wasting my time.”

Jane stepped forward, peering intently into the interior. “Where is Biasio?”

“Who?” He wiped his mouth.

“Your apprentice, Biasio. The one who worked with you on our project.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. Biasio? I never heard of such a person!” He stepped back, shaking his finger at them. “You are thieves! And liars! Do not bother me again.”

With that, he slammed the door. The sound bounced off the narrow alley and left a reverberating question in its passing. Why was he lying about Biasio?

Thirteen

Tearing the Cloth

Though it was now obvious to both Jane and Vincent that Biasio must have been involved in the theft, it was less obvious how much Querini had known. The furtive look in his eyes had been coupled with a certain amount of fear. It was hard to say if it was fear of being caught by the authorities or fear of reprisals for speaking to Jane and Vincent.

Though they had no more discoveries, the speculation alone served to distract them both from time passing as three weeks turned to four, which was the earliest they could hope to hear from the Prince Regent. But at the end of that time, they still had no word from England.

Jane’s family would just be reaching Prague, so it would be another two weeks before there was any hope of a return letter, longer if there were early snows in the passes. From Lord Byron, they had no word at all.

Vincent had written to Byron’s landlord, separately, not quite trusting that the
capo
had actually sent the letters. The landlord had been good enough to return a reply that, yes, Lord Byron was away and that, yes, if they came to Venice he had instructions to let them use the apartments. They showed the letter to the magistrate, but he declined to allow them to leave Murano.

November continued to pass with still no word from family, Lord Byron, or the Prince Regent. The concern that they might be gone from Murano before the choir performed had so little foundation in reality that Jane was able to contrive another service with them. Vincent went out every day and came home in the evenings, often with his shirt still sweat-dampened from his labour.

His spirits, however, remained subdued.

As Jane was returning home from the convent, the day was a fine autumnal one favoured by the golden light so beloved by the artist Titian. She turned her path from her usual walk through the streets to stroll along the canal and then to the broad square where the larger pleasure craft moored. The Pulcinella booth was often there, and Jane thought she might take in the show before returning to their lodging.

The view of Venice, so close, was particularly fine that afternoon. High, white clouds gave just enough punctuation to the sky to make its blue more brilliant. The Pulcinella booth had a small crowd in front of it, laughing with delight. A smaller crowd had gathered at the opposite side of the square to watch another street performer, but Jane had eyes only for the puppet show.

She was halfway across the square when a dragon rose above the other street performer’s audience. Its roar echoed across the pavement and stopped her progress. The audience applauded the glamour, although one little boy ran screaming across the pavement, to the amusement of all save his mother. The dragon vanished, fading from view as artfully as it appeared. She could not see the glamourist beneath the figure, but she knew his work as intimately as she knew her own.

Vincent was busking.

This was the glamour that he had been doing. The merchants for whom he had been working.

He had not lied to her directly, but he had certainly done everything in his power to make himself appear to be employed by
someone
, rather than entertaining on the street. Jane was more than a little vexed that he had hid it from her. She would have liked to have watched him work. Perhaps she could even have helped.

But why had he not told her? As he himself said, all work was noble. So why had he hidden it from her?

As she watched, an enormous bridge appeared overhead, complete with water and buildings on either side. The rapidity with which it appeared made Jane suspect that Vincent had built the scenery in advance and hidden it within a
Sphère Obscurcie
until he needed it. Now a workman, rendered in silhouette, walked on to the bridge for the opening scene of the famous shadow play
The Broken Bridge.

Even knowing Vincent’s strength and power as a glamourist, Jane was still impressed by what she saw. To make a figure move was more than many glamourists aspired to. It was difficult to manage the innumerable threads that composed a figure, even in miniature. What Vincent did now was doubly difficult.

First, the figure was larger than a man. He was rendered in only black, to be sure, but with such exquisite detail that even his hair seemed to move as he raised his pickax over his head and brought it down upon the bridge.

Second, Vincent was working the figure high over his head. The farther from a glamourist the threads stretched, the harder it was to control them, and the greater the strain upon the performer. She had seen him lay folds of glamour upon the ceiling of a ballroom, but those had been layers of stationary fabric, which he could tie off when he needed to rest. This? This was nothing short of a marvel of endurance and artistry.

He brought in the second figure, the Traveller, who wished to cross the bridge but was stopped by the hole in the middle. Though Vincent focused his attention on one figure or the other, the fact that he was managing two of them, and at this scale, filled Jane with no small amount of concern. She had seen Vincent work past his limits before.

The Traveller said, in perfect Italian. “Excuse me sir, is this the road to Venice?”

“Naw. This here don’t go nowhere but to the canal. Tra-la-la.”

He had adapted the play from its London environs to the locale and the changes, small though they were, brought laughter from the crowd. The shadow play continued as the Traveller tried to cross the river, only to receive increasingly rude responses from the Workman. When the end of the play came and the Traveller kicked the Workman into the river, Vincent caused the illusion of water to seem to splash over those watching. They jumped and shrieked, then laughed when they realized how they had been taken in.

Applauding, people tossed coins into a hat upon the pavement. As the crowd dispersed, Jane could see her husband at last. His coat lay draped upon a stone bench behind him, and he worked in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, with the collar open at his throat. The fabric clung to his skin, and sweat plastered his hair to his brow. A bright flush of effort lit his cheeks, and even from where she stood, Jane could see the great gasps of air he was taking in. Vincent bowed to his audience, pausing to answer a question from one and receive a compliment from another. As he stooped to collect the money in his hat, he saw Jane.

The flush on his cheeks vanished as if he were stricken. For a moment, all animation in his features froze. Vincent looked down, and then continued to collect the coins that his performance had garnered. A performance that would be worthy of Carlton House in London, and he had received a few cents for it.

She could imagine the thoughts that must go through his head.
My father predicted that I would wind up in penury, performing on a street somewhere.
All work was noble … but to be a street performer, given his history? This was why, even as he brought in funds, his spirits remained low. It must be destroying him.

Vincent stood, pocketed the money, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. Other than the brief moment in which he had made eye contact with Jane, he gave no sign that she was there. He addressed his audience with a ready smile that was as much an illusion as anything crafted of glamour. He appeared to be soliciting requests for a
tableau vivant.

Jane sat down on a bench on the opposite side of the square and watched Vincent work. His routine, she could see, was clever in the way it was constructed. By moving to a smaller scale intended for close-up viewing, he was able to calm his breath without a substantial break in performance. Also, the tightly packed group of observers drew the attention of passers-by, so he gradually accumulated an audience of some dozen people.

But still more people walked past without noting the glamours that he raised above them. Some stopped, but not many. Still, as the audience grew, so did the size of the illusions he crafted, until he ended the set with another shadow play. This time, he performed
The Haunted Inn,
in which a merchant finds increasingly disturbing and amusing ghosts at the inn where he has taken lodgings. In the final scene, a haunted bed chased the merchant down the street. Vincent made the illusions appear to vanish into the distance.

With a bow, he thanked his audience and stood, head down, as the passers-by continued on their interrupted errands. Jane had watched, as transfixed as any of the other members of the audience, though she wanted to stop all those who had walked past without taking note of Vincent’s extraordinary work.

How could anyone fail to recognise the exceptional nature of his craft? Yet scores of people had strolled past without even turning their heads.

Across the square, Vincent shook himself, then stooped to pick up the hat. He tipped it to pour the coins into his hand, not troubling to count the money before putting it into his pocket. He stood slowly, with clear effort. Vincent held still in an attitude that she recognised all too well as that of a glamourist waiting for the grey spots in his vision to pass. She had done the same countless times herself, after far less strenuous work than this.

Jane started across the square, fearful that he had misjudged his limits, but Vincent turned to pick up his coat. He shrugged it on as casually as if he were preparing to go on a hunt at a country estate. Head still down, he walked across the square to meet her, setting his hat upon his head as he did.

“Good evening.” Vincent glanced back toward where he had performed, but avoided looking at her. “I did not lie. The crowd is mostly composed of merchants.”

Jane fell in beside him as they turned their steps to home. “It is quite a good show.”