Valour and Vanity (8 page)

“That is the very thing.” Indeed, Signor Sanuto may have acquired his at this shop.

“Shall I send it with the other items?” The tailor took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the steel clean of smudges before returning it to the shaft of the cane.

Vincent said, “Should we take it with us, Muse?”

“I think so.”

Nodding, the tailor wrapped it in brown paper, tied with a bit of twine. “Is there anything else?”

Jane cleared her throat and looked to the window so that her bonnet would prevent her from seeing the tailor’s judgement. “Yes. It is rather irregular, but I shall also require a pair of buckskin trousers.”

“Ah—planning ahead for Carnevale.”

Jane turned her head with astonishment. Even Vincent made a sound of surprise. She had been prepared to tell a story about a fancy dress party, when the truth was that she would not be able to wear muslin so close to a glassmaker’s furnace. To have the notion of a woman in trousers accepted so easily was beyond her expectations.

The tailor pulled a piece of paper from his tablet and scribbled a name upon it. “The usual course is to have your measurements taken at the
modista
of your choice and then I make them to fit. Signora Bartalotti does lovely work, and we have cooperated before.”

Jane dropped a curtsy in thanks. This would also solve the problem of how to replenish her own wardrobe without taking further advantage of Signor Sanuto’s kindness.

With the formalities completed, the Vincents returned to the street, cane and a small package of stockings and other inexpressibles in hand.

Sighing, Vincent shook his head. “You understand that I am committed now to two more visits.”

“It did not seem such a hardship as you made it out.”

“The man knows his craft, so that makes it easier.”

“Hm.” Jane arched her eyebrow at his evasion. “Was there any trouble with our letter of credit?”

“None at all.” He rubbed his hair. “It was deuced uncomfortable to be without resources.”

“Do you think we will have any trouble without our letters of introduction?”

“I hope not.” They turned off the main street and went in search of a glassmaker.

Five

Interview with a Glassmaker

Without their notes, which had been lost with the ship, it took the Vincents some time to find one of the glass factories. Working from memory and directions from a street performer, they eventually made their way to a narrow street, little more than an alley. It led towards a little courtyard formed where two of the buildings were set back from the street. A pair of stable doors led out of the building to their left. The small sign over the doors said
PIETRO NENCI: VETRI D’ARTE ALL’INSEGNA DI S. GIOVANNI—PIETRO NENCI: ART GLASS UNDER THE BANNER OF SAINT GIOVANNI
.

Vincent tried the door, which was locked. He knocked on it. Some moments later it opened, and a slender young man with a heavy leather apron stepped out. Jane caught a glimpse of the glowing yellow maw of a glass furnace through the door before the man pulled it shut behind him. He addressed them in Italian, clearly recognising that they were not local.

Vincent replied in the same language, “Could Signor Nenci spare a moment? We have a commission we wish to discuss with him.”

The young man seemed entirely indifferent. “Who is calling?”

“My name is Sir David Vincent.” He hesitated as though considering adding more of his credentials, but checked himself. Though they had originally carried letters of introduction from His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Vincent had a natural modesty that would prevent him from claiming the acquaintance without proof.

Shrugging, the young man left them and slipped through the door again, opening it only wide enough to enter himself. He left them standing in the street.

Nearly a quarter hour passed before a stout man in the rough linen of a labourer opened the door and stepped out into the street. He, too, pulled the door shut behind him. “Yes?”

“I am Sir David Vincent. This is my wife, Lady Vincent.” He paused, waiting for the man to introduce himself as well, but the glassmaker simply scratched the stubble on his chin. “We want to commission you for a project that is somewhat unusual in nature.”

“Leave a drawing with my assistant, and we’ll get back to you about price.”

“The unusual aspect requires us to be present while it is being made.”

Nenci squinted at them and scratched his chin again. “Happy to make any design you want, but you can’t watch.”

“It is crucial that we—”

Nenci barked in laughter. “Bold, aren’t you. No.” He turned to go.

“Pardon?”

Barely turning his head, he replied, “I don’t take kindly to spies trying to steal my trade secrets.”

Vincent inhaled sharply. “You have mistaken our intent.”

“Have I? You are English. We’ve already lost enough trade to you and those cursed hacks in Bohemia who think they can drop in and ‘observe’ without us understanding what they’re after.”

“We are glamourists. We are here to conduct an experiment that—”

Nenci stopped and wheeled on the spot. “You think a story like that will fool me?”

Jane stepped forward to give Vincent a moment to govern himself. “I assure you that it is true. If you would like, I can exhibit my abilities.” She reached for the ether and sketched a rose in the air.

The glassmaker snorted. “Is that supposed to convince me? Any young lady can do as much. My own daughter covers half the house with her glamours.”

Vincent seemed to expand as he drew an angry breath. His hand moved as he reached for the ether, but no glamour followed. He let the breath out as if the glassmaker had punched him. Jane laid a hand on Vincent’s arm to soothe him. Even if he were in best health, no exhibition could possibly sway this man.

Face pale, Vincent took a step back, spun on his heel and walked away.

Jane turned to follow him, calling back to the glassmaker. “Thank you, sir. It seems clear that our funds are best spent elsewhere.”

“Good luck with that. There are only three other glassmakers in Murano who work in blown glass. They’ll all give you the same answer.”

Jane hesitated in astonishment. “Only three others? But the guidebook—”

“Was written before the Fall. Do you know why there are only four of us? Because of lying thieves like you.” He wheeled around and stomped back into his shop. The door shut, and this time there came the unmistakable sound of a lock being engaged.

Jane hurried after Vincent. The tails of his coat flapped behind him as he strode down the narrow street. “Vincent, wait.”

He checked his stride and stood in the middle of the street, head down. As soon as she gained his side, he began walking again. Spots of red burned high in his cheeks.

“What happened? When you—”

“When I could not catch hold of the glamour? Just that.” Vincent’s mouth twisted.

“But you could see it?”

“Yes. Yes, I could see it. I could touch it. I failed to have the requisite control to manage it.”

Jane sighed with some relief. If he could still see and touch it, then the blow had done no permanent damage. “It will just be a matter of time.”

“It is worse than it was.”

“Only because you are more tired, I think. The boat ride across … You must give yourself time.”

Scowling, he turned on to the main street. A flurry of nuns in black and white passed them. Vincent stepped to the side to allow them to pass, and then continued on.

Jane took his hand. “Where are you going?”

Watching the canal, he pulled free of her grasp to rub the back of his neck. “To try another shop.”

“Shall we return to Ca’ Sanuto, instead? It will not hurt us to wait another day or so.”

“And give Nenci time to talk to the other glassmakers? Even if I am useless—”

“Stop. Was I useless when I was”—Jane forced herself past the words and the memories attached to them—“when I was with child and unable to do glamour, was I useless? No. As you so often reminded me.”

Vincent found her hand and squeezed it. “I am sorry.”

Shaking her head, Jane returned the pressure of his fingers. Some activity would do him good. Part of what had driven Jane mad when she was increasing was the forced inactivity. Vincent was prone to brood as it was, and so defined himself as a glamourist that an afternoon spent at home would likely make him more miserable than not. “No need for apology. Still, you are correct that we should not give Signor Nenci an opportunity to prejudice the other glassmakers against us.”

Vincent agreed, and they continued on by the canal. Yet each glassmaker they visited gave variations on the same refusal to allow them to watch the glass being made. Their manner was not so blunt as Signor Nenci, but the denial was just as steadfast.

Footsore, Jane and Vincent made their way through the streets to Signor Sanuto’s, rather than chancing Vincent’s equilibrium in a gondola.

“Muse, I am at a loss.”

“We could … we could return to Binché.” It was a location with painful memories for both of them, but nothing else there was harmful. “We had success at the La Pierres’ glass factory. And the Chastains would be happy to see us.”

He nodded, walking on in silence past Venetians who went about their shopping, carrying baskets of fish or produce. The occasional tourist blocked the walk, gawking at a display of glass. Vincent sighed, and then again, with resignation. “We had discussed that, but the quality of the crystal is better here.”

“I do not think it will be good enough to get a glass that works without full sunlight.”

“But it might.” Vincent scrubbed his hand through his hair. “That is the rub of it. Not knowing. Wanting to try the better glass.”

“What of Bohemia? It is where the fashionable glass is coming from these days.”

“In some ways that worries me more. It seems more likely that the technique would slip out there. I want to keep this close, until we have a better understanding of how it works, what it can be used for…” He rubbed the base of his neck again, grimacing. “Perhaps we should return to the house.”

It was not like Vincent to give up, but after the trouble they had experienced getting here, she felt that a certain sense of dismay was entirely appropriate.

*   *   *

The walk through the
streets of Murano, with its graceful courtyards and the grand palazzos overlooking the canals, should have delighted Jane, but her thoughts could not keep away from the flat refusal of any of the glassmakers to listen to their proposal. Then, too, there was the unlooked-for expense of the pirate attack. Though she would have spent any amount to keep Vincent safe, the fact was that removing themselves to Bohemia, in the hope that the glassmakers there would be more receptive, was more than they could afford at present. As it was, when they finished here, they would have to return to England and begin accepting commissions again at once. They had possessed the necessary funds for this trip, but the trouble with travelling so far from home was that one needed to bring along all of the money one might require. Planning for an extended stay in Murano, as they had been, had called for the proverbial “deep pockets.” Were it not for the kindness of Signor Sanuto, they would have been in sore straits indeed.

At times, Jane missed the relative simplicity of her life as a gentleman’s daughter, when she had to worry about nothing more than what gown she was going to wear to dinner. But to give up her art would be impossible; she loved the challenge of exploring their craft. But in this moment, faced with a difficult problem, a part of Jane very much wished that she were still a little girl who could go to her papa to fix everything. The rest of her mind was turned toward finding a solution to their problem.

Vincent, too, seemed lost in preoccupied thought as they strolled back through the streets to Ca’ Sanuto. She suspected that the crease between his brows was only partially from their failure to engage a glassmaker. It must drive him mad to have so much difficulty with glamour due to his current state.

When they arrived back at the palazzo, they found a message asking them to join their host on the balcony for an apéritif. Signor Sanuto sat on a chaise lounge that had been carried outside for his use. A pillow lay under his injured knee, and a table with a silver bell sat within easy reach.

At their approach, he turned his head. “My dears! I am glad you are home.”

“Thank you. We were beginning to feel that, aside from our present company, no one was happy to see an Englishman here. Speaking of presents…” Jane slipped the cane out from under Vincent’s arm. “We have a small token for you.”

She was rewarded by seeing their host’s face soften as he recognised the shape. “You did not…” He stripped the paper away and revealed the ebony length. A twist of the handle revealed the sword within. “You did.”

A suspicious moisture brightened his eyes. Signor Sanuto looked at the canal and cleared his throat. “Lady Vincent … Sir David—though I regret the circumstances, I am most pleased to have met you.” He slid the sword back into the sheath and tried the length of the cane. “Just right.”

“It was Jane’s idea.”

“You have married a remarkable woman.”

“Believe me, I am well aware of this.” Vincent looked at Jane, not their host, as he replied, and his expression was filled with a tender regard that stopped her breath.

Signor Sanuto pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it under his eyes quickly, before making a show of shining the wood. “I well believe that. Now”—he looked up, smiling—“I hope that I may count on the pleasure of your company until your friend returns. Then I will relinquish you to his prior claim.”

Jane and Vincent shared a look of the sort which comes with knowing perfectly the mind of “the partner of her life.” A rise of the eyebrow, imperceptible to an outsider, replied to by the smallest inclination of the head, comprised the whole of their visible conversation; and yet, within that, they discussed the sincerity of Signor Sanuto’s invitation, the fact that he was a man whose company they enjoyed, and the reality that neither of them had a desire to remove themselves to a hotel in service to notions of propriety that had no bearing here. In truth, Jane rather thought she would prefer to remain here even after Lord Byron’s return.