Valour and Vanity (9 page)

Vincent bowed to Signor Sanuto. “We are at your service. Thank you.”

“Excellent. I am so very glad.” He gestured to the chairs that had been drawn up on the balcony. “Join me, please.”

“How is your leg?” Jane took the nearest seat, while Vincent moved to the parapet and looked out over the canal.

“Provoking, but otherwise improved from this morning. I shall need to be gentle with it for a day or so, and then it will be quite all right.” He shook his head. “I am only happy that my wife is away, or I should not be allowed to leave the house for days. Weeks, perhaps.”

“My mother also worries incessantly.”

“She is usually right, though. And I will confess, it is sometimes pleasant to have my daughters fuss over me.” He took a sip of wine. “Have you any children?”

“No.” Jane turned away and reached for the bottle on the table. “More wine, sir?”

Vincent turned from the view. “Has your family had the palazzo long?”

Signor Sanuto raised his eyebrows, but in no other way showed surprise at their barefaced attempts to change the conversation. Jane bit the inside of her lip. It had been a harmless question, or at least not a question intended to harm. It had been nearly two years since her miscarriage, and she should be beyond the point where the want of children would cause her discomfort, yet she was grateful to Vincent for stepping into the conversation.

Vincent led Signor Sanuto on a discussion of the palazzo and the history of the family, including several doges over the years. Pouring wine for Vincent and herself, Jane rejoined the conversation, and they spent a happy quarter hour discussing the various points of historical interest in the structure. Vincent sat in a chair by Jane and sipped his wine as they chatted. The conversation drifted, as it often does, to broader points of history, and then to more particular points. They learned about the ferro on gondolas, which gave them their distinctive prow, and that the English word “ghetto” derived from the Jewish Quarter in Venice, which was called the “ghèto.”

Signor Sanuto paused mid-story and raised a finger to his lips. He nodded at Vincent. Jane’s husband sat in his chair, but his head had sagged forward and he had clearly fallen asleep. Most of the wine remained in his glass, which he held loosely in one hand, so she thought that it was the lingering effects of the blow to his head more than anything else.

Jane whispered, “Forgive him. He has had a trying day.”

Signor Sanuto nodded his head. He beckoned her closer. Moving as silently as she could, Jane rose and came to perch on the edge of his chaise lounge.

In a low voice, their host said, “What happened to distress him, if I might inquire?”

And here they came again to their secret. Jane did not feel quite right about dissembling, but with Vincent asleep, she also had no opportunity to ascertain his feelings on sharing the nature of their visit. She chose to offer the same initial explanation they had given to the glassmakers. “We had hoped to commission a glassmaker, but no one wanted to work with us.”

“Who did you try?”

“All the glassblowers. We started with Signor Nenci.”

Signor Sanuto rolled his eyes. “Oh,
him
. He is notorious for being suspicious even among glassmakers. I am not surprised you made no progress there.”

“They all seemed to think we were English spies.”

He winced. “It has been hard for them. Venice used to be funded almost entirely by our glass industry, but now … it is a poor remnant of its former glory, and much of that can be laid directly at the feet of apprentices who came to learn and then left with the craft. The glassmakers have earned their right to be suspicious. Perhaps … It occurs to me that I might broker an agreement for you. Sometimes such things are easier done if handled by a local.”

“You have already done so much.”

He shrugged. “You were badly treated when you arrived, and I want you to return home with many happy stories of Venice. It is no trouble. I am accustomed to bargaining.”

“I have the direct benefit of that.” Jane turned to regard Vincent, whose face was slack and exhausted. “Thank you. That would be most obliging.”

“It is no trouble.”

“There is one more thing.” Jane hesitated. This was no more than they were telling the glassmakers. If Signor Sanuto were to help them, he would need to know this much. “We are curious about the interaction of glamour and glass. Because of this, we need to be involved in the process of making the commission. Do you think you can arrange this? It seemed to be the point that most concerned them.”

Signor Sanuto rubbed his mouth, considering. “And you must be present.”

“Indeed.”

“They are notoriously private.”

“So we have experienced.”

“There is a newer glassmaker, Signor Querini, a client of our bank. He is not as established, but perhaps more willing to take a chance because of it. Shall I speak to him?”

“That sounds ideal.”

“Very well. Are there any details that may help sway him? If I can convince him that there may be additional profit—”

Jane shook her head. “We are exploring this for our own education. We would, in fact, prefer that no one be aware of our work.”

“I see … Well. Consider it done.” Signor Sanuto nodded toward Vincent. “I wish I could help him in other matters.”

*   *   *

There was a delay
of some days while Signor Sanuto arranged for a meeting with Signor Querini, the glassmaker he recommended. This allowed Jane time to visit the
modista
and acquire a small wardrobe of her own.

Vincent’s head also had the opportunity to clear, so that by the time of their appointment with the glassmaker, he pronounced himself quite fit. Jane withheld judgement, noting that he rubbed the base of his neck more than his usual wont. Still, it was the only outward symptom of discomfort, and he was steadfast in his assertion of health. Indeed, in the gondola ride from the palazzo, he gave no hint of illness.

Signor Sanuto had them disembark at Calle Angelo dal Mistro and climb the short wooden flight of stairs from the canal to street level. He waved Vincent’s help away and hauled himself up using his cane and the railing embedded into the side of the canal. At the top, he consulted a piece of paper with the glassmaker’s direction written upon it. “This way, I believe.”

They walked to the next street, when he stopped and shook his head. “My apologies. It is the opposite direction.”

Jane gave him a smile. “The number of times I have been lost in Murano, it makes me feel better to know that a native also gets turned round.”

He flushed a bit, but nodded. “This is not a part of the island I often visit. After a certain point, one tends to make the same familiar rounds and allows the knowledge of the other areas to fade. Ah, here is the street.”

From there he led them down several twists and turns, until Jane was certain that they would walk back into the canal, but he at last brought them to a small unmarked door in the side of a low stucco building. Signor Sanuto knocked on the door with the head of his walking stick.

After only a moment, the door opened and an enormously fat man poked his head out. His face lit up. “Signor Sanuto! Welcome, welcome … and these are your friends? Come in. Please come in. Mind the step. Mind your dress. So much soot—I should have warned you. We try, but the furnaces, you see. So much soot.”

The furnaces had been apparent from the moment they stepped through the door. Two large brick ovens dominated the far side of the glass factory and made their presence known through the heat they pushed across the room. Each had a glowing oven in the side filled with molten glass. The furnaces were operated by a number of men, who went about their work with dedicated focus.

“Please, have a seat. Here.” He had a few chairs drawn up to a roughly constructed desk covered with samples of glass and a few scattered work orders. “Now, what can I do for you? Signor Sanuto has been so kind as to suggest that I might be suitable for your commission, but there were some aspects that were not quite clear. He says that you wish to be present?”

Vincent nodded. “We are experimenting with the effects of glamour on glass. The object itself is simple, only a sphere, but we need to be present while the glass is being worked.”

Querini frowned and tugged on his little finger. “We? Signor Sanuto only said anything about ‘a glamourist.’ That’s one. ‘We’ is two.”

“My wife and I.”

“A lady can’t go anywhere near a furnace. There’s Signora Caspari, but she only makes beads, and that’s just a small furnace.”

“We have worked with a glassmaker in the Netherlands. When we did…” Jane shifted in her seat, suddenly embarrassed to admit this indiscretion in front of Signor Sanuto. “When we did, I wore buckskin trousers, and plan to do so again.”

“Worked with another glassmaker!” He broke off, plump cheeks mottled red, and turned to Signor Sanuto with a torrent of Venetian.

Wincing, their host held up his hands in a placating gesture and uttered words that were clearly intended to be soothing. Jane bit the inside of her cheek. She had quite forgotten the suspicious nature of the other glassmakers, and had intended only to reassure the man that she was aware of the dangers. Vexed with herself, she lowered her head and let her bonnet block out the sight of the conversation, which was quickly becoming an argument.

Vincent took her hand. He leaned over and murmured. “You will worry a hole in your new gloves.”

She smiled, but it did not soothe her much. She held his hand, occasionally catching the sound of her name or Vincent’s in the midst of the flowing Venetian. Then the conversation shifted, and she suddenly recognised numbers.

They were close enough to Italian for her to identify them, but what had caught her ear was the rhythm. Signor Sanuto had begun haggling.

Jane lifted her head. Querini was standing in front of his bench with his hands set upon his wide hips. By the look of concentration on his face, he was not going to give ground easily. Neither, it was apparent, was Signor Sanuto.

Then the same number repeated. One hundred. Both men said it; then said it again, and then nodded.

Signor Sanuto let out his breath in a huff and turned to the Vincents, rubbing his hands as though his next task was to get them to agree to the same bargain. “Signor Querini has agreed to work with you for a weekly rate, rather than per item. He is requesting one hundred pounds a week in exchange for the education that you will be getting, in addition to the cost of the glass itself.”

Vincent frowned. It was far more than they had paid M. La Pierre back in the Netherlands, but they had come to Murano because of the quality of glassmaking. Still, it was more than either of them had expected.

Signor Sanuto’s mouth twisted as though he had tasted something sour. “He would also prefer for you to work at night, after their regular work is done, so that there is … there is no interference with his regular workers.”

By which Jane took him to mean that they would not be able to steal any of the glassmaking secrets, since there would be no one else in the factory save them.

“Because it is after their regular hours, he will only be able to work for four hours a day, and then only every other night, with Sundays off.”

Four hours. Three days a week. That meant he would be receiving nearly eight pounds for each hour of work. Jane’s father had tenants who paid that much for their lodging for the year. It was a scandalously high sum.

“Might I have a moment to speak with my wife?” Vincent’s words were precise to the extreme. He stood, brushing his hands off on his trousers.

“If you will pardon us.” Jane also rose, and together they stepped out into the street.

Vincent shut the door behind them with a great deal of care, but Jane could see the muscles clenching in the corner of his jaw.

“A moment, please, Muse.”

“Of course.”

Vincent stalked down the street, trailing a string of mutters in German, French, and possibly Latin, and stopped in front of a blank wall. He flung out his hand and snatched the ether, pulling a thread of deep red and wrapping it around him. Random colours and shapes appeared from his efforts, roiling in a visible expression of his outrage. The mass bore no resemblance to the delicate work of which he was capable, but if art was to be judged for its ability to convey emotion, then this laid forth a clear picture of a man pushed to his limits.

Jane had half a mind to join him. The audacity of the man’s proposal. It was as though he knew that they had no alternative—which, upon reflection, he probably did, through having spoken with the other glassmakers. Vincent stood panting with effort at the end of the street and wiped the glamour away. He came striding back, with his chin tucked deep into his cravat. He wore a scowl such as he had in the days when she first met him. She had become so unused to seeing that expression that it made her recognise how accurate his friends had been when they said that marriage to her had lightened him. He was still a gruff and often grumbling bear, but he was no longer angry.

He strode past her, holding up a finger to indicate that he needed another moment. He gained the far end of the street, spun, and repeated the circuit. By the time he had begun his return, his pace had slowed and his head had lifted. His brow remained lowered, but the danger that he might bite someone had greatly diminished.

“Better?”

“No. And now I have a piercing headache as well. D—ned concussion. Only work at nights? We shall get nothing done.”

Jane shared his indignation, but practise dealing with her mother had given her an extra store of patience. “It is far from ideal, and it means that our progress will be slow, but it will happen.”

He stabbed his finger toward the glass factory. “That man is taking advantage of us.”

“I know. I feel the same.”

“You seem calm enough.” Vincent ran his hand through his hair and clutched the back of his head with a groan.

“I am vexed, but I see little alternative save to leave. We had no luck on our own, and Signor Sanuto has managed to convince one glassmaker to work with us. Only one.” Jane bit her lip and looked at the ground. She shook her head, irritated to be forced into this. “Do we have a choice?”