Without a Summer (10 page)

In spite of the dampness of his shirt, Jane snuggled in and lifted her head to kiss him on the cheek. His skin tasted of salt. “Come to bed?”

He squeezed her close. “Ah, Muse. I shall not be good company tonight. You go, and I will be down shortly.”

She wanted to protest, but recognised his urge to exhaust himself and drive thought from his mind. She could not do that for him, so she kissed him again and went to bed, leaving Vincent to weave webs of glamour alone.

Eight

Feeble Protestations

Vincent did not come to bed until sometime long after Jane had fallen asleep. When she awoke, he was in his nightshirt on the window seat, with one leg drawn up and his elbow propped upon his knee. His head rested against the glass as he stared outside. She doubted he saw anything beyond the window.

When she stirred, he abandoned this pensive stance and greeted her with admirable aplomb. By mutual agreement they did not speak of his upset of the day previous. Still, she saw it in his silence on the way to Stratton House, and in the way in which he applied himself to their work.

Vincent often threw himself into glamour when he was troubled. She could not complain about this tendency since it was one she shared. The urge to have something which one could control, to fold light and have it answer, gave her a satisfaction that no other art did.

They worked through the morning. When Jane stepped back from the birdcage she was rendering for a better view, her fingers ached from the fine work. She rubbed her hands together, trying to ease some of the stiffness.

Vincent was still at work, pulling clouds into being in the sky he had fashioned overhead. Jane wondered anew at her husband’s ability to work delicate glamour from such a distance. She would have needed a scaffold in order to get close enough to manage the folds.

She waited until he tied off the thread he was working before addressing him. “Shall we pause for a nuncheon? I brought apples and cheese with me.” Lord Stratton had been providing them a regular tea, but a bite at mid-day served as a useful break.

“Hm?” Vincent spun, as though he had forgotten anyone else was in the room.

His face paled and he staggered, knees buckling. He dropped heavily. Catching himself before he pitched forward, Vincent knelt on the floor, braced on his right hand, his left pressed to his brow.

Jane was by his side in an instant. She should have been paying more attention. He always worked himself too hard, and she had known he had exerted himself to a great degree last night. Jane steadied him with a hand on his back. Through his waistcoat, she could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

“I am all right.” His voice suggested anything but good health.

She brushed his hair back from his brow, taking his temperature. He was overheated. Jane wove a cooling breeze with her free hand. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“I was only unsteady for a moment.” Vincent straightened, gathering himself to rise.

Jane pressed her hands to his shoulders. “Pray be still for a moment longer.”

“Truly, Jane. It was only because I turned too fast.” His voice sounded steadier, and his breath was somewhat more regular. “This is not unusual. You have fainted on more than one occasion.”

“Yes, but you have a history of working nearly to death and I do not.” She glanced at the door, wishing that they had brought Melody with them today. Jane would have liked to send someone for a cold compress.

“This is not the same.”

“And I would like that to remain true.” She should take him home. Though she did not think he was in serious danger, she did not trust him to govern his own health today. Jane gathered her gown about her and rose. “If you will wait here, I will ask to borrow the Strattons’ carriage.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Sitting back on his heels, but thankfully not rising beyond that, Vincent looked at her with an aghast expression. “We have work to do.”

“The delay of half a day will not set us behind time as much as if you work yourself into an illness.”

“I am fine.” His voice was sharp, but he still did not rise. “When I became ill, I had been working till dawn for a fortnight.”

“Can you tell me that you did not work glamour until nearly dawn?”

Vincent opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. He scrubbed his hair and grimaced. “I begin to see why other couples keep separate bedchambers.”

Jane pressed her advantage. “Can you tell me that you slept last night? At all?”

“I tell you that I only lost my balance for a moment.” Vincent pushed himself to his feet, not entirely holding back a groan. He straightened and brushed his waistcoat off. “It has passed. You see? I am fine.”

“And I am getting a carriage.” Jane took his hand, squeezing it. “Please. Do not let him do this to you. You will make yourself ill, and for no cause.”

Her husband stared at the floor, lips tight. A drop of sweat trickled from his brow unheeded and followed the line of his cheek. He gave a single nod. “Very well.”

Relieved, Jane squeezed his hand again and left the ballroom. Lord Stratton could usually be found in the library at this hour, so she sought him there. As she neared the open door, she caught the edges of a heated conversation. One of the participants spoke with a strong Irish accent. Through the door Jane could make out words such as, “Cannot allow—” and “Luddites” and “learn from history.”

Then, Mr. O’Brien’s voice carried clearly out of the library in a full sentence. “If we must, we will march on Parliament itself.”

Startled, Jane stopped on the threshold. Mr. O’Brien was addressing a young man with dull brown hair and spotted cheeks. He wore the clothes of a servant, complete with deep green knee breeches and coat. Only the want of a wig kept his habit from being full livery, although even then it would not have been from the Stratton household.

Both men started at her appearance in the library doorway. Mr. O’Brien’s countenance showed his alarm with a flush of deep red. He removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. “Lady Vincent. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Affecting not to have overheard anything, Jane came farther into the room. “I was hoping to speak to your father and arrange for the use of the carriage. I am afraid that Sir David has taken a turn, and I should like to see him home with a minimum of fuss.”

Settling the spectacles once more upon his nose, he made no acknowledgement of the other man in the room, as though he were nothing but a servant. “He is not ill, I hope?”

“Oh, no. Nothing so severe. It is not unusual for glamourists to sometimes over-heat when working. It will pass, but with the weather so cool, I do not want to chance him catching a chill.” She smiled with what she hoped was a demure expression. “He will not admit to it, of course.”

“I understand, quite well. We men are as prone to infirmity as any lady, but are trained from an early age to deny it. I envy your husband for having you to watch over him.” His colour had almost returned to normal, although his cheeks might have been a trifle pinker than before. “Of course, you may have the use of the carriage.”

The other man stood in silent attention, as though he were awaiting orders. He looked past them both to the wall.

“Thank you, that is very kind.” Jane glanced to where the man looked, and saw that his gaze was fixed upon the crucifix hanging there.

“I will have the carriage waiting at the front door for you.” Mr. O’Brien crossed the room to her side. “Your
tableau vivant
at the Prince Regent’s skating party yesterday was quite wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Jane let him lead her toward the door.

“I must admit that I have been so intent on my studies for the past few months that I did not recognise your name when we met, though I have come to understand that I should have. My friends are beside themselves with envy that we have engaged the Prince Regent’s glamourists.”

“That is very kind.”

“How is Miss Ellsworth?”

“She is well, thank you.”

“And is she with you today? I had looked in the music room, but did not see her.”

“She stayed home today.” Interesting that he appeared to have sought Melody out, though it was
possible
that the inquiry was simple courtesy. Still, Jane could not help but note that his interest seemed to coincide with learning that they were “the Prince Regent’s glamourists.” She smiled at him. “I am grateful to you for your kindness to her yesterday.”

“Ah … well, she seemed not entirely comfortable. I thought she might appreciate the opportunity to skate.”

“I believe she enjoyed it.”

“Did she?” He stopped by the door, a smile brightening his face. “I am glad to hear it. Well. I shall call that carriage for you right away.” He stepped out of the library with her and closed the door behind them. The nameless servant stayed in the room.

As Jane went back to the ballroom to retrieve Vincent, her thoughts were in a tumult. What had Mr. O’Brien been discussing when she entered?

*   *   *

Vincent protested again when
Jane came to fetch him, but the waiting carriage served as better persuasion than any of her words. It would be thoughtless to call for the carriage and then send it away unused. Jane waited until they were at home and in the privacy of their bedchamber before she felt comfortable speaking to Vincent about her concerns.

Thankfully, Melody was out shopping when they came home. Jane shut the door, reminded uncomfortably of Mr. O’Brien closing the library door on the nameless servant. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I felt fine there.” Vincent eased off his coat and hung it over a chair by the fireplace. The fire had been laid but not yet lit. They were home during the day so rarely that they had no doubt caught the servants off guard. “I would feel better if we were still working.”

She had no wish to review that question, and so changed the subject as she walked to the hearth to light the fire. “I overheard something odd at the Strattons’.”

“Mm?” He crossed to her and took the matches off the mantelpiece. “Let me. You will dirty your dress.”

“Thank you.” They could call for someone to light the fire, but Jane wanted Vincent to herself for a while. “Mr. O’Brien was talking to a serving man who was not in Stratton livery. He said, ‘If we must, we will march on Parliament itself.’”

Vincent raised his eyebrows. “In what circumstance?”

“I hardly know. I heard him mention Luddites, but he does not seem the type.” Jane leaned against the mantelpiece as he struck a match. “They had been having a conversation with some heat before I arrived, but I only heard a few words. I did not mean to hear even that much.”

He held the match to the kindling and a twist of smoke rose into the air. “But it was unavoidable?”

She struck his shoulder playfully. “Stop. It was not as though I were eavesdropping. The door was open, so I could hardly help it.”

“Then it must not be anything terribly diabolical, or the door would have been shut.” The thin piece of wood caught and Vincent sat back on his heels with a grunt of satisfaction.

“But they seemed so surprised when I entered. I think they thought it
was
shut.”

Vincent pushed himself to his feet and grasped the mantelpiece. His hand clenched the marble and he stared straight ahead with the half-vacant expression that Jane recognised as another dizzy spell.

“Are you all right?”

He let go of the mantelpiece and turned away from her. “I was thinking of what plays might have lines such as this. They were, perhaps, practising for amateur theatricals.”

Jane frowned, considering. “But the serving man was not in livery from the Strattons. He was in green, and had left his wig off.”

“No wig!” Vincent dropped into a chair in front of the fire and stretched his legs out in front of him. “I am shocked. Shocked.”

Jane glared at him. “You are not taking me seriously.”

Vincent pulled at the ends of his cravat as though wishing to shed it. “Do you want to change out of your work dress?”

“Yes, thank you.” Jane sat on the arm of his chair. “But I can fend for myself quite well.”

“I am not actually ill. I am fully capable of untying laces. There is no need to coddle me.”

Jane held up her hands in conciliation. “I know you are not, but I want to keep you healthy. Having almost lost you once, I am perhaps overcautious, but I would rather ask you to humour me than … than any alternatives.”

Vincent let his head fall back against the chair and scowled at the ceiling. “I confess that I am not certain what you fear. About Mr. O’Brien, that is. You have made your fears abundantly clear with regards to me.”

She let his ill temper pass as the sign of fatigue that it was. Her husband could be the very definition of a curmudgeon. “My fear is that Mr. O’Brien might have meant that he is planning a march on Parliament.”

“Why?”

Very slowly, Jane enunciated, “Because that is what he said.”

“No, I meant, why would he march on Parliament?” Vincent rolled his head to regard her. “Do you want help with your dress?”

“Thank you, yes.” Jane sighed at his continued attempts to change the subject, but turned so that he could undo her laces. Resolutely, she returned to her purpose. “I do not know why he would march, but consider: his loyalties might lie in Ireland or with the Pope.”

“It seems unlikely. Who tied this knot?” He tugged at the back of her dress.

“You did.”

He snorted and tugged again. “I might have to cut it. Muse, I did not think I was fatigued, but this knot … I must have been half-asleep.”

“More than half, I think.” Jane turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, favouring him with a smile.

He humphed in reply, but she did not regret pulling him away from the Strattons. Deep circles lined his eyes, and his lids were half lowered. “Did our Mr. O’Brien say anything else of import?”

“He asked after Melody.” Her dress loosened suddenly as Vincent released the knot with a cry of triumph. “I worry, Vincent. Recall how he began to flirt with Melody at the skating party? What if he is interested in her because of your connection to the Prince Regent?”