Without a Summer (17 page)
If possible, Mr. O’Brien became even redder. “Ah—yes. I enjoy the dance because it allows one more opportunity for conversation, since one is not moving away from one’s partner throughout the dance.”
“I see … for conversation.”
Melody laughed at her sister and patted Mr. O’Brien’s shoulder. “Do not mind her. She is taking her part as my chaperon with over-seriousness.”
“Yes.” Vincent put his own hand on Jane’s shoulder. “And, for the moment, she has promised this dance to me. Now … this appears to be the dance position. Do I have this right?”
Mr. O’Brien cleared his throat again and studied them. “Yes. Only. Your hand should be … well. Here.”
“On her back?”
“Yes?” His voice cracked. “At least, that is how they dance it in Vienna.”
“Ah.” Vincent slid his hand under Jane’s arm to rest upon her upper back. She was aware of the warmth of his arm along her bosom, even through the layers of muslin.
The music began, then, and other couples moved into motion around them. Vincent stepped into the pattern of the dance, moving Jane away from her sister before she could object.
“What are you—”
“I am trying to enjoy dancing with my wife,” he murmured. “I have just realized that this dance does not require me to talk to anyone besides you. I might find it tolerable.”
Tolerable was high praise indeed, for Vincent. If Jane were not so worried about her sister, she might look forward to the prospect of future waltzes.
The faint silver light of dawn trickled through the curtains of the Vincents’ bedchamber. Across the room, the shadowy shape of a maid knelt by the hearth to light the fire. Wood smoke teased Jane’s nose, promising future warmth. She snuggled deeper under the counterpane, waiting for the fire to heat the room sufficiently to exit the bed. Quiet as a mouse, the housemaid crept out of the room with her basket of kindling and matches.
The door shut behind her with a click.
Vincent sat upright, throwing aside the counterpane and letting in a blast of cold air. Jane made a moue of protest and snatched the cover back over her as he sprang out of bed.
“Sorry, Muse.” He tucked the counterpane carefully around her shoulders. “Idea.”
“About?”
“Glamural.” Dressed only in his nightshirt, he rooted around on the desk for a piece of paper and a quill.
Jane sat up, clutching the covers to her chest. “My drawing book is in the top right drawer.”
He grunted his thanks and pulled the drawer open. Sitting at the desk, he started to write in the half light of the fire and the little bit of dawn visible through the curtains. Jane crept out of bed, wincing as her legs were exposed to the air, and pulled on her dressing gown. It should not be this cold in June, even in the morning.
She threw back the curtains, letting in the grey light from another day of rain. It was no wonder that illiterate members of the populace thought that the weather was so unnatural that some agent, such as coldmongers, must be to blame. She lit the candle on the desk and put it near Vincent’s elbow to light his paper.
Standing at his back, she kneaded his shoulders absently. Not until he lifted his head and half-turned did she understand that their intimacy had become something to be noted and remarked on of late. Vincent wet his lips and returned to his work.
Jane did not allow her movements to falter, though she silently cursed Vincent’s father. The whole of the fault lay in his quarter. To introduce so young a boy to a lady of easy virtue could only give the understanding that such things were acceptable. Small wonder that while he had remained in that house, Vincent had felt free to avail himself of her services. He had ceased going when he came of an age to understand—though another might suggest that Vincent had also left his father’s house to go to university, and therefore it was not to be expected that he would continue to seek Miss de Clare out over so great a distance.
Jane could only reflect on what her husband had said about feeling safe. University had been a safe time for him in other ways, as was their life together now. His father sought to destroy that by saddling Vincent with old, painful recollections. Jane would have none of it.
She bent down to kiss Vincent’s neck. “I love you.”
His quill caught on the paper and ink spattered across his words. Lifting the quill from the page, he laid it aside and turned in his seat. He took her hands, cradling them. His deep brown eyes were clear and expressive. “If you do not know by now, you own me, heart, mind, body, and soul.”
Jane felt a rush of heat from her toes to her middle. Words fled her capability. She bent to reassure him of the sincerity and conviction of her love.
Vincent wrapped his arms around her. “Muse, you are trembling.”
“I am cold…” She found the tie at the neck of his nightshirt and pulled it open.
Without a word, Vincent stood and lifted her in his arms. He carried her to the fire, and together they lay before it.
* * *
After a period of
delightful intimacy, made all the more precious because they had seen how easily it could be lost, the Vincents dozed by the fire with the counterpane pulled over them. The day had barely brightened as the sun fought through the clouds. Jane’s head was cradled on Vincent’s shoulder, and he smoothed her hair with his other hand as they watched the flames.
Jane ran her hand down his cheek. “What was the idea you had?”
“The one you mercilessly distracted me from?”
“Yes, that one.”
“It occurred to me that it would be nice to give the glamural some birds’ song.”
“But it would clash with the musicians when they play.”
“I thought to use the area of silence, which Mr. O’Brien asked for, as a counter to that.” Vincent rolled onto his side, displacing her. Propping himself on his elbow, he sketched his idea in the air with quickly rendered glamour. “I was trying to make notes so I would not forget, but … If I create another area here, which contains birds’ song, and then create a sort of
bouclé torsadée
that can be changed from one to the other … you see?”
Jane narrowed her eyes and considered. Vincent had created a rough rendering of the ballroom, complete with musicians’ gallery. Overlaid on that were glowing lines representing the glamour he was proposing. At one end of the musicians’ gallery, a ball represented the birds’ song. Next to the ball was the musicians’ retreat that Mr. O’Brien had requested. A twisted thread of glamour represented the
bouclé torsadée
and stretched from the ball to the closest bird cage. Rather than travelling in a tube through a house to carry orders,
this
would carry the sound across the ballroom, creating the illusion that the birds were singing.
If Jane understood what Vincent was proposing, all that would be required to silence the birds would be to move the
bouclé torsadée
from the area of birds’ song to the area of silence. The chief advantage was that the two areas were close enough to each other that it would require only limited abilities with glamour to be able to move the thread between them. Many musicians had enough ability to manage that. Even if that were not the case, in all likelihood, the Strattons already employed someone conversant enough in folk glamour to manage it.
“You are surpassingly clever.” She traced a finger through the fine hair on his chest. “What gave you the idea?”
“Last night’s dancing, of all things.” He fell back on the carpet. “As we were going up through the centre, I was thinking that it was much easier to bear than standing on the sides without you. It made me think of the speaking tube passing through the middle of the house. The jump from that to this … is more difficult to explain, I grant.”
“It is still ingenious, and I look forward to attempting it.”
Vincent stretched, pushing his arms over his head and arching his back with a moan of pleasure. He tilted his head to look at the window. “Speaking of which, I suppose we had better go to work.”
Jane groaned. “But it is so warm here.”
“You will be warm enough once you start managing glamour.” He sat up, again exposing her to the air, though this time she was wearing considerably less clothing.
With a small shriek, Jane snatched the counterpane back and huddled under it. “This is most unfair.”
Vincent tugged the bottom of the blanket with a playful smile. “I can make it more unfair.”
“Rogue.”
“Certainly.”
Rather than risk being exposed once again, Jane clambered to her feet. While one of the things she loved about Vincent was his devotion to his art, at times she wished that he would allow for distraction.
Still, she had to admit that she was excited about his idea. It was a variation on a few existing techniques, but the combination of them was particularly clever. Where Vincent’s differed was …
Another thought struck Jane. “If we do this, is there a reason not to offer multiple choices of sound?”
Vincent paused with his buckskin breeches in his hand. He stared at the fire, working his jaw in thought. “Possibly…” He perched on the chair and pulled his breeches on. “That might require devoting more area to the effect than is warranted. I thought of this because we already have the silenced area.”
“Hm…” Jane pulled her chemise on over her head.
They happily discussed the theory and practice of glamour as they dressed. By the time each was fully clothed, it was all Jane could do to convince Vincent to go down to breakfast rather than up to the studio to make a trial of the glamour. They could try it at the Strattons’ house when they got there.
When they arrived in the breakfast room, Melody greeted them with such radiant spirits that Jane silently blessed her husband for thinking of dancing. Her sister had not wanted for partners the previous night, and though Jane might not approve of them all, there could be no denying that the attention had fully restored her bloom.
She had dressed carefully for breakfast, with her hair already in an artful arrangement. From the glow of her cheeks, no one would have guessed that she had spent half the night dancing. Rather than her usual linen morning dress, Melody wore one of her muslin frocks with a full ruche of lace around the hem. Around her neck, she had tucked the Brussels lace fichu that Jane had brought her from the Continent.
“You look lovely this morning.” Jane put some potatoes on her plate, glancing over at Melody. “Are you going out?”
With a slight frown, Melody shook her head. “No, today is an At Home day.”
The sausages looked nicely browned this morning. “Ah. I had not realised that you had set up a routine. I am sorry that I have been out so much.”
“You cannot—” Melody set her fork down on her plate and bit her lower lip with distress. “Jane, are you going to work today?”
“Yes, as soon as we finish breakfast.”
“Oh.” The note of disappointment in her voice was not successfully masked, but Melody did not say anything else.
Vincent reached past her for a slice of toast. “Are you expecting anyone in particular?”
“I—well, yes.” Melody pushed her fork around with one finger. “It is just … I mean … I do know that you have to work. Only. Only, after the dance last night … you see?”
Jane set her plate down on the table, trying to follow Melody’s broken explanation. “I am afraid I do not quite take your meaning.”
“It is just…” Melody looked miserable. “I do understand that you have work to do.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “It is often common for a young gentleman to call upon a lady with whom he danced on the morning following.”
“Ah.” Jane studied her sister, who in turn studied her plate. Growing up, Jane had rarely danced. There had been frequent dances in their neighbourhood, but once she had realised that no one would ask her to stand up except by necessity, she had offered to play the pianoforte instead. It had given her some relief to make it a decision to not dance, rather than a consequence of being plain and awkward. By the time Melody was Out, Jane had become so fixed in her place that she had not noticed this social nicety at play.
“I see.” Jane smoothed out her serviette and laid it in her lap. “And you cannot receive these gentlemen without a chaperon.”
Melody nodded. “But I do not want to be a bother. They may leave their cards. And perhaps Sir Prescott will call with Mr. Colgrove. That would be all right, would it not? As they are cousins?”
Jane looked across the table at Vincent, who met her gaze with a disappointment as clear as Melody’s. He bit his lower lip and idled with his knife. Inclining his head a little toward Melody, he nodded.
Jane sighed. She wanted to go with him. Oh, how she wanted to go and work. Her fingers fairly itched with the urge to pull glamour from the ether. And yet … and yet, she and Vincent had invited Melody to London with a purpose.
Though the matter was already decided between them, Jane asked aloud, for Melody’s benefit. “Do you need me today, Vincent?”
“I can get on quite well alone.” He compressed his lips in his private smile. “And I promise to pause to eat.”
“Thank heavens for that.”
Vincent picked up his coffee cup and winked at her over the rim. “Melody, that is the real reason that your sister insists that I not work alone.”
Melody raised her eyes from her plate, perceiving only the fact that Jane would stay. “Are you certain?”
“Of course.” Jane was certain she would remain. She was less certain that she would enjoy it. Still, she had a fondness for her sister and enjoyed her company, so the day would have that, at the very least, to look forward to. If Mr. O’Brien should call, then Jane had good reason to stay and keep an eye on the gentleman. She could not forget quickly the familiarity that he and Melody had shown each other the previous night. With luck, Major Curry would call as well, and she could have the pleasure of his company. Melody wanted only a little encouragement to look upon him favourably.
