Without a Summer (5 page)

“They have gone,” Jane said, though the boy could surely see that on his own.

“I know. I wasn’t sure how far I could move.” His vowels marked him as being a Londoner born and bred. “This is a clever thing you’ve done. Thank you.”

Vincent nodded absently, still watching the street. “I will bring the carriage over. Jane, will you unstitch the
Sphère
?”

She agreed, and they were shortly in the carriage with the young coldmonger only visible for a brief moment. Once settled, with Jane and Vincent on one bench and the young man on the other, the carriage pulled away from the greengrocer.

“Before we go too far, I have two questions.” Jane offered him a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his temple. “First, do you have a safe place to go? Second, what happened?”

“Thank you ma’am, I do: the Worshipful Company of Coldmongers.” He dabbed at his temple. His hands had the characteristic rough, chapped skin of a coldmonger and his knuckles looked as though they had cracked many times over, leaving pink scars on his fawn-brown skin. “I oughtn’t to have left, but I saw the snow and I was hoping for work.”

Vincent opened the window and leaned out to direct the carriage driver. He had a shouted conversation and was very red in the face when he pulled his head back in. Jane raised her eyebrows in question. He compressed his lips and shook his head slightly, which she took to mean that the carriage driver had objected to the destination but that Vincent had convinced him otherwise.

She patted his knee in thanks, then turned back to the coldmonger. “I confess some confusion: I thought snow would mean
less
work?”

“Oh, it does and all. Most of what I do is keep food cool or help get groceries home without them wilting in the heat. Days like this, though, are the only time I can make things freeze. Can’t drop the temperature far enough otherwise.” He shrugged and looked bewildered. His lower lip trembled a little. “I ain’t never seen nothing like it. Not in all my days.”—which, as he continued to speak, Jane considered amending to about twelve years old. “I was just asking these grocers if they needed ice, same as I always do in winter, and people just started yelling. And then there were a lot of them. And the fellers with the signs … I don’t know where they came from.” He lowered the handkerchief and twisted it in his grasp. “I’d heard other ’mongers talking about it, but … I thought they were having me on.”

Vincent stirred and spoke to the lad for the first time since they got into the carriage. “Other coldmongers have been beaten? Or other riots have sprung up?”

“Both, I should say.” He huddled into his coat, miserably.

“What is your name, dear?”

“William.” He half-laughed and knuckled his ear. “My friends call me Chill Will, but I reckon I shouldn’t use that right now.”

Jane hid her smile at the ridiculous name. “Likely not, nor wear your armband outside the Company for a time.” She put her hand on Vincent’s arm. “To complete our introductions, this is my husband, Sir David, and I am Lady Vincent.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Not the Prince Regent’s glamourists? Cor! The lads’ll never believe it when I tell them. And here I was telling you that you were clever.” He dropped back against the cushions of the carriage in astonishment. “I ain’t never thought, in a million years—it beats all, it does.”

His astonishment could not be greater than Jane’s at being called the Prince Regent’s glamourists. It was true that they had done a number of commissions for him, but they had no title to show for it. It was not as though they were the Principal Painter in Ordinary like Sir Thomas Lawrence or the Master of the King’s Music like Sir William Parsons. Jane paused, wondering if preparing Vincent for a formal position as Court Glamourist had been part of why His Royal Highness had raised her husband to a knighthood last year. While the Prince Regent had said nothing about making such an offer, he had also made his preference for Vincent’s work quite clear.

It did not bear thinking on. She smiled at William. “I am glad we were able to be of service.”

The carriage took them through a less reputable part of London, and finally stopped in front of the tall iron gates of the Worshipful Company of Coldmongers.

Vincent climbed out of the carriage with young William and saw him safely to the porter at the Company’s gate. When he returned to the carriage, he was shaking his head with amusement. “You have an admirer, I think.”

“Me? You were the one who frightened off the mob.”

Vincent put his arm around her and pulled her close. He kissed the top of her head. “But you were the one who charged into the middle and kept him safe. I could hear him telling the porter about it all the way into the building. I believe you are seven feet tall and carry a bow.”

Laughing at the image, Jane burrowed closer. They occupied the rest of their ride home ascertaining that neither had been hurt. This required much of their attention, and many tender kisses to scrapes that another might have deemed too small to notice.

*   *   *

When they arrived home,
Mrs. Brackett met them in the foyer before they even had their coats off. “You have callers. Miss Ellsworth is entertaining them now in the front parlour.” Her mouth turned down as she spoke.

Jane pulled off her pelisse, thankful that most of the dirt from their encounter was on that long, sturdy coat. “Callers?” She looked to Vincent, who frowned. They had not yet paid any calls to let their few London acquaintances know they were in town.

“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Brackett lifted a silver tray from a side table and displayed the abundance of cards upon it. It looked as though half a dozen people had called during the course of the day. “The two gentlemen whose cards are on top are with her presently. I have sent Betsey in to keep things proper.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brackett.”

Their cards proclaimed them to be a Mr. Robert Colgrove and a Sir Prescott Worrick. The latter name sounded somewhat familiar, though she could not place it immediately, but the quality of the cards proclaimed them both to be gentlemen. Still, she had trouble applying that honour to them if they were paying a social call to a young woman to whom they had not yet been introduced. It would be quite a different thing if they were known to the family.

Beneath their cards was one Jane was glad to see. “Oh, we have missed Major Curry. Did he have the opportunity to meet Miss Ellsworth?”

“No, madam. I told him the family was out, as was proper, with the young lady at home alone.”

“Quite right…” Although if she were to trust anyone with her sister’s honour, it would be the Major. In fact, it might be worth making an introduction for other reasons. Though not a great match in terms of his situation, in terms of his person, Melody could do far worse than attach the Major. It was something to consider. For the moment, however, Jane needed to turn her attention to the gentlemen now in their home. She handed the cards to Vincent. “Do you know them, my love?”

“No.” He chewed on his lower lip, frowning.

“Well, I suppose we should go in. Perhaps they are our neighbours?” Jane examined her reflection in the mirror, as she removed her bonnet, to make certain her mobcap was still straight after the riot. With the cap in place, it was difficult to tell that her mouse-brown hair was cropped like a gentleman’s. She had cut it short the previous summer and kept it so because it had more life that way and was frankly cooler when they were working glamour. It also amused her to see fashionable ladies turn their heads and stare.

Vincent made a strange grunt. She turned from the mirror to see that he had turned quite pale, with a deep crease between his brows. He held an elegant card of simple cream. The corner of the card had been bent down to indicate that the individual had called, not simply sent a footman.

“Who is it?”

“My sister.” He stared at the card, then tossed it on the side table. The cream card slipped along the marble surface, coming to rest against a vase.

In a clean script, it read L
ADY
P
ENELOPE
E
SSEX
.

Jane had known he had sisters, of course, though Vincent had called her Penny on the few occasions when he had spoken of her. “The youngest?”

“Yes.”

She put a hand on his back, feeling the tension there. “What is it?”

Vincent sighed, pressing his lips together. “Penny was always my father’s favourite.”

“Is this a reason for concern?”

“She would not—without his … I have not heard from her since I left.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I had not looked for her card.”

Vincent had been born Vincent Hamilton, the third son of the Earl of Verbury. His father had not made his early life anything like easy, and Vincent had been estranged from his family since he had decided to become a professional glamourist. Jane was uncertain which offence his father considered greater: that he worked for a living, or that he worked at glamour, a womanly art. “Do you think your father knows?”

He shook his head, then shrugged as though he did not even have the resources to hazard a guess. “Shall we go in?” Without waiting for her reply, he strode into the parlour. The lines of Vincent’s back were tight and his carriage stiff.

Jane followed, wishing she understood fully what about this familial visit upset him.

*   *   *

In the parlour, Melody
sat in one of the straight-backed chairs by the sofa. She wore a celestial blue day dress that set off her eyes to advantage. A heavy cream wool shawl warded her from some of the chill. Behind her, Betsey presided over the tea tray, but spent most of her time glancing at the two gentlemen who shared the room with them. Jane dismissed her with a nod and the girl bustled out of the room.

The sofa was occupied by a gentleman of advanced years who had maintained his fighting trim. With a hawk nose and a full head of grey hair, he reminded her a little of the Duke of Wellington, but without his quickness of gaze. The other gentleman was the same age as Melody, and saw them first. He rose, making a pretty figure in his buckskin trousers and blue jacket. His hair was a fashionable brunet, but his eyes were shockingly pale, almost without colour.

The older gentleman stood and introduced himself to Vincent, as was proper. “Sir Prescott Worrick, sir. I am the first cousin of Miss Ellsworth’s mother, and I thought I would welcome you to town. This is my nephew, Mr. Colgrove.”

Of course! Her mother often corresponded with Lady Worrick, as they were prone to the same nervous complaints and were first cousins.

Vincent bowed gravely and returned the courtesy, introducing Jane as “My wife, Lady Vincent.”

Then he was silent, leaving Jane to make an effort at pleasantries. More than his usual discomfort with strangers, Vincent wore a brooding expression as he stood by the fire. Jane sat in the chair opposite Melody, so the other gentlemen would feel at their ease again. She smiled at Mr. Colgrove. “Then we must be second cousins.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Colgrove bowed from his seat but seemed to feel that some additional explanation was owed by their presence in the parlour. “Miss Ellsworth was passing through the foyer when we arrived to leave our cards, and was kind enough to invite us to take tea with her.”

“It was so cold outside, and they were quite covered with snow.” Melody shivered becomingly. “The tea was already laid, and it seemed silly to send our cousins out again.”

By which Jane took her to mean that the day had been tedious and that Mr. Colgrove cut a handsome figure. “Quite understandable. And it gives us the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” A second cousin was not so closely related as to be considered ineligible. No doubt that was why her mother had written to Sir Prescott of their presence in town. “I am delighted that Melody was able to act as hostess in our absence. Have you been in London long?”

“Oh bless me, no.” Sir Prescott chuckled and patted his knee. “I always come up for the Season, and I brought Robert with me this time. The weather has played us quite the trick, though.”

Mr. Colgrove inclined his head toward Melody. “I cannot mind it, since the day has been so fair in other ways.”

“As we are cousins, you need not wait for snow to bring you next time.” Melody touched the sofa, next to his arm.

Sir Prescott turned to Vincent and Jane. “Which brings us to one of the purposes of our visit. We are having a party for Robert’s birthday on the thirteenth of May. He will have achieved his majority. We do hope you can join us. A formal invitation will be coming, of course, but from what your mother says about how hard you work, I thought it best to extend the invitation early so as to save a spot on your calendar.”

“That is very kind.” Jane glanced at Vincent, but he was even more inscrutable than usual. Although her husband disdained most company, the party would nevertheless be a good opportunity to introduce Melody to more young people. “We would be delighted.”

Melody pulled her small appointment book out of her work-basket. “Here, I shall mark it down in my diary. Such a joy to look forward to.” She smiled at Mr. Colgrove as she wrote in the little book.

Jane raised a brow at this obvious display. It appeared her mother was quite correct to send this young man their way.

“Excellent.” Sir Prescott beat his knee with pleasure.

“I only hope the weather improves by then.” Mr. Colgrove chuckled dryly. “I do wish you could make it warm, Sir David.”

Vincent turned from his place by the mantel. “You are welcome to stand by the fire.”

“Surely a glamourist of your calibre does not need a fire.”

A muscle clenched in Vincent’s jaw. His temper showed the effects of more strain than a sister’s visit ought to cause. Jane stepped in before her husband could reply to the ignorance, and poured a cup of tea for him so that he would have something to do with his hands, which were currently clenched. “Heatmongering is deadly, I am afraid.”

“But I have done warming charms for my brandy when hunting,” Mr. Colgrove protested.

“I should advise you not to do so.” Vincent took a sip of tea as though to calm himself. When he spoke again, his voice was tolerably indifferent. “The folds outside the visible spectrum are injurious, though one might not notice when warming a thing so small as a flask once a year. To start a fire or heat a room would kill a man before the day’s end.”