Glamour in Glass (5 page)

He sighed again and opened his eyes, lifting the lid of his desk to rummage through it. Amid his other correspondence lay a letter written in French with another layer of tiny script crossed over it.

Holding it close to his eyes so he did not need to lift his head from Jane’s ministrations, Vincent scanned the page. Marking his place with his index finger, he said, “Here. Chastain says, and forgive my translation, ‘The effect of the double-weave is such that from one position in a room, the glamour appears to be, let us say, a tree, and from the other a woman. The transition from one to the other happens without a seam so that the tree seems to become the woman as the viewer walks about it. At the moment, these are but rough glamours. However, if I can perfect the technique, then one might have two glamours, complete in their own right, and merely by changing one’s relationship with the illusion, one can completely change its nature.’ He goes on with some unsatisfying descriptions of the weaves he is using, without enough exactness to duplicate.” He peeked up through his eyelashes at Jane. “Does that remind you of anything?”

Jane shook her head. “I am afraid you have the better of me.”

“My
Sphère Obscurcie
. On the exterior it bends the light around so that viewers believe they have an unobstructed view of whatever lies opposite, while masking that which lies in its interior. But the view to a person
within
the bubble is unobstructed.”

Jane nodded, as she followed his train of thought. “The twist in the glamour creates, in essence, two layers of fabric like a damask, which keep the interior from being either a mirror or a dark sphere. And you think his jacquard would enhance the effect?”

“I do not know, but I am curious to see what it is that Chastain has created, and with the war against Napoleon there has been no opportunity before this.” He traced a finger across her wedding band. “Besides. I have never given you a proper honeymoon.”

Jane laughed and caught his hand. “Oh, love. Yes, let us go to the Continent. But you do not need to tempt me with any more reason than that there is a glamourist whom you wish to visit.” She rubbed his temples, inducing him to shut his eyes once more. The Continent sounded like a grand adventure. The only cause for chagrin was that she had counted on visiting her family once their work here was finished. Her mother would be so distraught to hear that they were not coming.

“What is the matter?” Vincent lifted his head, seeking a better view of her.

“Pardon?”

“You sighed.”

“I did? I have no recollection of that.”

“Nevertheless, you sighed just now.” He waited and Jane wished for a moment that he might not know her moods
quite
so well.

“I was only thinking about the difficulty of telling my parents. We should have them to dine with us on Monday.”

He lowered his chin, and, with only the slightest compression of his lips, expressed his lack of enthusiasm for this suggestion. “Of course.”

Jane sighed in earnest now. “Is it really that distasteful for you to visit my family?”

“It is not distasteful.” Vincent worked his jaw, and then blew his breath out in a groan. “I esteem your family, but I will own that I am not comfortable with them. There is no place where I fit.”

“You are my husband. My parents look on you as family.”

“Yes, but … but your family has practice at being with one another.” He picked a loose thread off the sheets, examining it rather than her. “I do not even have practice being with my
own
family.”

Jane felt heartbreak for him. With all of her family’s faults, Jane could not imagine a world in which she was not intimately connected to each of them, or doing without all the benefits of family, which only one who has been truly loved as a child can appreciate. Chief among her wishes was that Vincent might appreciate her family as she did, and likewise, that they would begin to see those qualities in him that she esteemed. “Perhaps rather than avoiding time spent with them we might practice together?”

“Of course.”

Holding back another sigh, Jane stroked away the new furrow that had appeared in his brow. This was another type of knot to learn to tie.

Four

Family and Consideration

To contrast the dinner at the Vincents’ home with that at Carlton House would be distinctly unfair, and yet the comparison was unavoidable in Jane’s mind. With only her parents, her sister Melody, and Vincent present, they made an intimate company, which was fortunate, as the rooms they had let were insufficient for dining with more than eight. Though neatly furnished, it was with the dark wood that had been stylish in Jane’s childhood, and lent a material weight to the rooms, which not even glamour and candles could quite dispel. The chief feature, and the reason they had chosen the rooms, was that they backed onto a park shared by Carlton House. The Prince Regent had offered to have them in residence, but the Vincents, being newly-weds, had chosen the modicum of privacy which separate rooms allowed.

Jane’s family had arrived in London on the Thursday prior, but aside from one brief morning visit, there had not been sufficient time for company while engaged in preparations for the fête. Jane had briefly seen them among the press of guests, but her attention had been too distracted for her to do more than smile.

The first course of dinner was taken up with her mother exclaiming about the spectacle and pondering the worth of the plate on display. That accomplished, they began at once to catch her up on the news of the neighbourhood. The Dunkirks were not in residence, and rumour had it that Mr. Dunkirk planned on letting Robinsford Abbey. Banbree Manor had a tenant already, a general and his family, who were respectable but without any eligible sons.

During her mother’s recital, Melody pushed her roast lamb across the plate, as if focusing on that could take her away from the table. Mr. Ellsworth watched her, rubbing his chin, and cleared his throat to change the subject. “That is all well and good, but I want to hear what Jane has been doing.”

Jane’s account of their work drew Melody’s attention back to the room. Jane could now see that her sister was still paler than she ought to have been after the unfortunate events of the previous autumn. She made a note to take Melody aside and hear how she had fared while Jane was away.

“Well … you have seen the most of it. We do have some important news, though.” Jane looked to the foot of the table for support. Vincent smiled at her, but seemed more than willing to let her explain their plans. “We are going to a town near Brussels to spend time with a colleague of Vincent’s. It is a tremendous opportunity.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Ellsworth pressed her serviette to her mouth. “Oh! Jane, I do wish you would reconsider. I cannot understand what you could be thinking, to go off to France like that. It is too, too dangerous, and full of immoral characters. Why, just the other day, we heard the most appalling thing about dancers in Vienna with skirts cut above their knees.”

“Mama, Vienna is in Austria, not France. And, in any case, I have told you that we are going to Brussels, which is in Belgium.”

“But you have to travel
through
France, and that is every bit as bad as if you were choosing to remain there. And what if something becomes of me while you are gone? It is all very well for you to be sweeping off to London, but in France, how shall we contact you? How shall you hear from us?”

“I shall give our address to Mr. Ellsworth.” Vincent inclined his head to Jane’s father.

“There now, you see, Mama? We are staying with a colleague of Vincent’s. He has letters from M. Chastain regularly, so I am certain it will not be a difficulty for you to write to us.”

Melody tossed her head, honeyed ringlets swaying. “I think it is the most exciting thing. You must write to us and tell us all about the fashions. La! I am so enamoured of everything I see from the Continent, and simply beside myself that you are going abroad.”

“Well … we will be in a village. I do not think fashions will be much the order of the day.” Jane shook her head. “Besides, I imagine most of our time will be spent in the laboratory working glamour.”

“Oh!” Mrs Ellsworth threw up her hands in dismay. “You will not still be working glamour, will you?”

“Well, yes, Mama.” Jane stumbled in her recital. Her parents had just witnessed the glamural, so she could not take her mother’s meaning. As glamour was widely considered a womanly art, it was far more unusual that Vincent should pursue it than she. “That is what we have set out to do, after all. The commission from the Prince Regent has served us quite handsomely so we can take some time to study.”

“I only meant, that I am surprised that you are still
able
to work glamour. To think of you continuing … It is beyond my understanding.”

Jane then saw the reason for her mother’s surprise. Vincent had very nearly died from an over exertion of glamour the previous summer, and Mrs. Ellsworth’s imagination had been overwrought since then imagining the same dire fate for Jane. “I am stronger than I was, in fact. Folds that once would have fatigued me seem quite easy. I attribute it to the consistency with which we were working.”

“Really, Jane, it shocks me. I worry so about the risk. It is terrible, what you are doing. I wish you would not. Indeed, I must insist that you do not take such a risk.” Mrs. Ellsworth leaned back in her chair and fanned herself. “I do not wish to make any implications, but it shocks me, truly it does, that your dear husband would let you.”

“It is not a matter of letting, madam. I should not wish to undertake the work without Jane at my side.”

“We are careful to pace ourselves and do not court fatigue.” Jane omitted any mention of the extra hours that Vincent would sometimes work, seeing no reason to bring her mother further alarm.

“My dear Vincent, I would not argue with you for the world, but I must differ with you. Yes, I must. You must see the risk this carries for Jane!” Mrs. Ellsworth wrung her hands. “Oh, I do wish you were no longer working glamour.”

“But, Mama,”—Jane, concerned that every fear Vincent had about her parents was coming true, wished that the length of the table did not separate her from her husband—“you knew we were set on being glamourists. I do not see how I am to do that without performing glamour.”

“La!” Melody laid her hand on Mrs. Ellsworth’s arm. “You would save time, Mama, if you would simply say that you want a grandchild.”

“Of course! That is what I have been saying these last fifteen minutes. How could you think I was saying anything else? My meaning was perfectly clear. I am certain that Jane understood me, but she is too obstinate to allow that she did.”

A grandchild. Nothing could have been farther from Jane’s mind. She could not answer her mother. She had assumed that she and Vincent would have a family, but had not thought about what it entailed for the work they did together. If she had to stop working glamour for nine months, what would that mean for them? To be certain, Vincent had been working as a glamourist alone for far longer than they had worked together, but Jane so enjoyed the process of creation with her husband that she could hardly imagine taking any joy from being forced to stop.

And yet, was not the creation of a child the most important collaboration they could undertake? They had never spoken of children, and Jane realized that she did not know what Vincent’s feelings were about them. Perhaps he had no wish to be a father. His face betrayed nothing, though his figure was tense. But that could be attributed to fatigue, or to the unwitting censure which her mother had heaped upon him.

“Well.” Mr. Ellsworth tucked his fingers into his waistcoat. “I, for one, am glad that you are still performing glamour and hope that we might prevail upon you to favour us with some music tonight.”

“Charles, she is too tired. Are you not too tired? I know I would be, if it were me.”

“No, truly I am not.” Grateful for an opportunity to silence her mother’s conversation, Jane signalled their borrowed footman to clear the table. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?”

At one point, she had thought that the expense of renting a pianoforte in London had been needless, as she had not had freedom to play it more than a few times toward the beginning of their stay here. Now, though, she silently blessed Vincent for insisting that she not give up her music.

Lifting the cover, Jane stroked a few random notes from the pianoforte to refamiliarize herself with the instrument. Vincent had brought her sheet music for an étude by Beethoven but she had yet to try it. Opening the music upon the stand, Jane followed the suggestions on the score to enhance the simple, pleasing tune with a fold of colour which hinted of birds flying amidst a whirl of blossoms. As she continued, Jane realized how long it had been since she had taken time to play or to create a glamour for pleasure rather than purpose. Her fingers were no longer as accustomed to the keyboard as she might wish, but she could not help but be pleased by how easily these simple glamours came. Jane wondered if she might create more elaborate images with her music with practice. How could she give that up to have a child?

Bringing the étude to a close, Jane was gratified by her family’s approbation. “Wonderful!” “How we have missed that!” Even Mrs. Ellsworth seemed to have forgotten her objection to the glamour.

The rest of the evening passed in simple conversation, but Jane could never fully enjoy it. Her attention was split, noting Vincent’s silence, and how he only ventured to speak if someone directed a comment at him.

Thankfully, her family seemed not to notice, but if the pattern continued, surely they would. The initial pleasure that Jane had felt at welcoming them to dinner transformed into relief that their visit would be so short.

*   *   *

The following morning, Jane
rose with the intention of visiting her family before their mutual journeys separated them. Vincent declined the opportunity to accompany her, saying that he wanted to paint the Battersea Bridge and catch the morning light. After the fiasco of the previous evening, Jane could hardly blame him for wanting to escape under the thinnest pretence.