Glamour in Glass (6 page)

When Jane arrived at her family’s hotel, her father was in the front parlour. She stopped in the doorway to admire the tranquil scene. Sunlight came in through the tall windows of the parlour and made the room gleam as though a coat of liquid glamour had gilded every surface. Mr. Ellsworth’s silver hair became spun gold, and his rosy cheeks promised cheer. He held a newspaper off to the side, reading it as he sipped his tea.

Passing behind his chair, Jane bent down to kiss him on top of his head, noting that either his hair had thinned since she had last been home, or she had remembered a younger version of her father. He lowered his paper, beaming with delight. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

“Well, thank you.” Helping herself to a cup, Jane settled into the chair next to him.

“No Vincent?”

“He is out painting.” Jane busied herself with doctoring her tea.

“Is he well? I noticed he was very quiet last night.”

“We had been very busy these past few months. I think he is simply fatigued.”

“I see.”

Silence rested between them and Jane recognised the quality of it from her father. He was waiting for her to explain further. But what could she say that would not make everyone involved more self-conscious and uncomfortable? Her father, earnest as he was, would take it upon himself to engage Vincent, when that would do no more good than bringing a racehorse indoors and trying to teach it to dance. But perhaps she could explain that much. “He is … You must remember that he is an artist, and something of a hermit besides. Do not read too much into his silence.”

“Your mother is concerned.”

Jane almost dropped her cup. “Why?”

“Because you have not—that is to say, you and he…” He sighed and looked around the room to see if other guests had joined them. “The lack of grandchildren. It weighs on her.”

Jane stared at him, vexed that he would bring up the topic again. “Papa. We have only been married these three months, and you must allow that we have been busy the whole while.”

“Yes.” He shifted in his chair and tugged at his waistcoat. “I think the fact that your mother was … we … well, her confinement began shortly after we were wed.”

Jane frowned and tilted her head to the side, counting the difference between her birthday and their anniversary. “But I was not born till you had been married some three years.”

Her father studied his tea, stirring it with care, though there was no need. “She had some difficulties. You were her third confinement, and so she worries. She worries that you will also have difficulties, and worries the more that … that marriage might not be what you had expected.”

To have this conversation with her father was almost more than she could bear, and yet she was thankful that it was not her mother, who would go on about her concerns and take no comfort in anything Jane had to say.

“There is nothing to worry about.” Jane set her cup down, the taste bitter in the back of her throat.

“Jane, I—” Her father broke off as she stood.

“Yes, Papa?”

“He does love you?”

Cold and heat alternated in Jane’s spine at the insinuation of the question. “Yes. And I love him. Good morning, sir.”

Jane’s first impulse was to find Vincent and lay before him the whole of the conversation so that he could join her in astonishment at the insensibility of her parents. But by the time she reached their rooms, she realized that would be one of the worst choices she could make. To bring these grievances to Vincent’s attention could only make him less comfortable with her parents. Jane sat before her pianoforte and played until her head was somewhat cooler. As she did, she again found herself grateful that their visit was so constrained.

*   *   *

To her surprise, the
rest of the visit passed without apparent upset. Vincent seemed to find a certain peace by attempting to be of some use to her mother. He busied himself with running errands, and in the evening entertained them with shadow-plays. Still, Jane felt that the conversation about grandchildren would resume at any moment, and the lack of them would be cited as a flaw in their marriage.

When it came time to leave London, Jane was nearly as anxious to be away as Vincent was.

So pleased had the Prince Regent been with their work that he had arranged for them to sail on HMS
Dolphin
, the only difficulty being that they would have to hurry to depart, as the ship was set to sail the Monday following. Jane could not say she begrudged the rush in the slightest, as it hastened the moment when she might escape her mother’s examinations.

The January wind whipped off the coast and lifted sails and skirts alike. Despite the chill, Jane stood at the rail of the
Dolphin
, feeling as if a series of stays were releasing their laces with each length they moved away from the shore. Vincent stood at her back with one hand steadying her against the pitching of the boat. Like most professional glamourists, he eschewed gloves even in public. She could not regret this departure from fashion, though she had yet to embrace it herself. The warmth of his hand seemed to travel through her body, and she leaned into him, relishing the waves as an excuse for the public display of affection.

As they left the harbour for the deeper water of the Channel, several of the other passengers bent over the rail, emptying their breakfasts into the harbour, but Jane felt not the least bit of queasiness.

She inhaled the salty tang of the sea air and lifted her face to the sun, relishing the sense, if not the fact, of being alone with her husband. If she could wish away the other passengers and have only this quiet space with Vincent, she would. Still staring at the ocean, Jane sighed. “I wish a
Sphère Obscurcie
could work at sea.”

“Why is that, muse?”

“So that I might kiss you here on the deck without shocking our neighbours.”

Nodding his head toward a particularly unhappy traveller, who leaned over the rail as though worshipping Neptune, Vincent said, “I rather think that they are past being shocked. I wonder if I could work one.” He drew his hand away from her back. Even before she faced him, Jane knew the expression she would find on his countenance. He stared at the horizon, concentrating on some equation in the middle distance. “I have been taught that glamour will not work on a moving ship, but have not had the opportunity to test it for myself. In theory.…”

“Do you ever stop theorizing?”

He brought his attention back and curled the corners of his lips in the small smile that was the most she had seen him give in public. “There are times, yes. You have been present at all of them.”

As the ship swayed, it brought them closer together, and Jane found she did not care what anyone on board thought. She could not recall the last time she had been with Vincent and had no obligations. Here, nothing could make claim upon their time. They had no social acquaintances aboard, nor work to prepare for.

Vincent tilted his head. “What are you smiling about?”

“Well.” Jane took his hands. “You did say this was our honeymoon, and since we cannot work glamour, I thought perhaps there were other ways in which we might pass the time.”

“Indeed there are. I brought my watercolours. Or, if you prefer, I have Herr Scholes’s treatise on the reciprocation of light and shadow.” His face kept a mien of utter seriousness except around the eyes, which wrinkled with amusement.

“A reciprocation, I think.”

“As do I.” Vincent took her hand and looked around the deck, his grip tightening for an instant before he released her. “May I help you?”

He addressed two young ladies—girls, really—who stood not far from them, staring quite openly. The one behind, younger and with a head of dark curls, nudged her sister forward. They were clearly sisters, with the same upturned nose and thick brows. “Pardon, but are you … that is to say … did you?” Her words seemed unable to form into sentences. She suddenly thrust a slender pamphlet at Vincent. “We saw you? In London?”

Vincent took the paper gently, his hand nearly twice the size of the girl’s. “Ah. Yes. You did.”

“I
told
you!” The younger girl nudged her sister again.

He showed it to Jane, steadying the paper against the stiff breeze. It fluttered so that the image on the cover seemed to move. It was an engraving, crude and hastily rendered, of their glamural at Carlton House, with the words “New Year’s Souvenir” emblazoned in large type above it. The text below described the festivities in great detail, mentioning everything from the quantity of cake to the worth of the plate. Jane made a note to let her mother know the figure. Then her attention caught upon a sentence.

The glamural, created entirely by Mr. David Vincent, is one of the most complete …

There was no mention of her.

A penny publication did not signify much, yet Jane could not help but feel that her exclusion confirmed all that she had felt that last night at Carlton House. She was an unnecessary part of the weave of their glamour. Trying to put her sour feeling aside, Jane smiled at the girls. “Did you attend?”

Bouncing on her toes, the younger girl answered Jane’s question, but directed her words at Vincent. She gazed at him with all the adoration a schoolgirl might bring to bear upon an older man. “It was wonderful! Oh! Sir! Mama says you are the best glamourist in England!”

Vincent coughed, his face reddening. “Your mother is very kind.”

“Would you … that is, may I be so bold as to ask…?” The elder girl twisted her fingers together and gazed at him so wistfully that she might have been before a prince in a bedtime story.

Her sister broke in. “Oh, please, sign it! That way we can prove that we met you!”

Her outbursts, which could only be rendered in justice with a superfluity of exclamation points, had begun to draw the attention of their fellow passengers. Vincent, who had no trouble conversing with the Prince Regent without seeming to note his rank, stammered and hemmed. Patting his coat pockets, he looked around helplessly.

Taking pity on him, Jane opened her reticule and produced a small pencil that she used for taking notes while they worked. Handing it to Vincent, she tried to find amusement in the embarrassment he so obviously felt at being singled out for attention. Of course, it was understandable that the pamphleteer would only mention the most famous personages in his accounting of the fête, and Jane was as yet an unknown. But though it was a prideful wish, she hoped someday to see the words
Mr. and Mrs. Vincent
appear with a notice of their work.

“Inscribe it to Miss Cornell and Miss Caroline Cornell!” Miss Caroline Cornell, the younger, bounced on her toes again. “That way our friends will be certain that
we
met you!”

“Of course.” He penned his name on the page below the illustration and began to return it to them, then checked his motion. “Jane?” Vincent offered her the page.

“Oh, no.” Finding herself the sudden object of the girls’ curiosity did much to relieve Jane’s sensation of being left out. She had no wish to be thrust into the public view, only to have her work recognised, and even that was vanity speaking.

“You did half the work.” He pressed the pencil into her hand. Inclining his head to the Misses Cornell, he bowed slightly. “My wife is my creative partner, you see.”

“But … what? That is … I mean … how? What did you do?”

“Did you see the anemones?” Jane asked.

This broke Miss Caroline’s questionable reserve. She darted around her sister to bounce in front of Jane for a bit. “Truly! I loved those! They exactly matched my dress, you know!”

“I am glad to hear it.” And glad too, that she had taken time to adjust their colour.

“Where did you learn to glamour so beautifully?” Miss Cornell managed to complete a question at last.

“Well … I learned from tutors when I was a girl, and the subject interested me, so I read books and practised quite a bit.”

“Oh! We have a tutor too, but he is ever so dull!” Miss Caroline pouted. “I wish you could be my tutor!”

“Would you show us how you made them?”

Jane turned her palms out helplessly. “I wish I could, but the boat is moving too fast.” Seeing the confusion in both girls’ faces, Jane could not help but wonder what their tutor had taught them. “Glamour is attached between the ether and the earth. When we travel, the folds get pulled out of our hands too quickly to govern, so it is not possible to maintain a glamour and have it travel any distance without constant effort. At this speed, it would be too exhausting to be manageable or even safe.” That inability to work glamour at sea was, in fact, one of the things which had kept Britain safe from Napoleon during the war. Any advantage the French might have had through their longer history with glamour was lost when approaching an island nation.

Miss Cornell tugged on her curls, thinking. “Is it like … I lost my pocket handkerchief to the wind. Is it like the wind?”

Jane hesitated, thinking the comparison through. “Somewhat. No metaphor is precise in describing glamour, any more than a metaphor can precisely describe light. We use a mixture of them to touch on the different aspects of glamour.”

Miss Caroline stood on her toes, clapping her hands. “Oh! I always thought it was more like marionettes than fabric!”

Schooling her expression to hide her laughter, Jane asked simply, “How so?”

“Because! You move your hands here”—she waved her hands in front of her in a pattern that could not have produced any sensible expression of glamour—“to create something over here!” She hopped to the left, nearly toppling over with the movement of the ship.

Jane clapped her hands with understanding. “Just so. Yes, you see the difficulty. Embroidery is the closest one can come to describing creating a detailed glamour such my anemones, and yet one cannot embroider at a distance.”

“Why can not people invent words for glamour instead of borrowing from other things?” Miss Cornell screwed up her face.