Of Noble Family (41 page)

For several long moments, the shock held everyone in place. Then, Dr. Hartnell said firmly, “Mrs. Pridmore!”

“Let go! Let me go!” she shrieked, sobbing. “I will see you hanged! We have friends. Do not forget that! We have friends here!” Still sobbing, she was half led, half carried through the crowd, all of whom stepped back with murmurs at the spectacle.

Hands shaking, Vincent released Jane. She turned, her shock giving way rapidly to useless fear now that the danger was past. He had closed his expression off so it seemed severe, but nothing more. Holding her at arm's length, Vincent ran his gaze over her person. “Muse? Are you all right?”

“Shocked, only. You should not have done that, she—”

“The baby.” He let go of one arm and wiped his face. “As soon as you moved—her aim changed. Down.”

That was the only moment of comparative solitude they were granted. The crowd that had stood back during Mrs. Pridmore's actual assault now rushed around them, wanting to hear all the details.

In the midst of this, Mrs. Whitten appeared. “Shall I call your carriage?”

“Yes.” Jane had no need to consult Vincent when his body spoke with such eloquence of wanting to escape. “Forgive me, but yes.”

With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Whitten nodded. “Good. Because I suspected as much and already did.”

She extricated them from the crowd, making their apologies for them, and in short order, had Jane and Vincent out of the ballroom and in the carriage. Vincent leaned back against the seat with a heavy sigh. He winced and straightened again.

“Did she hurt you?”

“No … although, remarkably, she lands a more solid punch than her husband.”

*   *   *

On the Sunday following
the charity ball, Jane and Vincent prepared for a different event. With the assistance of Frank and Nkiruka, they had arranged a thank-you dinner for the glamourists who had helped create the glamural and their families.

Nkiruka held the violet satin petticoat out for Jane and helped her pull it on.

As the older woman reached for the black net frock she would wear atop it, Jane sighed and pressed her hands against the base of her spine to massage the dull ache there. It seemed as though her back almost always hurt these days.

“De picknee hurting you?”

“Oh no.” It was only when Jane stood, or sat, or laid down. She slipped her arms through the full sleeves. She should not complain about the aches attendant on her condition to Nkiruka, of all people. “You should go on and get ready. Vincent can help me with the rest.”

“Pfff … he ah glamourist. Not hairdresser.”

From his place by the window, Vincent raised a brow at that. He had put on his breeches before Nkiruka's arrival, but he had been turning his shirt over and straightening his waistcoat for the past quarter-hour. Covering a smile, Jane leaned towards the older woman and lowered her voice. “I know, but he is too modest to dress with you here.”

Patting her hand, Nkiruka winked and left without further protest, although her chuckle was audible after the door closed.

“I could have used the dressing screen.”

“I am certain you could have.” Still, that was not Jane's chief reason for sending the older woman out. She pulled open a drawer and withdrew a small package. “But … it occurred to me that today is the nineteenth of July, and in the nearly four years of our marriage, we have always been in the midst of some crisis on your birthday.”

He stared at her and at the brown paper parcel in her hands. The severity of Vincent's countenance made most people assume that he was older than his one-and-thirty years. In this moment, he seemed younger and almost lost. His mouth worked for a moment, until he cleared his throat. “I … I am not in the habit of marking the day.”

“Well, I will not make a fuss as if you were reaching your majority.” She handed him the package and kissed him on the cheek. “But I liked having an excuse to do a little something for you.”

“Thank you.” His voice was low and rough.

“You have not opened it.”

She watched him keenly as he undid the string tying the paper shut. It was not often that she was nervous about what he would think, but this particular gift had enough of her in it to prompt tremors of anticipation. Inside the paper was a case, smaller than the palm of her hand, made of the local sandbox tree. The thorns of the tree had been sanded away, leaving a pattern of small burs in the smooth wood. It had been polished with beeswax until it shone as though glamoured. Vincent undid the catch and opened the case. Through an ingenious system, it unfolded into a small trifold frame. Frank had arranged the case for her, but Jane had painted the small watercolours within it. On the left was one of herself, and the right held one of Vincent.

The centre was empty yet.

“Muse…” was all he managed to say before pulling her into an embrace. His other approbations did not require language to understand, which was fortunate, since neither of the Vincents had the ability to speak for some time.

When they emerged from the room to welcome their guests, Vincent had the miniature frame tucked into the inside pocket of his dinner coat. It was so slender the outline did not show, but his hand drifted to his breast pocket from time to time. Jane caught Frank's questioning gaze as they stood in the foyer to welcome the guests. She gave a little smile and a nod to let him know that the gift had been well received.

If Lord Verbury had still been in residence at the great house, Jane doubted that it would have occurred to her or to Vincent to open the dining room for anyone. He would hear of it, of course, but simply having him under a different roof made it easier. By Frank's account, Lord Verbury even seemed to be enjoying his stay, which she attributed to the influence of his youngest granddaughters. At the tender ages of six and eight, they possessed such winning ways that even his lordship was not immune.

They had sent the carriage and the wagons from the distillery for the slaves from the farther plantations. Jane had no idea how Frank had convinced the other estate owners to agree, but she suspected that it involved invoking their station as the Prince Regent's glamourists. As the first wagon pulled up and its occupants alighted, Jane stepped onto the veranda with Vincent to meet them. “Jeannette, so lovely to see you. Is this your husband?”

The stout, matronly woman had recovered from the fire at the distillery quite well. Most of her burns had been mild, as she had been some distance from the boiler, for which Jane was grateful. Jeannette did her best curtsy and poked her husband in the side. “Yes, ma'am. This is William Smith.” She wore a simple calico dress, a little faded, but painfully clean. William Smith wore dark trousers, mended at one knee, a white shirt, and a neckcloth of rough cotton.

Jane welcomed them, regretting that she had chosen to wear her formal gown. As they went in, she turned to meet the next couple. The woman bore a strong resemblance to Amey, with round cheeks and the same warm tones to her skin.

“Please be welcome. My husband, Sir Da—” Jane cut off as the pain that had been in her lower back reached around her entire middle and squeezed. On instinct, she reached for Vincent. Jane had felt this particular pain before. That time she had tried to convince herself that it was only a cramp.

“Jane! What is— Oh, God.”

“No—wait. This happens to some women.” She had to believe that. This had to be a false labour. “Give me a moment.”

Vincent turned to the interior. “Frank!”

Jane put her hand on her lower back and forced herself to straighten. “There. See? It has passed.” She took a breath, trying desperately not to cry. The front sweep was full of wagons, and she put on a smile for them. The woman still stood in front of them, watching her carefully. Jane could not remember her name in that moment. “Please come inside and be welcome.”

Vincent took her arm. “Jane … come away.”

“There is nothing to be done.” She swallowed. “Either I am in labour in earnest, in which case we have some time, or, this was a false labour, which seems likely. Let us see what happens before resorting to panic. You recall how long Melody's delivery was.” She was speaking to herself as much as to him, because the third possibility sat between them.

She did not let him argue, simply turned and greeted the next guest. Jane had no idea what she said—she relied on her education to carry her through the social forms of introductions and welcome. What little part of her was not turned inward directed itself towards Vincent, who hovered by her side, going through the same forms as Jane.

He turned away from her only once, when Frank arrived. She half heard the hurried conversation and knew that they were sending for Dr. Jones. Beneath her fa
ç
ade of civility, Jane was too terrified to tell them not to. Deep inside, she repeated to herself,
Not again. Please God. Not again
.

And then she greeted the next guest and the one after that. As five minutes turned to ten, and then ten to fifteen, Jane began to relax. Women in her neighbourhood had been afflicted with these pains. So long as they were irregular—or, please God, there was only one—she had nothing to worry about.

Then another pain started in her back and her entire middle tightened again. Jane stopped with a word half formed on her lips and closed her eyes. It was not that it hurt. Indeed, the pain was no more than when her flower arrived, but it was so clearly a bearing pain.

Vincent swept her up in his arms, turning towards the house before she could draw breath. She clung to him as he carried her to their rooms. The hard square of the picture frame thumped against her cheek with each step. That inner voice crept out as she pressed her face against his jacket. “Not again. Please, please … not again.”

“Hush. Shh … shh … Frank has sent for Dr. Jones, and she will take good care of you.” But his grip tightened on her. He knew the math as well as she did. Seven and a half months. Thirty weeks.

It was too soon.

 

Twenty-eight

The Good Doctor

By the time Vincent had set her down on the bed in their room, the bearing pain had ended. Jane wiped her eyes as he stepped back. Vincent shifted his weight. “What do I do?”

Jane had no idea. She had been with Melody during her delivery, but until close to the end, most of the time had been spent waiting. Even then, Jane's role had just been to hold Melody's hand. Vincent would need some activity, at least at first. It was easier to worry about him than to think about what was happening to her. Near panic already compromised her ability to breathe. She had tried to be so careful. Jane caught her thoughts before they could run away with her. Clearly, she needed some activity as well.

“Help me undress.” She sat up.

Vincent leaped forward. “You should be lying down.”

“I am not doing this in an evening gown.” She slid her feet off the bed. “Besides, the midwife had Melody walking until her time began in earnest.”

“But—yes, of course.” Though Vincent was well practised in assisting her under other circumstances, his movements were so cautious that Jane could have unstitched the gown faster.

“I am not a china cup.” As if to belie her words, another of the cramping waves made Jane stop and close her eyes. God. It was too soon.

The door to their room opened, but she could not bring herself to open her eyes to see who had come. The voice identified her soon enough, though. “De picknee coming, eh?”

Vincent answered for her. “It seems so. Can you…?”

“Sure, sure. You go 'head now.”

“I cannot leave her.”

Jane was able to inhale slowly and open her eyes. “Actually, I would like for you to go.”

His face had already been pale with worry, but now his brows turned up, completely stricken. “Muse…”

She put a hand on his arm. “We have guests.”

“You cannot think I am going to dinner while you are in here—” He waved a hand at her middle, unable to finish the sentence. “You cannot expect that.”

“I want you back later, but it will be hours before there is anything except discomfort. Let Nkiruka get me settled while you at least start the dinner.” She could see that he was going to protest again. “I promise I will have someone call you when Dr. Jones arrives.”

Vincent opened and closed his fists, jaw tight. At last, he exhaled forcibly and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “I love you.” Straightening, he looked at Nkiruka. “Call me the moment anything changes. The very moment.”

*   *   *

Nkiruka helped Jane out
of her gown, petticoat, and short stays so that she wore only her chemise. Over that, she pulled a morning gown, which gave her the illusion of modesty, but would be easy to remove when needed. At Nkiruka's suggestion, Jane took a turn around the room when the discomfort became too strong to sit still. She was walking, hands placed against her lower back, with Nkiruka at her side, when rapid footsteps and a brisk knock announced the arrival of Dr. Jones.

Still in her riding coat, the doctor opened the door and eyed Jane. “You need to lie down. Immediately.”

Jane raised her head, frowning. “Nkiruka suggested this, and it does seem to help the pain.”

“Has your water broken?”

“I do not think so.”

Dr. Jones looked past Jane to Nkiruka and raised her eyebrows in question. The older woman shook her head. “Not yet. The pain just start.”

“Thirty weeks. We do not want labour to begin.” Dr. Jones set her satchel down and pulled off her riding coat to disclose a simple Pomona green round gown of stout linen. “Mrs. Hamilton, I want you to lie down on your left side, please.”

Jane was too unsettled to fully understand her and needed a nudge from Nkiruka to move. Dr. Jones had said, “do not want labour to begin” as if there were a
choice
. Jane sat on the edge of the bed, her frown sinking. “Can you stop the labour?”