Of Noble Family (49 page)

But it was Jane.

And he would break without her.

God help him, Vincent knew the path he had been on before Jane. He could not lose her. The world could not lose her. Their son—

“I need the image steady.” Dr. Jones squinted at the
lointaine vision,
which shook between his hands. Pieces of the disc shifted to a view of her arm and then back to Jane's workings.

“I am trying.” He ducked his head and concentrated on the glamour. He must think of it as a technical challenge, not as though his Muse's life depended upon it. The glamour was well within his abilities. He need only steady his hands.

He needed to steady his hands.

He must steady his hands.

It was vital that he steady his hands.

Vincent had spent his whole life trying not to be overset by his emotion. His father had always said it was a sign of weakness. When pure will failed, he had learned to hide it and to tie a glamour around himself that looked like control. But the illusion would do no good here. His hands must be steady in earnest.

Nkiruka gave Dr. Jones the threaded needle. He had not even seen her set Charles down on the counterpane by Jane's head. She stared at his hands, her vision soft and vague, as if she were looking into the ether. “Let me.”

He wet his lips. This was not a standard technique, and he had altered it even further to brighten the image. “You see what I am doing?”

“Clear enough.”

“Then yes. Please, God, yes.”

She slipped under his arm to stand in front of him where Jane usually stood when they worked in tandem. With a delicate precision, the older glamourist touched the lines. Her touch was so gentle, he almost could not feel it, but the tremors in the image steadied a little. She nodded, brows drawn together in concentration. “Got it.”

Vincent let go, and stepped back.

The image steadied the moment his hands were no longer on the thread. Nkiruka, an elderly woman who must be in her seventh decade, could do what he could not. Out of sheer habit, Vincent swung his arms behind his back and clenched his hands together at the base of his spine.

Without some activity to distract him, even an activity he was failing at, the billowing fabric of fear kept pulling his gaze. It was always worse after the fact. He could brush past when in motion, but standing still and useless, it was too easy to get tangled in the folds. Jane could die. He had been worried that she might miscarry again because it had distressed her so the last time, but bearing his child might kill her.

When she recovered, he was never touching her again without a French envelope between them. He would
not
get her with child again. Watching her suffer the delivery had been bad enough, but to risk losing her again was unthinkable.

His breath was fast and shallow. Vincent held it. Then he exhaled slowly and attempted to hold to a regular pattern, as unnatural as it felt. As he watched Nkiruka and Dr. Jones work to save Jane—and they
had
to save Jane—it was impossible to miss the tension of both women.

God. He could not breathe again.

Vincent took Dr. Jones's advice and looked away. He walked to the far side of the room, trying by some action to trick his body out of its betraying weakness. He reached the wall, turned, and walked the circuit of the room, until his path brought him to the bed.

Jane's head was turned to the side, and her soft mouth hung a little open. Her skin was grey and translucent, making the delicate blue vein at her temple all the clearer. By her head, wrapped tightly in white cloth, Charles lay in ruddy contrast. His son's perfect health, even coming nearly a month too soon, seemed obvious in the roses in his cheeks.

Good. It would kill Jane to lose another child.

Vincent wrapped his hands in his hair. She would be well. Dr. Jones knew her business. His wife, his Muse, his life, would be well. She had the best possible medical care.

Just like the Princess Charlotte.

Vincent's stomach turned. He closed his eyes. Absolutely not. Not now. He would not begin to panic and mourn when there was no need. Dr. Jones would bring Jane through this. His chest ached with every inhalation. Jane would tell him that he needed some activity, and she would be right. He needed to do something before he lost all semblance of control.

Lowering his hands, Vincent opened his eyes and stepped forward to pick up Charles. Jane would not want him to be unattended.

He had been frightened to hold Tom the first time Melody had handed the baby to him. One hand cradled Charles's head, shifting him to the crook of his arm. Then Vincent put a hand under Charles's back to hold him steady. He weighed so little, no more than five pounds. Their nephew, Tom, had seemed impossibly small, but he must have weighed nearly twice that.

Vincent bounced from the knees, twisting a little from side to side in the pattern Tom had seemed to like. It made his rib ache a little, but that was a useful pain. Charles squirmed, frowning at the motion, and then relaxed. His little rosebud mouth opened in an imitation of Jane's. Vincent touched Charles's lips, and the tip of his finger obscured his son's mouth.

His hands had stopped shaking.

Risking a glance at Dr. Jones and Nkiruka, Vincent had to look away immediately to keep the panic from fluttering back. Blood soaked the blankets and covered Dr. Jones's arm.

He bent his head to Charles. His son's eyes were open, winking and staring about without comprehension. The frown came back, bringing with it the little furrow that Jane got when she concentrated. Not yet an hour old and already trying to understand the world.

A heavy sigh from Dr. Jones almost dropped Vincent to his knees. He stared fixedly at the wall and tried to interpret the sound. “Mr. Hamilton, I have stopped the bleeding.”

Vincent took firm hold of the fraying threads of control and clung to them. He could no more move than a glamourist could walk with an intricate illusion. Some response was required, though. He formed the thought in his head, made certain that he could speak without his voice breaking, and said, “I am glad to hear it.”

“I do not want to cause you further distress, but neither do I want to give you any illusions. Your wife has lost a great deal of blood. More, I judge, than when Sir Ronald attended her.”

“Thank you. I recall your cautions from when she was bled. May I assume that our efforts will be the same here?”

“Keep her calm. Keep her warm. Get as much liquid into her as we can. Yes.”

“But she will recover.” His voice sounded too coldly formal. He was doing that thing his father despised, being unable to make eye contact. Vincent turned to Dr. Jones and tried not to look away.

“She will be in danger for some time yet.”

“But you think she will recover.”

“That is my hope.”

He clenched his jaw and bore down on the threads of his emotions. The effort made tremors of tension run through his frame, but those he knew how to hide. So long as he was holding Charles, they could not see his betraying hands. “I understand. You will tell me if there is anything that I can do to aid in her recovery.”

“Naturally.”

Nkiruka leaned against the bed, breathing rapidly from her work with the glamour. She wiped her hand across her forehead and nodded to him. “Got some glamour you could do to help.”

Dr. Jones rolled her eyes. “It will do no harm, but do not exaggerate it.”

“Knew we shouldn'ta sent you to France. You have all these foolish European ideas.”

“Those foolish European ideas have saved a number of lives here. And you know that, or you would not have raised the funds to send me to study.”

It was insignificant, a safe topic to give him time to regain a little governance. “You studied medicine in France?”

“Paris. With Dr. Laennec.” Dr. Jones wiped the blood from her hands on an already bloodstained towel. “My early training was here, as a midwife. I have since realised that a number of practices I learned here were superstitions, but harmless.”

“Harmless … until you na do them.”

“I have not stopped you. We have the brazier at Mrs. Hamilton's feet to draw the bad spirits down, and I see that you have already tied a red ribbon around young Master Charles's arm. Next comes the spirit bower. I am familiar with the routine.”

“I show you, Mr. Hamilton.”

He was aware that they were managing him. After the distillery accident, he had seen how effectually they managed the family members of the wounded. “Thank you.”

Working briskly, they cleared away the blood-soaked blankets and washed Jane. He had to turn his back to stare out the window so he could not see how limp she was. At some point, he realised he had given Charles his little finger to suck on, which reminded Vincent that he would need to arrange for a wet nurse.

“Much better. You may turn around—your wife is decent again.”

He almost laughed. They thought he had turned around out of modesty? Of all the aspects of their marriage, he and Jane had never been shy about
that
after their wedding night. He had turned because he could not bear to see Jane suffer, which was why he had learned to be open with her, as well as why he hid his infirmities from her. He was aware how much that annoyed her, but she fretted when she knew. It was the one trait she had inherited from her mother, though his Muse turned it outward rather than inward—her own infirmities she disregarded almost scrupulously. But his she treated like threats to his life.

If, for instance, she had known that Vincent's father had cracked one of his ribs, she would not have let him carry her, even though he was demonstrably capable of it. He was not so careless of his health as she believed, but he drew a distinction between discomfort and disability. If he could learn to dance after being caned, then he could carry Jane with a cracked rib.

And he could turn now. It hurt to see her limp figure, but it would not leave a permanent mark. If she were to die, that would be a very different matter.

They had dressed Jane in a rough chemise and drawn a clean blanket up to cover her. If she were not so drawn and still, with a bundle of pillows holding up her legs to encourage blood to stay near her heart, she might simply be resting after her labour.… Vincent swallowed and had to clear his throat before he could speak. “You had mentioned a glamour?”

Nkiruka beckoned to him. “I set it. You can keep it going.”

“Is it a running thread?”

“No. Uses what your wife calls ‘poorfire threads,' so they fray quick. Gotta to keep refreshing, or it dissolves, but…” She gave Dr. Jones a glare. “My people don't get childbed fever. Folks who keep the old ways? Less infection.”

“And I am telling you that it is a matter of heritage.” Dr. Jones shook her head. “Europeans are more prone to infection than are Black Africans. It is natural that, as populations mix here in Antigua, we should see a rise in infection among the coloured population. It has nothing to do with abandoning the old ways.”

“Still, I should like to try it.” Vincent would try anything that stood a chance of keeping Jane alive.

“It will do no harm.” Dr. Jones picked up the bundle of soiled cloth from the floor. “But I do not want to give you false hope.”

She had no worries on that count. Vincent grasped the thread of despair and wrapped it into a tight knot with the others. Later. Later he could let them unravel and find somewhere to hide until he could stitch a plausible countenance back together again.

 

Thirty-four

A Second Sight

Vincent ran his finger down the length of Jane's strong, proud nose in a way he never did when she was awake. He loved the shape of it and the way it reflected the force of her character, but any attempt to convince her of that had failed. She thought it overlong. If one wanted an insipid lady of the fashionable set, she was correct. But the way the tip of it curved when she smiled, the wrinkles across the high bridge when she was annoyed, the flare of her nostrils when she was working … all of these made it so eloquently
her
that he could not fail to adore it.

He straightened and studied the web that Nkiruka had woven over and into Jane. It was largely composed of poorfire threads. Though he did not think they could help Jane, he suspected that Nkiruka had set up the web to give him something to attend to while he waited. He was grateful for that.

Vincent expanded his vision to the second sight. Now the web stood out in glowing lines, which his mind interpreted as a black-purple not-colour. The threads were all tied off, though not with any knot he recognised, so all he needed to do to keep it from decaying was to be certain the thread was spun to the appropriate degree. The high, tight hum of the poorfire threads buzzed beneath his fingers as he made a minute alteration to tighten them.

A brief, familiar knock sounded on the door. He sighed. What news would Frank have for him?

“Enter.” Vincent let go of the threads and turned his vision back to Jane, hoping for some reaction to the sound of his voice.

The door opened. “They told me. I am so sorry.”

“Mm.” He wiped his hand down his face to remind himself to act somewhat human and stood to meet Frank.

Frank had changed clothes since the morning and was in a sensible black suit, cravat neatly tied, with no trace of the fire from the night before. He carried a bundle under one arm. “I brought you a change of clothes.”

Vincent looked down, seeing for the first time his own dirty nightshirt and breeches. He had been holding Charles in this? Small wonder that Dr. Jones had insisted on taking him to a wet nurse. Jane would be appalled if she woke to find him in such a state. “Thank you.” Something more was required. “How is your family?”

“Shaken, but safe. Mother will be bruised for some time, but Pridmore did her no serious bodily injury when he took Lord Verbury.” Frank hesitated as he set the clothes down on the little table. “What is
your
state?”