Of Noble Family (50 page)

“I hardly know.” He held the tendrils of feeling so tightly that all of them tangled together. He was aware of what that did to his countenance and worked to present a less forbidding expression. It was not welcoming, but given that his other choices were breaking things or breaking himself, placid civility seemed the best option. He looked down at Jane. “I am concerned, but calm enough to hear your news. I assume you have some.”

“I do.”

The birth stool had been removed from the room and replaced with a soft chair that would be useful when Jane was up and nursing Charles. Vincent gestured to it and pulled his own straight-backed chair from beside Jane's bed. He did not want to be even that far away, but Frank deserved the courtesy of his attention, and more. Sitting, he nodded for Frank to begin.

“I will start with the least important, since it will not require much in the way of remark. I have an early report of the property damage.” Frank pulled out a sheet of paper from his coat pocket.

The motion made Vincent think of his own coat, which he had not thought to take from the great house. The miniatures Jane had given him were still tucked inside. He lost his grip on the illusion of calm, and a strand of rage lashed free.

Standing, he walked away to the window until he could tame the urge to hit. Frank was not the object. That was Pridmore, who had threatened Jane and destroyed what might be her last gift to—no. She would wake up. Vincent cleared his throat. “I trust you have that well in hand.”

The paper rustled as Frank folded it. “Vincent, all of this can wait.”

“I have nothing else to do.” He pulled in and in and in until it was safe to move again. He could not act on instinct in this state, but needed to consider every action and measure it against what a rational person would do. Smiling would be too much, but to turn and incline the head would suit. Vincent did so. “Should we go over it?”

“No … I wrote it out so you could look at it at your leisure. The irony is that because Pridmore set multiple fires, several of them burnt towards each other, due to the lay of the land or the wind patterns, so the losses were less extensive than they might have been. The great house had damage to the roof and the blue wing, but the stone construction worked in our favour there. There was some smoke inhalation among those who fought the fire and some minor burns, but no loss of life.” Here was the hesitation again. “With one exception.”

“Who?”

“Pridmore sought refuge in the safe house.” He held up his hands. “Not fire, but smoke.”

“I see.” There should be something there, a sense of vindication or relief, but it seemed to be only a fact that had nothing to do with Vincent. What would Jane make of this? “His wife?”

“I can make inquiries.”

“I recall Jane—” His voice cracked on her name, and he had to stop. “I recall being told that Mrs. Pridmore was from London. If she does not have family here, will you arrange for passage for her?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” Vincent nodded. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Even to Vincent, Frank's hesitation made it clear what the next matter would be before he spoke. “Dr. Jones believes your father has had another stroke.”

What to do with that information? Vincent would welcome his death. If Jane had not been with him, he thought he might have left his father by the path, but she would not have approved, and she would have been correct. To have him still alive.… It did not matter, and Vincent suspected that it had never mattered.

Nothing mattered except Jane.

Vincent held his breath until it was steady, then ventured, “He has recovered from strokes before.”

“I—I think that will not be the case here.”

“I have already mourned.” He had not intended to say that aloud. “The first time. I had forgotten how…” He had forgotten how constant the threats and degradations were, but that was not what he meant to say. “I thought that if I had another opportunity, then perhaps—” Perhaps his father would finally be proud of him. “It was foolishness.”

With an uncomfortable degree of understanding, Frank gestured to the door. “He is across the hall, if you want to see him.”

“I cannot. Jane is—” His voice cracked again, but Vincent could not care. “She is not well. I cannot leave her while she is—” His control slipped again, and he had to stop, staring at the ground with his jaw tight around his fear.

“I understand.” Frank's voice was as calm and soothing as if Vincent were a skittish yearling.

He tried to tie off the strands of fear and consider what the appropriate responses were. “Forgive me. How are you taking it? He is your father, too.”

“No.” Frank shook his head firmly. “No. He sired me, but he was never my father. The man who raised me, when Lord Verbury was not here, was a field slave and a cousin to my mother. He taught me what was good and honourable and decent. Lord Verbury was not a bad master, in the relative scheme of things, but he was never my father.”

All Vincent had learned from his lordship was who he did not want to be. “Then perhaps he was not mine either.”

The person who had taught Vincent who he wanted to be was lying on the bed behind him, limp and horribly pale.

*   *   *

Vincent's own shout woke
him. Tension ebbed out of his body as he understood where he was. He lay curled on a pallet on the floor next to Jane's bed. His heart still beat quickly as he lifted both hands to his face and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. The wine barrel dream again. Vincent stretched to his full length, trying to erase the memory of childhood confinement. It had been a long time since he had cried out loudly enough to wake himself. Jane usually woke him, though he had no idea how she knew the nightmares were happening.

He extracted himself from the knot of bed linens and rolled to his knees to check on her. The poorfire web surrounding Jane made her white chemise glow a pale violet. Part of him hoped he had not disturbed her, but every other part prayed her eyes would be open.

They were not.

She was breathing, though. It killed him that he needed to be certain of that. It was fast and shallow, but breath.

Kneeling by the bed, Vincent rested his head against the cool linen of her pillow. Her hair still smelled of smoke. “Jane … Muse. Please wake up.” In the night, his only answer was the echo of his voice off the plain white walls. “I am lost.”

He traced his finger down her nose and let it rest against her lips. They were dry and cracked. Nurses, midwives, and Dr. Jones had been in and out of the room all day, trickling broth into her mouth with care not to choke her. He did not say it again, but he silently pleaded for her to wake. Only to open her eyes, the way she did after Sir Ronald had bled her. It had troubled Vincent then to see her half-lidded eyes open without seeing, but he would take that now. He would take any sign that she was improving.

In the darkness, it was difficult to keep his fear bound up. He would not weep. To do so would be to mourn for her, and he must think that Jane would get well. The web surrounding her twinkled at the edge of his vision. He stood. The tension must have loosened on the poorfire threads if they had shifted to violet. Vincent reached for the ether and, with a few twists, spun the threads tight again and out of visible sight.

It barely quickened his breath, but the feel of doing
something
helped steady him after the nightmare. Bless Nkiruka for giving him a task.

And Frank had brought a distraction as well, with the reports from the great house. Frank needed no help in running the place. The only use that Vincent served was to be the nominal head of the household, who was respected solely because of an accident of appearance. Bringing the reports and the clothing had been an unlooked-for kindness. Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose and bent his head, grateful that there was no one to watch him. He had done nothing to deserve the consideration of these people.

But he would accept it with gratitude. Pulling the chair up to the little table, Vincent prepared to work. He lit the room's single candle and settled into the chair. Frank's tidy handwriting marched across the page, detailing the initial estimate of property lost.

It was dull going, and he was grateful for it.

*   *   *

The next day passed
slowly. Vincent had dressed with care in the clothes that Frank had brought him. Jane liked it when he was tidy. He looked at the razor. The way the light danced along the edge as his hands shook told him that he would slice his own throat if he tried to shave now. Vincent closed the blade and set it aside before he was tempted to try.

Around noon, someone brought a bowl of a thick ragout and some aromatic bread for him. He stared at the heavy red broth, and all he could think of was blood. If he were to create a glamural of the ragout, it would bear no true resemblance to blood, being both thicker and more orange, but his stomach turned regardless. He drew the serviette over it and pushed the bowl towards the centre of the table.

He managed a few bites of bread, which stuck to the sides of his mouth. Vincent knew his own tendency to stop eating when distressed and could not allow himself the luxury of weakness. If Jane needed to be carried anywhere, or Charles.… He should eat the soup.

Drawing the bowl back to himself, he pulled the cloth off of it. His gorge rose and he stopped, swallowing. The rebellious nature of his own body frustrated him beyond measure. He had learned to hide the shaking and the nausea, to work through dizziness, overheating, and shortness of breath, but no amount of training could make them go away. All he could do was to proceed as if they were of no consequence.

Vincent picked up the spoon.

A commotion in the hall drew his attention, and he was glad for it. Vincent set down the spoon, pushing his chair back. He paused at Jane's bed, hoping the raised voices would cause her to stir. She lay in exactly the same attitude as she had for the past day. Tucking his hands behind his back, Vincent went to the door and opened it.

The door to the room across the hall stood open. Dr. Jones stood over the bed, supporting the shoulders of a figure that convulsed wildly. At the foot of the bed, a coloured man constrained the legs, to keep them from writhing off the bed. The person—a man—had been rolled onto his side, and strangled grunts came in time with his tossing arms.

Vincent knew what a seizure looked like. One of the pupils at the Royal Academy had been coldmongering on the side, to pay bills, and then pushed too hard in a class. “Do you need help?”

Dr. Jones looked up, meeting Vincent's gaze. “Close the door, Mr. Hamilton.”

Until that moment, he had not recognised the man on the bed. His back was to Vincent, and the man was too thin to be his father. His father had always been a giant, even when his hair silvered. Even when he was confined to a wheeled chair, the force of his character had overshadowed Vincent. Without the armour of his clothing, the bone-thin man did not seem to be related to the Earl of Verbury.

“Close the door,” Dr. Jones repeated, and then she turned her attention back to the figure, who continued to shake in her grasp.

Vincent took a step back into the room where Jane lay and pushed the door to the hall shut. He stood, staring at the white paint, waiting for some feeling. The tangled ball of emotion in his core hung there, heavy and dark, but the idea that his father might be dying provoked … nothing. He felt not even relief at the thought.

Turning his head, Vincent looked over his shoulder at Jane. The stillness of her figure pushed the knot of feeling into his throat. He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw around the urge to gag. It took a few careful breaths to steady himself.

When he felt more composed, Vincent crossed the room and pulled the chair from the table to the side of Jane's bed. He sat, took her hand, and waited.

*   *   *

When Frank knocked on
the door, Vincent jumped in his chair. His neck had an odd pain in it, as though he had fallen asleep sitting up. “Enter.”

He set Jane's hand carefully at her side and stood, scrubbing his hand over his face. His face was damp. God's blood, he was a mess.

Frank slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. His face was too carefully composed to bear any sort of good news.

“He is dead?”

“Yes.” Frank stepped farther into the room. “I thought … this is vulgar, but, given the previous circumstances, I thought you might want to see him before I made arrangements.”

Did he? Vincent could barely think beyond the confines of the room. “I saw … I saw the seizure. I keep thinking that I should feel something.” He rubbed his hair with both hands and sat back in the chair. “My whole life I fought him, even when he was not present. I have fought and fought against the man he had wanted me to be, and now that he is gone, now that the obstacle is finally removed … I do not know what to do.”

“Given your history, I am not surprised.” Frank crossed the room and sat in the nursing chair. “He and I had a very different relationship, but even for me, very few aspects of my life have not been shaped by his lordship's wishes.”

“That is very much it.” Vincent drew a breath. “I feel as if I have been pushing against a wall and it is suddenly gone.”

“A door, perhaps, that is now open?”

“For both of us, I hope.”

Frank sat forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together. His gaze went to Jane and then back to Vincent. “Do you need anything?”

The brief flash of pity in Frank's eyes threatened to unravel him. Vincent looked down, clenching his hands into fists. For a moment—and a moment only, thank heavens—he was tempted to ask Frank to bring him some sherry, but this was not a time to slip into darkness. If Jane woke and he was insensible … it would not stand. “Thank you.” He forced his hands open, heedless of the shaking and lifted his gaze. “Would you ask them to bring Charles to me?”