Valour and Vanity (19 page)

“That is—that is good news, Muse.” Vincent broke off a piece of cheese and another piece of bread. His brows had pulled a little closer together.

“And you? How was your search?”

His gaze remained fixed upon the bread and cheese, tearing the bread into smaller and smaller pieces. “Murano is a small town, and though there are some tourists, there are no grand families whose homes need embellishment.”

“Oh.”

“Tomorrow I shall approach businesses. For now, though, I am very grateful for your fourteen shillings.” He reached across the table for her hand and squeezed it. “And your bread.” Vincent had not, however, seemed to notice the glamour she had cast upon the room to make it somewhat more agreeable. He remained sunk in silent contemplation.

Twelve

Lessons and Learning

Sister Maria Agnes had a brilliant contralto that could have graced the professional stage. Turned to the service of God, Jane thought that it would be difficult for anyone to deny a divine hand at work, but the little gardener nun seemed blissfully unaware of the exceptional quality of her voice. With such an example, Jane confined her role, at first, to accompanying her lessons on the pianoforte rather than singing.

However, it became quickly apparent that their roles were reversed when it came to teaching the strokes of glamour intended as embellishments for the music. Most, but not all, composers hired a
Sténocharmeur
to create visual elements of glamour to accompany their music, in much the way they might work with a writer for the libretto. It was never very detailed work, as it was confined to quick strokes between musical notes and in the rests. The line of notation ran above the musical staff, with indications about the type of fold to draw from the ether or the proper stitch to create a given effect.

Jane now sat at the piano with a cluster of eleven girls, ranging in age from twelve to sixteen. Open on the music rack in front of her was an arrangement of J. S. Bach’s
Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.
“Now, you see here that the score has a
pastille
and a
planche
with a rising line following it. That indicates that one should draw out a lightweight fold from the foundation elements of glamour that we laid before the song began. And here, the
pastille
with the vertical bar means to twist it about the fold of white we drew earlier.”

The girls nodded dutifully, although Jane saw more than one frown at the fold of white that glowed above the piano, pinned to the visible realm by virtue of being wrapped around the thumb on Jane’s left hand. She had, she suspected, jumped beyond their understanding. “Look … You see how the thread is hooked behind the first joint of my thumb and I hold my hand with it slightly bent? This is to keep the thread from slipping back into the ether. Glamour, unless tied off or held, always wants to dissolve back into its natural state. The
Sténocharmeur
who designed this illusion assumes that you know this technique and so does not note the additional twist needed to wrap the thread around your thumb.”

Sister Maria Agnes nodded in agreement. “Indeed, glamour is not possible for a violinist, for example, as they can never let go of their instrument. Well, most violinists. We shall exclude Paganini, who is, by all accounts, exceptional.”

“Is it easiest for singers?” Lucia, a lively girl of twelve, frowned in concentration as she dipped her hand into the ether.

“It depends on the singer and the song,” Sister Maria Agnes said. “Working glamour has a significant effect on your breath, and one must have impeccable form to do both well, which is why it is so important to listen to Lady Vincent’s instruction. This is also why we have a separate glamourist choir that works in concert with our singers during services.” She rested her hand on the shoulder of a young lady who was paying rather more attention to the end of her braid than the pianoforte.

The girl, Elizabeta, startled and dropped her braid. “But it is
hard
.”

“Of course. All things are hard when you first begin, but become less so with practise. Practise, however, is more fun when it is a game.” Jane pushed the bench back from the pianoforte and pulled out a bundle of looped cords. She selected one and wrapped it around her fingers. “We call this a cat’s cradle in England.”

Elizabeta said, “Cat’s cradle?”

For a moment, Jane had thought that Elizabeta had spoken in English, then recognised that she had spoken the words “believe the chains” in Italian. Only then did Jane understand that Elizabeta had said
both
things, in a manner of speaking. In Italian, the girl had named the game
catene credile—
“believe the chains.”

Jane laughed in delight at the understanding. “Do you know, I had not realized where the name of the game came from. Indeed, glamour involves stitching chains of belief for the observer. I assume, then, that you all know how to play this. It is a game, but also an excellent way to practise the movements of glamour without taxing yourself. Who will play with me?”

Lucia let the glamour dissolve off her hands and stepped forward. She took the crossed strings between her thumb and first finger and wrapped them around the other strings, in the familiar pattern. As the string slipped from Jane’s hands to hers, Jane pointed at Lucia’s fingers. “Do you see how she naturally flexes her thumb to keep the string from sliding off? It is the same movement that we were discussing before. And this…” She took the string from Lucia in the next pattern and paused as she started to twist the threads. “See? It is very similar to a
tordre le fil
.”

She let Lucia move the strings back to her own hands, then nodded to the other girls. “So, please, take some string and find a partner.”

As the girls separated into pairs, Jane had the satisfaction of seeing Sister Maria Agnes applying herself to playing the game with Lucia with the same diligence as their pupils. More than the fourteen shillings a week, the satisfaction Jane gained from teaching was helping her bear their time in Murano. She just wished that Vincent could find a similar satisfaction.

*   *   *

The night was nearly
moonless, and their room sunk in shadows. Curled into a tight embrace against Vincent’s back, Jane ran her fingers over the hair on his chest. She traced the contours of his ribs and slid her fingers lower, but he caught her hand and brought it back up to his chest.

Jane kissed the back of his neck. “I am cold.”

“Would you like me to put more wood on the fire?”

“No—I was hoping…” She lifted her head up a little to look toward his dark form. “Someone reminded me that today was October the seventh. I had forgotten, myself, but—”

“Our anniversary.” Vincent sighed and pressed her hand tighter against his chest. “I am sorry.”

“I thought, perhaps we might celebrate? Here?”

“Oh, Muse … forgive me.” He had given variations of this answer every time that she had proposed anything relating to their marital duties.

For her own part, Jane would be content—mostly content—with simply being close to her husband, but Vincent had always been a man of healthy vigour, and this listlessness concerned her. “Might you … need a release? Perhaps you would feel more at ease.”

He rolled onto his back, sheets rustling around them, and ran a hand down her face. “I never want to treat you as simply a release.”

“I would not mind.”

“I would. If I cannot be fully with you … It would distress me.” Vincent wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer. In the cool room, he was like a glass furnace, radiating heat. Jane snuggled closer, drawing one leg up over his. Vincent jumped a little. “How can your feet be chilly even through stockings?”

“I did warn you that I was cold.”

He chuckled a little at that and kissed her forehead. “After three years of marriage, you would think that I would know what happens to your feet in winter.”

Jane tried again, shifting to encourage him. “There are ways to warm them.”

Vincent’s breath halted as though he were holding it, and for a moment she thought she had succeeded in engaging his attention. Exhaling slowly, he turned to kiss her on the forehead. Then he rolled onto his side again, staying close to keep her warm. “I love you.”

Jane pressed her cheek against his back, bit her lip, and did not cry.

*   *   *

Vincent met Jane at
the convent after she finished teaching, as he sometimes did. He stood in the shadow of the building across the street, leaning against the wall. After two weeks of searching, she had hoped that he might have had some success today, but apparently not. After calling on all of the families of means in Murano, few though those were, Vincent had visited the merchants, working his way through the shops methodically in the hopes that one of them would be interested in having a glamourist enhance his store. From there, he had begun pursuing other occupations.

What had begun to worry Jane was not that he had difficulty finding employment but that his interest in finding Signor Sanuto seemed to be turning into an obsession. When he was not speaking to merchants about work, he was making inquiries about Sanuto’s activity.

When he stepped into the sun, the light caught in the bristles on his cheeks. He ordinarily went clean-shaven except for his side whiskers. The stubble that was beginning to fill in the space between them was a mixture of colours ranging from the dark brown of his hair to red and—to Jane’s surprise—white.

Jane crossed the street, smiling at him. “Your beard makes you appear to be going grey.”

“Eh? Oh … yes, well. I thought if I looked less of a gentleman I might have some success finding a job.” He rubbed his cheek ruefully as they walked. His tone was light, painfully so. “Today I attempted to acquire a job hauling bricks for a mason. I was declined. Apparently, I have the hands of a gentleman and am unsuited for ‘real work.’”

“I wish you would not distress yourself. While it is not to my liking, the wages that I am receiving are enough to keep us until we hear from my parents.”

“Telling me that your parents will pay for my mistake is not the consolation that you might think it is.”

“Or the Prince Regent, or—”

“But we will still be in debt.”

Jane hesitated, uncertain how to comfort him. The size of their debt confounded her as well, but she was equally certain that this was but a passing hardship. Unpleasant, yes, but not permanent, and not threatening. If it became truly necessary, they could use the coins saved from the sale of her wedding band to supplement that income, though Jane did not think reminding Vincent of that would be a comfort. “My time teaching takes up little of my day. I could seek additional employment.”

“That is not my point. I should be contributing, not asking my wife to support me.”

“As a labourer?”

“All work is noble,” he said with the air of someone who repeated a sentiment in the hopes of believing it.

“Yes, but—”

“But—as it happens, your concern is groundless.” He fished in his pocket with an unmistakable jingle. He held out his hand and showed Jane a handful of coins.

“You found work!”

“Of a sort, yes.”

“Doing what? For whom?”

“Glamour. A merchant.”

“Of a sort! Here you were looking for work carrying bricks, and you have found employment in your field.” Jane scolded and took his arm. Why did he not seem pleased, if he was working as a glamourist? She frowned as a thought occurred to her. “You are not working as a coldmonger, are you?”

He shook his head, grimacing. “Though I did inquire about that once.”

“It is dangerous.”

“I know. But I am not a coldmonger, Muse.”

“Then why are you not more excited about having work?”

“Well … I do not know if it will continue.”

It did not seem possible that his confidence had been so shaken. “Of course it will, once he sees how good you are.”

“I would prefer not to think about what-ifs.” He paused for a moment as they passed a Pulcinella puppet booth. They had to stop talking due to the piercing voice of the hand-puppet player. Jane was surprised that he had not been stopped as a nuisance—it had to irritate the local merchants. But the hand-puppet booth had a small circle standing in front of it watching the puppets with great enthusiasm as Pulcinella beat up Scaramuccia. In spite of herself, Jane was strangely tempted to stop and watch the brightly coloured figures battle.

When they were past the puppet show, Vincent said, “I have been thinking of late about Querini. What do you think he would say if we approached him without the
capo di polizia
with us?”

She pretended not to notice that this contradicted his assertion that he preferred not to consider “what-ifs.” She answered, “He would say nothing about Sanuto’s whereabouts, I am certain.”

“No … Truly, I do not think we shall find Sanuto.”

“And yet you continue to look for him. Am I right that half of your day is spent trying to find a hint of where he has gone?”

He scowled at the canal. “You are not wrong.”

“What reason would he have for remaining on Murano?”

Vincent sighed. “I must do something.”

“I know.” Jane took his arm and turned him toward the glass district. “So let us go ask. Why wonder about what-ifs when we can find an answer?”

“I cannot imagine that he will be happy to see us, no matter if he is involved or not.”

“To be certain.” A thought occurred to her. “Perhaps we should not begin by asking after Sanuto. Perhaps we can speak to Signor Querini about having you assist at the glass factory in exchange for some reduction in what we owe him. If it does not interfere with your work as a glamourist, that is.”

Vincent snorted. “There is little chance of that. But I have neglected to ask how your day was.”

“Satisfactory, thank you. I made good progress with the elder students in understanding
tordre le fil,
so Sister Maria Agnes decided to treat them to a tour of the scriptorium. The manuscript Sister Franceschina and the others are illuminating is a beautiful project. I wish you could see it.” Now that he had found his own work, she felt less awkward about relating her news. “I have also been asked to contrive the music for two Sundays hence. It is only a children’s choir, I know, but it is the first group performance I have ever been given charge of—unless you count Michaelmas pageants at home, which I do not.”