Without a Summer (15 page)
“If I say no?”
He raised a brow and favoured her with a half smile. “How will you stop me?”
“Fair point.”
When they next came to a crossing, Vincent let her go ahead. Jane glanced once over her shoulder and spied him a street behind, on the opposite side. He was not inconspicuous, but far enough behind Mr. O’Brien that she thought it safe. As for that gentleman, he walked at a rapid clip through the streets of London. Jane followed him down a cobbled road, aware of the ceaseless tapping of her boots. She was tempted to walk on tiptoe, though she knew her footsteps were lost amidst the heavy rumble of carts and drays and the constant hawking of newsboys.
When he turned off Strand, Jane looked back to Vincent to make certain that he saw her stepping off the main thoroughfare and onto the less-reputable side street. The street narrowed and the houses crowded together as though for warmth. Jane kept her reticule close, regretting that she had not tucked it inside her coat before she started down this road.
Gin establishments packed the street, identifiable by the litter of blue bottles near them and the staggering inebriates. Men, women, and children alike showed the effects of the Blue Ruin in their slovenly and indolent nature. The streets here went unswept, and the rubbish piled the gutters. Jane had to hold her hem high and pick her way carefully at some points to avoid becoming mired in filth.
She took increasing comfort in the knowledge that Vincent was behind her. When they got home, she might even let him know that he had been correct; she did not feel safe following Mr. O’Brien through streets such as these. But Vincent would also have to admit that something was not right. The farther they went, the more she wondered what Mr. O’Brien was about.
The street bent to the left and she lost sight of Mr. O’Brien for a moment. Jane hurried ahead to catch him again, just spying him as he stepped through an iron gate set in a high stone wall. At intervals, the wall was broken with tall iron palisades allowing glimpses into the quadrangle beyond.
Jane stopped shy of the gate, waiting for Vincent to catch up with her. She looked up at the iron banner across the top. Why, she wondered, had Mr. O’Brien gone into the Worshipful Company of Coldmongers?
Vincent drew Jane back from the gate and around the corner. “We should go.”
“Are you not curious?” She looked back toward the gate.
“Yes, but I am known here.” He turned up the collar of his coat. “Even if Mr. O’Brien did not see me, the porter would surely recognise me from Chill Will’s incident. We can return at another time, when Mr. O’Brien is not here.”
“I am not known by the porter.”
“But you are a woman. The Worshipful Company only admits men.” Vincent tucked his chin into his coat and darted another look at the gate. “Please, Jane, there is no reason to cause a confrontation.”
“But why would he be here?”
“Charitable work? Engaging a coldmonger? Perhaps he was following a spy.” Vincent threw out his hands in frustration. “I do not know, but—but I think you might be—possibly you are being needlessly suspicious.”
Jane lifted her chin, nostrils flaring with anger. “With Melody’s history, I have a right to be cautious.”
“Yes. Of course.” Vincent wiped one hand down his face. “But Jane, if she cannot marry him, why does it matter what he does? You are seeing plots where there probably are none. Yes. My father spoke to Mr. O’Brien. Yes, my father harassed you. Yes, it is odd that Mr. O’Brien is here. But these do not add up to a conspiracy.”
If Jane could articulate why she felt so sure that something larger was in the works, she would have argued for staying, but none of her arguments amounted to more than saying, “But something is wrong.”
“I know. Or, rather, I understand. I am simply not convinced that I am seeing anything other than my own disquiet, and that disquiet may be explained by other events.”
He had hit upon some truth there. She sighed. “Let me just inquire about William, and then we shall be off. That will provide all the excuse that we need if Mr. O’Brien should see us.”
“If it will set your mind at ease…” Vincent relented, though his manner suggested that he was far from pleased by the prospect.
“Thank you. I know—I do know—that this is not an entirely rational urge.”
Vincent sighed heavily, his breath steaming white in the air. “Permit me to remain a little back so that we do not attract too much attention. I can well imagine that word of my presence would reach Mr. O’Brien.”
“Are you so certain of being recognised? You are usually more modest.”
Vincent gave a half-chuckle. “Yes, well. You did not witness the … enthusiasm with which young William recounted the rescue. Half the yard made note of me.”
Jane squeezed his hand in thanks for indulging her. There was no other way she could describe acquiescing to an urge that even she must acknowledge was founded on irrational thought. But the idea would not leave her alone, so she strode up to the gate and inquired with the porter about William.
The porter knuckled his cap and sent a young messenger off to fetch the boy. “Sorry I cannot let you in, m’lady. This here’s an establishment for gentlemen only.”
“I quite understand.” She was grateful, in some ways, because it meant that she did not have to worry about encountering Mr. O’Brien in the interior. Regardless of her desire to know his business, she did not wish him to discover their presence.
In a few minutes, William came out with a smile. The cut upon his temple had healed nicely, leaving only a thin red line that would fade with time. “Lady Vincent! This is a surprise indeed. Let me call the lads out so they can meet you. I’ve told them all about you and Sir David.”
Jane stopped herself from wincing. She should have foreseen that as a possibility. “I can only stay for a few moments. Are you well?”
“Getting by.” He shrugged deeper into his coat. “There’s no work, but that’s true for all of us.”
“No work? But I saw a gentleman arrive ahead of me. Surely he was here on some commission.”
“Tall, red hair, with spectacles?” When Jane nodded, young William said, “That’s Mr. O’Brien. He’s a great friend to the Company, that’s true. But it doesn’t mean work for us.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Jane kept watch out beyond him, upon the yard, in case that gentleman should reappear. She was astonished by the great number of children there. “Does the Company run a school?”
“Eh?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, no. At least not for lads as old as this bunch. There’s just a lot of us here now because there ain’t no work. We got nowhere else to be.”
Jane had understood that coldmongers tended to be young, but she had not realized how young they started work. Appalled by the youth of boys involved in so treacherous a profession, Jane could barely master her expression. William would not, in the nature of boys, recognise that fourteen was very young indeed. To see boys even younger than he in the yard, waiting for work, sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with glamour.
“What do coldmongers do in winter?”
“We take time off and recover, most of us. The Company saves so we have funds to see us through.” He shrugged again, scowling. “Don’t look like there’s going to be any work this year. It’s not so cold as we can make ice, and not so warm that cooling would be needful. Looked for a while as though Lord Eldon would help but … he ain’t.”
“The bill the Lord Chancellor was proposing, you mean?” She would have to ask Melody to tell her more about that. At the same time, Jane could not help but recollect that Vincent’s father had been in an argument with Lord Eldon. “He was a coldmonger’s son, was he not?”
“Nah. Folks say he was, but his old man made his money in brokering coldmongers.” Seeing her look of incomprehension, William jerked a finger at the gates of the Company. “This here takes care of us. We all pitch in, see? But to get work, you have to go through a broker. Someone who knows what your skills are and what the patron needs. Some of us is good at large rooms and breezes. Others at holding a weave of cold while walking. One feller is right quick in winter arts, and can make ice in any shape you imagine.”
Jane had not realised the full breadth of possibilities in coldmongering. She knew that a coldmonger had more particular control over weaves of cold than a general glamourist, but had not understood how many different ways the skill could take shape. She wondered if Vincent were aware of this. It might present some interesting avenues for exploration.
Meanwhile, she had different avenues to explore. “Well, I hope that something changes soon.” She hesitated. “Perhaps we could hire you to work at our house?”
William scratched behind his ear and kicked at the street. “That’s right kind, Lady Vincent. You and I both know it’d be a charity, with the weather the way it is. You just remember me when it changes, all right?”
Jane promised to do so and took her leave of the young man. As she walked down the street, Vincent stepped out from the empty air. Jane jumped and shrieked with surprise.
“Sorry!” He held his hands up. “I was just in a
Sphère Obscurcie
.”
Jane laid a hand upon her breast. “And you think that
I
am being unreasonably cautious.”
Vincent blushed and ducked his head. “I—um. Well. Did you discover anything of moment?” She quickly related her conversation with young William, including her attempt to hire him.
“Perhaps we can have him in to instruct us in cold sometime. It might be useful if we attempt the glamour in glass again.” Vincent rubbed his chin in thought. “Would you like to go dancing this evening?”
“Dancing? You are getting desperate to change the subject.” Jane turned their direction back toward their part of town. In the nearly two years of their marriage, they had never had occasion to dance—a fact that astonished her upon the face of it. “But that will not keep me from taking merciless advantage of your offer.”
“I have no anxiety about that.” Vincent put his hand over hers, and the warmth encouraged her.
“Where did you think to go?”
“Well … I thought that Melody might enjoy Almack’s Assembly.”
“She would, but one needs a voucher to attend.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “I … ah … I have a pass for Almack’s.”
Jane checked her pace. “You do? You? The misanthrope who dislikes crowds above all else?”
A carriage rattled by, drowning his first response. Vincent waited until it was past and repeated himself. “Before we met, Prinny and Lord Byron liked to attend, and made it clear that I needed to as well. So I did.”
The thought of her husband in the company of the Prince Regent and Lord Byron confounded her expectations. This must have been in his college days. The thought struck her before she could avoid it. “Did you take—”
“No.” Vincent spoke quickly and with force, as though to stop someone from stepping into traffic. He looked down the street, showing her his fine, high profile. “I am sorry, Jane. You know that, I hope?”
“I do.” She did not understand many of the events that surrounded them, but tonight she would let the past go and dance with her husband.
In spite of the patronesses who guarded the door to Almack’s Assembly and denied entry to any they deemed unsuitable for society, the floor was thronged with couples. Decorated in blue and gold, designed to flatter, the ballroom did have a lustre of elegance, but the tall ceiling only served to allow the noise to echo around and become somehow louder.
Vincent’s arm had tightened the moment they entered the room.
By contrast, Melody was in a state of rapture. She clung to Jane’s arm and exclaimed as they crossed the threshold. “Oh, Jane! Look at that ivory gown. The ruffle at the bottom is elegance embodied. And there! Oh, the gentleman with the blue jacket.”
“Everyone has blue jackets,” Vincent muttered. “Including me.”
“And I must say, it suits you handsomely,” Jane said. Vincent’s grumbles ought not amuse her, but they always did.
It was Vincent’s habit to play the artist and pay indifferent attention to his dress, so it always took Jane by surprise when he turned himself out in fashionable attire. She had married a very handsome man.
She could admire his broad shoulders and fine profile, regardless of what he wore. However, there was something about a blue coat of superfine to make those shoulders seem broader and his waist narrower. Did she need to add to the catalogue of her husband’s merits the manner in which his knee breeches fit?
Another might say that his brow was too brooding or that his manner was not calculated to please, but Jane felt no compunction in thinking that her husband was, while not the most elegant, still quite the handsomest man in the room.
But before she could dance with Vincent, she needed to find a partner for Melody. From the way the heads of young men turned as they walked through the press, it was clear that a number of them would gladly ask Melody to dance if they had an introduction.
Jane knew too few people in London. She and Vincent spent all their time at work, and only mingled at the rare event. If she had followed through on her intentions to host parties, then perhaps they would not be in this awkward social position.
Then, through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a figure with a warm, dark complexion and heavy black hair. Miss Godwin. “Thank heavens.” If Miss Godwin was there, then perhaps Mr. Colgrove was as well. He would need little encouragement to dance with Melody, and if he were not there, Miss Godwin could introduce Melody to her set and at least get things started.
Jane guided them through the multitude to the group of young people. “Miss Godwin?” The lady did not turn. With the noise of conversation and music, it was not improbable that she had failed to hear Jane. “Miss Godwin?”
One of the lady’s friends masked a smirk, poorly, and winked at the lady, who turned with a frown. “You have mistaken me.”
“Oh. I—” With a certainty, Jane had. Where Miss Godwin was tall and slender with an admirable form, this lady tended toward plump. Indeed, once she turned, the only real thing the two women had in common was their complexion. “Yes. I have. My apologies.”
