Without a Summer (22 page)
She shook her head.
“Good.” He lifted her and spun her to the side. “Then I shall be off. Do not wait up.”
She stared at him in surprise. “But so late?”
“I am already dressed. I see no reason to wait.”
“I meant the hour. Will there be anyone to meet?”
“Muse…” Vincent paused by the door. “They will only just be starting.”
* * *
In spite of Vincent’s
suggestion, Jane had no intention of falling asleep while he was out. She pulled the counterpane off the bed and settled herself on the bedroom’s small sofa in front of the fire. She made some effort to read, but the late hour and her worry kept her from being able to engage in the book.
She closed her eyes, but only for a moment. When she opened them again, the candle had burned down, the fire was nearly cold, and she had a horrible cramp in her neck.
Vincent stood in the door with a candle in one hand and his shoes in the other.
Jane pushed herself into a sitting position, rubbing the back of her neck. “I am awake. You do not need to be quiet.”
“I was hoping you would be asleep.” He shut the door carefully behind him. Vincent crossed the room and set the candle on the table a trifle too hard. He winced, then lowered himself into a chair facing her. He turned his head as though he were balancing a glass of water upon it. “I am inebriated.”
“Are you?”
“Indeed.”
Jane had never seen him deep in his cups before, and found herself more amused than anything by the careful way in which he moved.
“Should you like to hear what I learned about Alastar O’Brien, or shall we wait until I am somewhat more respectable?” He spoke precisely, with an overemphasis on his consonants, as if to make up for his state.
“Will you remember in the morning?”
Vincent paused and tilted his head, considering the question with more seriousness than she had thought it had merited. “I believe so, but I am also afraid that I mistook my capacity. It might be best to have my recital done with tonight.”
“Then please, continue.” Jane climbed off the sofa and went to the hearth to try to revive the fire. As she passed Vincent, she caught a waft of port wine.
“May I help?” He made as if to rise, but stopped when Jane shook her head.
“I am afraid you will combust should you come too near the flames.” She tucked her nightdress out of the way and pulled a log off the stack by the fireplace.
He chuckled. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned prodigiously. “Ah, Muse … I am sorry you should see me in such a state.”
“So far, I have seen nothing to cause me any alarm, save for concern that you may have some discomfort tomorrow.” She tended the fire until the logs caught. “Do you feel ill?”
“Thankfully, no.” He yawned again. “I had that much judgement left. Skiffy and Poodle can be … insistent … and they would not share their information unless I indulged. They felt the need to ‘rechristen’ me into the club.”
Jane settled herself at the end of the couch closest to him and pulled the counterpane over her again. “So, what news did they have?”
“None. Or rather, they had much, but nothing that bears upon our questions.” He raised a hand and pulled at his cravat. “As far as I can tell from their descriptions, apart from being an Irish Catholic, the young man has an irreproachable character. His father likewise. They have no debts and are widely considered to be good stewards of their property. They spent some time on the Continent giving Mr. O’Brien a tour when he reached his majority and brought some nice marbles home. Lady Stratton is known for doing charitable works, and has visited the women’s ward at the Marshalsea prison on more than one occasion. The only thing any of the men had to say about Mr. O’Brien that was at all objectionable is that he had a red horse that Beau Brummell wanted and he would not sell it. Which turns out to be just as well since Beau has left town to escape his debts. I think they are irritated that O’Brien had the good sense not to be added to the list of people to whom Beau owes money.”
Jane frowned. “Nothing about the coldmongers?”
Vincent shook his head. “Nothing.”
“That seems to be an interesting omission, given how deeply Melody implied that he was involved with them, and William’s statement that he was a great friend of theirs.”
“This set is not likely to note charitable works as worthy of gossip. Lady Stratton’s was so only because it involved a prison.” Vincent dropped his cravat on the floor. He bent his head to worry one of the buttons on his waistcoat free. “I do not think there is anything more to it than that. His mentions of the coldmongers to your sister are likely nothing more than that she found the topic interesting, so he continued to speak on the subject. Speaking of your sister: according to Skiffy, she made quite the impression on the Prince Regent. Do tell her to watch out for him. He does not always act the gentleman.”
“I am well aware of that.” She could have used the reminder before the skating party. “Was there any connection with your father?”
“That was harder to inquire about, but given that Skiffy knows my past, he would have found a way to bring it up if there had been anything relevant.” Vincent sat up further, still struggling with the same button.
“Do you need help, my love?”
He fidgeted with the button for a few more moments and then sighed heavily. “Yes, please.”
Jane, resolutely, did not laugh at his impairment. She knelt in front of him and applied herself to undoing the various buttons on his clothing. As she did, she pondered what Vincent had learned, which was little enough. “I must acknowledge that I have no real grounds for suspecting Mr. O’Brien beyond seeing him speak to Lord Verbury.” She freed his waistcoat and turned her attention to the buttons on his trousers. “No … that is not true. I heard him, most distinctly, say that they would march upon Parliament.”
“Likely a literary metaphor for a speech.” He grimaced and rubbed his head. “I did inquire about Lord Verbury’s plans as well. That he detests Lord Eldon for his common ancestry is generally known. He is also campaigning for the Lord Chancellor position, saying that Lord Eldon’s policies will lead to a revolt among the working class, particularly the coldmongers. In specific, promoting the fear of coldmongers is gaining Verbury a substantial following. He insinuates that they are responsible for the weather, without going so far as to present unsound scientific theory. Still … it is having some effect, even among those who should know better. Do you know, I was pressed to admit that coldmongers could affect the weather, and when I would do no such thing, Poodle cursed me for making him lose a bet. No amount of detail would satisfy him about why it was not so. It was infamous conduct, really.”
“I am certain.” Jane finished with the last button on his breeches.
He yawned again, jaw cracking audibly. “Ah, Muse … I am beyond tired.”
Jane glanced down. “Not all of you appears to be weary.”
Her husband blushed and pulled his shirt lower. He stammered charmingly until Jane took pity on him and stood. “Come, my love, let us get you to bed. I promise not to take advantage of your honour.”
He stood slowly, keeping one hand on the chair’s arm for balance, and the other on the waistband of his breeches. “You are very good to me.”
“I am no better to you than you deserve.” Jane walked him to bed and resolved to send a note to the Strattons in the morning to say that they would not be to work. She did not like to imagine Vincent’s head when he awoke.
Jane woke earlier than Vincent, who sprawled on the bed with his head half buried under a pillow. He snored. It was not unpleasant, his snore. Her husband had the slightest snore imaginable, rather like a small cat sleeping on its head than a broad-chested man. She sat in bed watching him sleep for some minutes, taking in the rise and fall of his chest and the shape of his shoulders under his nightshirt.
She had not heard the maid come in to light the fire, but it burned cheerfully in the grate, and the room had a tolerable warmth to it. She found it absurd that she should still require a fire in June, and began to wonder if the year would be entirely without a summer.
Sliding out from under the counterpane, Jane eased off the bed, trying not to disturb Vincent. His breathing did not change, and the slow wheeze of his snore continued. Jane dressed as silently as she could, wincing as she opened drawers and the quiet room exaggerated the sound of wood on wood.
On her toes, Jane crept out of their bedroom and shut the door behind her. It seemed unlikely that Vincent would be in any condition to work, so Jane made her first business of the day to send the note over to Stratton House to let them know not to look for the Vincents that day. Lord Stratton often sent a meal in for them, and Jane did not want the staff to go to the extra trouble if they were not there.
She went next to Mrs. Brackett and asked her not to send anyone to tidy the room until Vincent arose on his own.
With those duties out of the way, Jane had time to seek her own breakfast and chat with Melody. Her sister was in the breakfast room with a newspaper open on the table before her.
“Good morning. Is there anything interesting today?” Jane put a slice of toast on her plate and considered the herring.
“It looks as though the price of grain will continue to go up. Crops are failing everywhere. The Luddites had another march in Bristol and destroyed three or four frames. Two of them were shot. The Luddites, I mean, not the frames. A volcano exploded on the isle of Tambora—that is in the Indies.” Melody tapped the paper and wrinkled her nose. “Also, long sleeves are very much in vogue right now, which only makes sense with the weather. Oh! Do you think we might go to Fairfax’s Symphonium sometime next week? They have a glamoured recording of the pianist John Field playing his newest composition that I should like to hear.”
Jane raised her brow with some surprise at the range of items that Melody found interesting in the paper. “Yes to Fairfax’s—perhaps on Tuesday? Long sleeves make me glad. And more riots? That is a shocking thing.” It occurred to her that Melody might be better informed than she was about current events, a situation that she found uncommonly odd. “Is there anything about the coldmongers?”
“Oh, the usual cries about their interference with the weather. La! You would think that people could understand that it simply is not possible.” Melody rubbed her forehead. “It makes me tired simply thinking of it.”
“You should see Vincent when he gets in form. Best keep the paper away from him.” Jane settled at the table next to Melody and applied herself to her breakfast.
“Where is Vincent this morning?”
“Still asleep. Last night took something of a toll on him, I am afraid.”
“I am hardly surprised. His family was horrid to him.”
“Mm … as a result, we are not going to the Strattons’ today, so you and I do not need to rush our morning calls.”
“Oh…” Melody rubbed her head again and winced. “I had actually thought to not make calls today.”
Jane looked at her sister with some concern. “Do you feel unwell?”
“Only a headache.” Melody smiled, but it did not seem entirely sincere. “I shall be quite comfortable later. You should go to the Strattons’ without worry for me. I suppose last night took a toll on me as well.”
Jane frowned at her plate. In truth, she would very much like to get some work done. Vincent had done so much more on the glamural than she of late that the opportunity to even the balance intrigued her. The thought of working alone, in fact, had some appeal to it. She could set her own pace and not worry about him measuring her work. She resolved to leave a note for Vincent and then be on her way.
* * *
Jane found the empty
ballroom to be a balm to her nerves. While the house was not quiet, with servants moving through the halls and the general bustle of a large establishment, none of it concerned her. She did not need to worry about Melody or Vincent or Lord Verbury. She could pay attention to her art.
She understood why Vincent had not objected to her spending time with Melody. Perhaps she should suggest that they stagger the hours they worked so that each of them might have some time alone on future projects.
Vincent had once explained to her that he thought art without passion was lifeless. He found it a way to channel strong emotions so that they might have an expression that was acceptable to modern society. Jane used that channel now, putting all the frenzy of the past weeks into the birds she sketched. She made a small flock of wrens that hopped from branch to branch, fluttering their wings. She stepped farther into the illusory stand of trees, wanting to place some birds even deeper so that the motion came from back to front.
The sound of a door opening made her tie off the glamour and turn toward the ballroom doors to welcome Vincent, but the main doors were still shut. She realized that the sound had come from above.
A gentleman had entered the musicians’ gallery. She caught the tail end of his speech. “… sees more clearly after our appointment.”
Another voice, with a pronounced Irish accent, spoke. “Are you quite sure this is safe?”
“Yes. The Vincents are not here today, so the quiet area is disengaged.” The voice belonged to Mr. O’Brien. “You are certain that she marked you?”
“I turned that white when I saw her, and she almost fell on her—” The Irishman’s voice cut off as he moved farther into the gallery.
Jane could have no doubt as to who the gentleman with Mr. O’Brien had been. The mysterious footman had come, undoubtedly to tell him that Jane had recognised him. It was as clear a mark of guilt as any she could think of. What she wanted to know now was what they were discussing that required that quiet zone in the musicians’ gallery.
Jane bit the inside of her lip. She could not see them due to the glamural across the front of the gallery. If Vincent were here, he could weave a
lointaine vision
and record the conversation. The distance was greater than Jane thought she could manage, particularly since a
lointaine vision
had to be constantly spun by hand to work. Or … could she creep up the stairs and shorten the distance?
