“What? Both?”
Nodding, Jane related the contents of the letter with as few words as possible, but she could still see her father’s shock. His brows drew closer together with each word she spoke. “How is Vincent taking it?”
“Distressed. Uncertain.”
“And you?”
“Also uncertain. I think we will likely go to the West Indies, and I dread what the trip will do to him.”
“There, now…” Her father pulled her into an embrace, and Jane let some of the tension she was carrying transfer to him. “There, now. From what you have implied of his father, he has survived worse, and he has you with him to face this trial.”
“I wish I knew what to do for him.”
Her father set her back and tilted his head down to look at her. “Shall I tell you what I do for your mother?”
“You cannot seriously compare Vincent with Mama.”
“Well, he has more sense than she, I will grant that readily enough, but—” He held up a finger. “But. You must always remember that her fears are real to her. She wants to know that she is not alone.”
“She wants attention.”
“Yes. That is how I let her know that she is not alone.” He made a little wave of his fingers. “Granted, distracting her is easier. But, as a start, make certain that Vincent knows he is not facing this alone. Meanwhile, I shall give you both a great and noble gift.”
Jane could not help but smile at her father. “And what is that?”
“I shall be the one to tell your mother.” He pressed his hands to his bosom in a martyr’s pose.
“Oh! That is a great and noble gift. You are too good to me.”
He winked at her, turning to go back down the stairs. Listening to her father’s footsteps recede towards the distant murmur of conversation below, Jane quieted her breathing in the same way she might after working an especially challenging piece of glamour. She inhaled to her fullest extent, until her ribs pressed against her short stays, then let the breath out through her mouth. It did not help. She still felt as though she would be ill. There was no correct choice in this matter, only a lesser evil.
Jane put her hand on the latch and tried to assume an air of calm that she did not feel. When she opened the door, Vincent had moved to the window and was standing with his back to the room. He tossed what appeared to be a jet of fire from hand to hand, directing the glamour with little twists of his fingers. As the door shut, he turned his head and snipped the cords of the illusion. The flames winked out. “Is your mother palpitating?”
“So it seems, but Papa has promised to reassure her as to your health.” She came to stand next to the window, just behind Vincent. She could see the angle of his cheek and the edge of his brow. “He also offered to share the news of the letter for us. So we have only to wait until Mama has time to calm down.”
His cheek rounded a little. “I do not know if I can remain in the room so long as that. Might we have our meals sent in?”
“Hush. She is not as bad as that. Sometimes. Occasionally.” Jane worried the inside of her lip for a moment. “What do you want to do?”
“Ah, Muse … I do not trust my own judgement at all.”
“Well … let us think through the various particulars.” They would go, it was clear to her that they would; but in his current state, Vincent needed help trusting his own instincts. “You left your family to pursue your art and are not bound by any code to assist with the resolution of the will. In fact, given that your father tried to have you executed, can you truly be considered a son?”
Vincent waved his hand, shaking his head. “I am certain that my father would have made arrangements so that we were, at worst, shipped to Australia. No doubt he would have brought us back after a few years, once he thought we had learned not to cross him.”
“How can you possibly think so?”
“He would never dispose of an instrument. You have no idea the amount of effort he put into shaping me.”
“First of all, your father might have arranged to have your sentence commuted, but not for any of the others on trial, and perhaps not for me.”
Vincent tilted his head to the side. She could imagine the wince upon his face. “Likely you are correct.”
“Second … trying to remake you according to his own principles is utterly selfish. If he had rescued you from execution and exile, it would have been for his sake, not yours.” Jane inhaled and held her breath, trying to cool her sudden anger. Every time she considered what that man had done to his son, she became enraged anew. But that would not help her husband sort through the question before him. She let her breath out in a slow stream. “On the other hand, if we set aside your father from our deliberations, your eldest brother’s death should surely be mourned, and Richard’s infirmity should be pitied. It does seem as though there is a motive for us to go.”
Vincent turned. “You would go with me?”
“Vincent.” Jane took his hand in hers. “Given all that we are discussing, I would not feel safe or right letting you go alone.”
“So you think we should go?”
“I do not relish the prospect, no.” The way his thoughts kept offering reasons to go and none to refuse the request told Jane all that she needed to know. It would be difficult but would perhaps at least provide him a means of closing certain chapters in his life. She suspected that if he did not see his father’s grave, he would spend his life wondering when the man might appear again. “But it will do us no harm. Going to the West Indies will not put you in contact with any of your living family, as they are all in England. If nothing else, I have not been to the West Indies, and it will be instructive.”
Vincent rubbed his face, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. Jane let him think and waited until he finally nodded. He lowered his hands and reached for hers. Lifting one of them to his lips, he kissed it gently. “Thank God for you, Muse. I should be lost without you. I do not wish to go, either, but think we must.”
Jane squeezed his hand in return. If Vincent was to go to the West Indies as Lord Verbury’s son, then he would need to be a Hamilton again, at least for a short time. That meant observing mourning. She knew how to do that, and she thanked the stars that they need only observe the forms. Nothing could induce her to truly mourn the death of Vincent’s father.
Three
Travels and Travails
Vincent’s brother, newly made The Right Honourable Earl of Verbury, had been as good as his word. When they called at the office of Lord Flower-Horne, they discovered not only that arrangements had been made for an ample travel allowance, but also that Lord Flower-Horne had already secured passage for them with the Falmouth Packet Service, which regularly sent the mail via packet ships to Jamaica. The vessel would make a stop at Antigua on the way and could drop them off en route.
Though Jane regretted leaving her family, in particular her sister and new nephew, she could not think of allowing Vincent to go by himself. No amount of hysterics on the part of her mother could sway Jane from her intentions.
Even the thought of the trip had been enough to renew Vincent’s nightmares. In the three weeks it took to travel across the continent to the English Channel, dreams woke him no fewer than four nights, and he showed signs of disturbed slumber on other nights.
More than once, Jane woke to find Vincent weaving glamour in the bedchamber of whatever inn they had stopped in for the night. She did not alert him to the fact that she was awake for fear that he would take to late-night walks to avoid disturbing her. She had reservations about the trip herself, given how their last voyage had gone, but took comfort from the knowledge that those particular circumstances would not repeat.
A letter had gone ahead of them by fast courier to England to let the newly made Earl of Verbury know that they were en route to Antigua. Vincent had called at the post before they left the port in Falmouth, and a letter from Richard had awaited them, full of such unreserved gratitude that it made Jane a lit
tle easier about their decision to go. Still, Jane could not help but think that affairs in Antigua would be much altered eight months after the late earl’s death.
One of Jane’s true concerns as they finally set sail for the West Indies was that Vincent would be unable to work glamour as a means of distraction at sea. She had packed a few books and their painting supplies, but her best hope lay in the Verres Obscurcis they had made in Venice. Vincent was ever a theorist, and puzzling out a conundrum would be just the thing to occupy his mind.
Their berth upon the Marchioness of Salisbury was a small room, no more than five feet long and six wide, though it was large by ship standards. Jane could touch the ceiling with a flat hand without standing on her toes. Vincent had to duck to enter the room at all, and he stood with his head cocked to one side, as though he were afraid he would knock it upon the ceiling. Its two narrow bunks, one atop the other at one end of the room, made it clear that Vincent, who was rather over six feet in height, would be sleeping bent the entire voyage. A desk stood built into the forward wall with a variety of cunning shelves above it. Each had a rail to keep the items on it from tumbling off as the ship rolled.
When they first boarded, the movement of the ship troubled Jane not at all. In the morning, however, she was barely out of her bunk when she was afflicted with unexpected nausea. With an urgent necessity, she availed herself of the chamber pot and emptied her dinner from the night before.
Vincent sat up in the top bunk and knocked his head upon the ceiling. With a hand to his head, he clambered out of the bunk. “Muse, are you all right?”
Jane’s answer was apparent as she was sick for a second time. When the heaving had passed and Jane had wiped her mouth upon the cloth that Vincent provided, she straightened. “That is most vexing. I hope that I did not acquire an ague at the last inn.”
“Might you simply be seasick?”
“I never have been before.” Her stomach churned again and, as if her body needed to voice its disagreement, Jane was sick for the third and fourth times in rapid succession.
“Would you like to lie down?”
“Yes.” Jane caught her breath, grateful that she had not yet put on her stays. “I think I might.”
* * *
By the afternoon, Jane’s stomach was improved enough that she felt she might venture forth. She stepped into the dining hall that divided the main cabin. A long narrow table ran down the middle of it, under a skylight that showed an abundance of sail overhead, and beyond that a brilliant blue sky. Jane walked to the front of the cabin and climbed the short ladder, which led up and out.
Stepping over the raised threshold and onto the deck brought her almost immediate relief. The fresh salt air brushed away the lingering nausea. A stiff breeze whipped past her, clutching at her gown and playing with the ribbons of her bonnet. If Jane had not tied it snugly down, she would have lost it to the sea in moments.
That great body of water surrounded them, grey-green and rolling. The passage to the West Indies would be close to a month, and Jane could only hope that she would not be ill that entire time. The ship was filled with men in smart blue uniforms working on the various tasks. Though most were of European descent in appearance, a few Black Africans and a slender Asiatic man worked amongst the others. She could not pretend to understand what any of them were doing with the ropes, beyond adjusting something in the rigging, but the boys scrubbing the deck were obvious enough.
The ship pitched, and Jane grasped the rail as the deck tilted beneath her. A moment later it levelled, and then tilted the opposite way as the ship climbed the next swell.
“Look at the horizon, madam.” A Black African sailor stood on a platform a few feet away, steering the boat. He spoke with a curious accent, almost as though his words had been flavoured with sweet jam. He had a broad forehead beneath close-cropped curls and had a long, narrow, nose. He wrinkled that nose and smiled at her. “If the motion of the ship troubles you, the horizon is steady.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Too ill to be much disturbed at being addressed without an introduction, Jane swallowed and looked out at the far horizon. “Were you much troubled your first time at sea?”
“Oh no, madam. I was sailing with my father before I have memory. But I have seen other Europeans turn your particular shade of green.”
“Ah.” Staring at the horizon did seem to help. “I thought that Africa was a desert sort of place. I had not thought of sailors there.”
He laughed. “It is a large continent with a significant coastline. Somalia, where I am from, has a navy to make the British take notice.”
“I confess surprise.” She inhaled and let her breath out slowly. “Thank you for the advice about the horizon. I am not usually troubled by seasickness, so have no methods for assuaging it.”
“Tell the cook that you have a delicate stomach. He will make a broth for you that will help you steady. If you need anything else, ask for Ibrahim.”
“Thank you.” Jane kept her gaze out at the horizon, grateful for Ibrahim’s advice. Perhaps the trouble had simply been that she could not see anything at all from their cabin. She resolved to spend more time on deck until she became used to the motion, though there was little to see but waves. England had vanished with more speed than she had expected.
“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Hamilton?” asked Ibrahim.
For a moment, Jane did not answer, before recalling that “Mrs. Hamilton” referred to her. “I was looking for my husband. Mr. Hamilton.”
He would, of course, know to whom she was married. It was more to accustom herself to using the name than anything else. For their entire marriage, they had lived with the surname Vincent. It had originally been her husband’s given name, as The Honourable Vincent Hamilton, third son of the Earl of Verbury, but he had taken the name David Vincent long before he had met her, so that he could pursue a career as a glamourist. Now, though, given the terms of the late earl’s will, it seemed best to be Hamiltons, at least briefly.
The sailor laughed. “Just look to the midship. I think you will spot him readily enough.”
Cautiously, Jane turned her gaze towards the front—no, towards the bow of the ship. Beyond the box of the skylight, a great, billowing opalescence of unformed glamour rose above the ship. A cheer went up from a crowd of sailors bunched around the rail. “What in heaven’s name?”
“Lightworks. It’s a game we play with glamour sometimes, since the use of fireworks is prohibited on ships.”
“I thought it was not possible to work glamour at sea.” Indeed, she and Vincent had made an effort last summer and had barely been able to catch hold of it. Why had no glamourists written about this habit of sailors?
“Oh, there is no managing it. All it does when you try to catch it is make fragments of rainbows, and you lose those pretty fast. It does serve some utility, if you need to communicate with another ship from a distance and have lost your signal flags.” He shook his head. “The game is to see how long a rainbow they can conjure before losing their grip.”
A ribbon of undulating light flowed back in the wake of the ship. The sailors counted, beating the deck with their heels. “One, two, three, four, five, six, sev—oh!”
The rainbow evaporated into a sparkling mist. Laughter rose from the group as the sailors shifted around to let someone else have a go. Vincent stood in the middle of the sailors, with his head cocked to one side in an attitude of concentration. He had lost his hat, although Jane hoped he had simply neglected to put it on, so he stood with his brown curls ruffled by the breeze. He nodded in response to something that a grizzled man said and reached into the ether.
A jumble of colours streamed from Vincent’s hand as he let the glamour fracture into a long banner made up of the spectrum. As one, the sailors started to count again. When they reached ten, the nature of the chanting changed a little. It took on a tone of disbelief and swelled as the men’s enthusiasm grew with each number.
At fifteen, Ibr
ahim grunted in surprise. “I have never seen anyone go past twelve.”
“My husband is—” She bit off “the Prince Regent’s glamourist” before she could say it aloud because, of course, Mr. Hamilton was not. That title belonged to Sir David Vincent, and even then it was questionable given the state of mourning in the royal court. “He is given to rivalrous competition.”
The glamour fractured amid shouts of, “Nineteen!”
Panting, Vincent leaned forward to brace himself with his hands upon his knees. Jane lost sight of him as the sailors clustered about him with congratulations. Well … at least she need not worry that he would go mad without being able to work glamour.
“If you will excuse me?”
“Of course. Don’t forget to talk to Cook.”
Jane thanked him and made her way forward to the cluster of sailors. Vincent straightened slowly, nodding his thanks at the cries of approbation. The moment he spotted her, his brow turned up in concern. Jane raised a hand to wave and reassure him that she was well. He relaxed, but he still made his way through the sailors to her.
“Feeling better?” Vincent put a hand to her cheek as if to check her temperature.
“Much, thank you. I think it just took me some time to acclimate to the ship’s motion.” She nodded to the group of sailors, who had resumed their game. “I feel that I should ask if you are well. That was quite the display.”
“Eh? Oh—Lieutenant Price had an interesting trick to how he let the glamour spool out. Instead of holding it directly, he is, in essence, holding an opening in the ether and letting the motion of the ship draw the glamour out.” Vincent gestured with his right hand. “Shall I show you?”
“Yes, but may I suggest that you not succeed quite so well this time?” Jane tugged her gloves off, intent on having a go herself, once he had shown her the technique.
“Hm? Why not?”
“Because the helmsman seemed astonished by your display. He said that he had not seen anyone go past twelve.”
Of Noble Family Page 3
