Of Noble Family

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Vincent dropped his hands and turned from the window. “I think I must talk with him.”

  “Your father? To what purpose?”

  “To find out exactly what his conditions are for Frank’s family to be freed and for us to be allowed to depart.”

  Jane opened her mouth but could not form a sentence to fill it. Confounded, she shook her head and tried again. “You intend to stay?”

  “Not willingly, but I do not see another way.”

  “We can walk.”

  “Muse, I cannot risk your health.”

  “I am not proposing that we run to St. John’s, but that we walk. You recall that Melody’s doctor told her to stroll. With the Verres Obscurcis we will be in no danger of being spotted and can stop as needed. There is no more risk than if we were walking to church.”

  Vincent sighed heavily, and she could see that she had won the point. “The next packet ship arrives in two weeks. That will give us time to weaken my father’s hold on Frank.”

  “The fact that Frank is willing to keep us prisoner does not trouble you?”

  Vincent shook his head. “I know what it is to be controlled by the Earl of Verbury. My suspicion, knowing my father, is that he suggested the carriage accident to Frank in order to exert additional pressure, but will not issue the order.”

  “Can we not simply free Frank’s family?” She would rather they freed all the slaves.

  “I do not have the authority.”

  “But you are here as the executor of the estate.”

  “Yes, but freeing slaves requires the signature of the owner himself, not merely the executor. I think Richard would grant it, but—the time. It would take two months at best to get word back from him, and there is no end of mischief my father can do in that time.”

  Jane gnawed at her lower lip, trying to think of things that she could do. She did not want to stay. She did not want to leave Vincent anywhere near that man’s influence. For the next two weeks she would have to do everything she could to protect him. “I do not like it.”

  “Nor do I, but with luck we can sway Frank and take the carriage. Otherwise, we will try your method with the Verres. But—if we are to remain for the next two weeks, then I must convince my father that he has won this battle, so I need to talk to him.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No.” Vincent raked his hair into greater disorder. “I will have to argue with him. He will expect it. I would rather you not be there.”

  “I have seen you argue with him before.”

  “Oh no, Muse.… You have only seen him on good behaviour.” He turned to the mirror and tweaked the dark cloth of his cravat to make the bow uneven.

  She considered, very seriously, the possibility of using a Verre Obscurci. The angle of the sun was such that the veranda on that end of the house was fully lit. She could walk down to the windows easily and eavesdrop. But no matter how easy it would be, the fact remained that her husband would feel spied upon, so she had to ask.

  “May I watch? Not—” She held up her hand to stop his gathering protest. “Not be in the room with you, but may I stand outside on the veranda using the Verre? Not knowing frightens me more than anything I might witness.”

  “It is not.… It is less my father’s treatment of me that I wish to avoid showing you, and more who I become when I am around him.” In the mirror, the man who smiled back at her was cold and bitter and no one she recognised.

  “Vincent—”

  He sighed and lowered his head. For a long moment she thought he would refuse again, but he nodded, still with his head down. “If it will help you. I only ask … I am not likely to wish to revisit the conversation afterwards.”

  “I shall not mention it.”

  “Thank you.” He rubbed his forehead, his scowl darkening. “I need to go before I lose my resolve.”

  “Of course. Do not wait for me.” Jane bit her lower lip as he nodded his thanks and strode out of the room.

  She went quickly to their small case and withdrew a Verre Obscurci from its box within. Jane rose, and then hesitated, looking back at the case. If a servant were to come in while they were both out.… She knelt again and pulled out the box, relocked it, and shoved it deep into the wardrobe.

  Shaking her head at her own excessive caution, Jane carried the Verre out onto the veranda. Trying to look as though she were merely taking the air, she walked down the veranda in the shade. On the grounds, gardeners worked at trimming the shrubbery. At the corner, she paused and peered around to make certain that none of them was looking at her, and then she stepped into the sun.

  The sun, which made sweat spring from her skin, flowed through the thin inclusions in the glass to render her invisible. She walked past the windows of the white parlour towards the back of the great house. Like the room that Jane and Vincent occupied on the far side of the house, this had louvre-boards upon the windows to allow a breeze. She could just barely see through them.

  Lord Verbury’s voice was clear before she saw him. “I expect you to do your duty. What is the point of having you here otherwise?”

  “I would gladly leave. Believe me, sir, I have no wish to be here.” Had Vincent not spoken to her in their bedchamber, she would not have known he was agitated. His voice was cold and sneering.

  “Of course not. You have always run when something became too difficult. How many times did I have to fetch you back home when you were a child?”

  “If you had beaten me less, perhaps I would not have had reason to run.”

  “You see that I am racked with guilt for trying to make something of you. Your eldest brother—”

  “If he were still alive, then I would be in Vienna with my wife. Instead, out of respect for Richard, I came here to attempt to manage the estate.”

  “I have an overseer to manage the estate. I need you for an heir.”

  “You have Richard for that.”

  “You must acknowledge that he is unlikely to produce one.”

  “Richard’s business is his own.”

  “You will have to divorce your wife, of course.”

  Vincent’s laugh made the sun cold. “I see. Thank you for making your position clear.”

  “Fortunately, being barren can be grounds enough among the peerage.”

  Jane shivered, her entire body breaking out in gooseflesh. She wrapped an arm around her stomach, as if that would protect the child she carried. She now understood why Vincent wished so strongly to keep her condition a secret.

  “I should advise you to tread carefully, sir.”

  “How did she catch you? I have never been able to satisfy myself as to that. A mannish thing with no heritage to speak of.… I suppose you are more like Richard than I had hoped, if that is what catches your fancy.”

  “Stop.”

  “Do I trouble you because I come too close to the truth? Yes, I saw how it upset you on the witness stand at the trial when the questions bent towards your tastes. Men’s clothing? Is she truly a woman, or just a boy to serve as your punk?”

  Vincent turned towards the door without a word.

  “There he goes. The conversation touches difficult ground and he runs. You always were a coward.”

  Jane crept back along the wall as Vincent opened the door to the white parlour.

  “You know … it has only just occurred to me. Garland made a half dozen bastards before he married, and not a one from you. Perhaps you should ask Mr. Pridmore to show you how to handle your wife.”

  Vincent stood in the door, his face clearly visible through the white parlour’s windows. Rage had bared his teeth and made the muscles in his jaw into knots. Like a glamourist at work, his gaze went vacant for a moment. He seemed to seize all the anger and push the tumult within himself. His face cleared with a speed that frightened Jane more than that glimpse of fury. Turning, Vincent leaned against the door-case. With tones that belonged only to the most aristocratic of families, he drawled, “Really, Father … if you thi
nk that threatening my wife will convince me to aid you, then your judgement has slipped more than I thought. Good day to you, sir.”

  Vincent pulled the door shut as he stepped back into the parlour and stood for a moment supporting himself against the door. Jane stepped into the parlour, the shade of the room stopping the effects of the Verre. At the sound of her foot on the broad wood boards, Vincent spun, his face mottled red with fury.

  The moment he saw her, colour drained from his features. Vincent swallowed heavily, glancing back to his father’s room. He raised a finger to his lips.

  Jane nodded to let him know that she would not betray her presence by speaking.

  Still half-turned from her, Vincent pointed to the front veranda with his brows raised in question. Jane gave a little nod and followed him along the veranda to the front of the house. Even once there, he waited until they had progressed across the shaded stretch away from his father’s wing of the house.

  He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat twice before speaking, and still his voice was hoarse. “Are you all right?”

  “Only concerned for you.” She put the tips of two fingers, no more, on his arm, and yet he flinched under her touch. “Are you well?”

  He glanced behind them. Through the long stretch of windows that spanned the front gallery of the house, a maid was quietly polishing a table. Vincent turned to face the yard again, gaze resting now upon a gardener trimming a shrub, and then upon a groom walking a horse in a circle upon the walk. None of them so much as glanced towards the Vincents, and yet Jane became aware of their presence as she never was of servants back home.

  When Vincent spoke again, his tone was painfully calm, as if he were saying that the day was a fine one. “Well … you had expressed curiosity about what I was like as youth. Now you know.”

  In spite of the heat, a chill washed over Jane, as if a coldmonger were weaving glamour directly on her skin. Your husband was marked by fury.… His apparent calm worried Jane more than agitation might. She could see a preservative shell hardening around Vincent, and they had not even been in Antigua a full day. “There will be more of this. If we stay here.”

  “Yes.” He looked over the horizon of the estate, appearing for all the world like a man at ease, if one could disregard the rigour with which he gripped the rail.

  “Shall we go inside? To escape the heat.”

  The skin around Vincent’s eyes tightened slightly before he looked down and lifted one hand just a little above the balustrade. It shook as though he were palsied. He lowered it again and said, with deliberate mildness, “I think it might be best if I were to walk about and look over the estate. If you are truly all right.”

  “I am. Truly.”

  “May I further ask that you to wait in our rooms? It would…” His voice faltered, and then his jaw locked around whatever emotion was there. “I should like to know where you are.”

  She tilted her head, studying him. Though it felt alarmingly like being set upon a shelf for safekeeping, if she stayed in the room, then he would not have to worry about unpleasant possibilities. Jane controlled a shudder, aware that something in his past prompted this … difficulty. More than anything, she wanted to pull him into her arms and provide shelter, but she instead kept her hands by her side and her voice low. “I understand. I will wait for you in our rooms. Only … please do not ask me to make a habit of it?”

  “I will not.” He hesitated for a moment, balanced on his toes as if he was turning to go, but then turned back towards her. Vincent leaned down. There was a brief pause, as if he had to force the contact, before he brushed her cheek with the scantest of kisses. “Thank you.”

  Still without meeting her gaze, Vincent went to the stairs. He took them two at a time, and then walked straight across the lawn.

  Zeus, the slave who had driven them there, hurried down the stairs and followed behind him. Jane clenched her jaw in a mirror of her husband. She had no hope that Vincent would enjoy any privacy.

  * * *

  Jane returned to their rooms with the intention of taking up a book and awaiting Vincent’s return upon the veranda. While it was not strictly speaking within their room, sitting outside would allow her to see his return that much sooner.

  She rounded the corner from the parlour to the hall of their room and slowed. The door to their room stood open. Fabric rustled within. Her heart sped far more than such a simple sound merited. Jane and Vincent did not travel with their own servants, so it was likely just one of the maids setting their room to rights, part of the perfectly normal routine of their arrival.

  Remembering Vincent’s consciousness of the servants when they were on the veranda, Jane took a moment to secure the Verre more discreetly in her shawl and stepped within.

  A young mulatto maid stood at the wardrobe, hanging one of Jane’s dresses within. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which softened even the Hamilton brow. She had her thick hair twisted back into a chignon and wrapped under a lawn kerchief that was held in place with a black satin bow. She wore a simple black round gown with a lace fichu covering her bosom.

  Jane cleared her throat.

  The maid spun with a speed that reminded Jane of Vincent’s flinch and told her more of the state of affairs in the house than any lecture. When the young woman saw Jane, she dropped her eyes and bent in a low curtsy. “Mrs. Hamilton. My name is Louisa.” Her voice was a pleasing contralto with hints of the Antiguan accent tempered by aristocratic consonants. Born here, clearly, but taught to sound British. “Lord Verbury sends me with his compliments to act as your lady’s maid while you are in residence.”

  Whatever had been pleasing in the young woman’s countenance now took on a foreboding cast. Given Lord Verbury’s statement that only a small number of trusted slaves knew he was alive, that meant he trusted her, or, at the very least, had some hold over her. Jane could be certain of Louisa reporting anything she said back to Verbury.

  “That is generous of his lordship.” She stepped farther into the room. While it made her uneasy to have Louisa as her maid, it might present an opportunity. Perhaps she could mislead Verbury by what she chose to say to the maid. “You must be familiar with the household arrangements.”

  “Of course, madam.” Her head still down, Louisa hung one of Jane’s multitude of black dresses in the wardrobe.

  If only the maid were not quite so close to where Jane had hidden the box of Verres. “Leave that for the moment. Perhaps we should start with an orientation, which will enable me to assist my husband while we are here.”

  Dutifully, Louisa stepped away from the wardrobe. “I believe that Mr. Frank has arranged for a tour of the grounds this afternoon, with the intention of introducing you to the staff. There are fourteen slaves total in charge of the maintenance of the house and grounds. Another one hundred and eighty in the fields and distillery.”

  “So many!”

  “His lordship’s estate is the third largest on Antigua.”

  “How are you treated?”

  “Mr. Pridmore is a professional and attends to his job thoroughly. Shall I begin by telling you which of the other staff are aware of the situation with his lordship?”

  Jane sighed. “Thank you, yes.”

  “Cook is aware. As she has charge of the kitchen, it was necessary to keep her informed. Mr. Frank, of course. Miss Sarah, his mistress. Then Zeus and Jove, for the occasions when his lordship must be moved.”

  “Really?” It was easier to comment on that last surprise than on the fact that Lord Verbury still kept a mistress, given his current health, or that she was listed among the staff. “Where does he need to be moved?”

  “In and out of his wheeled chair. They also fetch Sir Ronald, his lordship’s physician, in the carriage.”

  Jane sighed and settled into one of the
chairs, conscious of the glass sphere tucked in her shawl. It was tempting to hide it behind a pillow, but she had seen maids arrange them too often in other houses. “Louisa, would you fetch some paper and a pen for me? I should like to take some notes.”

  “Of course, madam.” The young woman hurried out of the room.

  Jane waited until her footsteps had faded down the hall and stood. She went to the wardrobe, reaching into the back corner where she had left the box that they carried the Verres in. It was still in the back of the wardrobe and locked tight. Jane tucked the other one inside the box and let herself relax a bit to see both spheres of glass within. After some thought, she left it in the back of the wardrobe, but slid it to a different corner so that the folds of one of her black dresses masked it further.

  That accomplished, Jane returned to her seat and took up a book, in an effort to look at ease. Two weeks. They need only be this suspicious for two more weeks.

  Seven

  Property and Propriety

  Jane and Vincent were sitting in the blue parlour taking tea when Frank appeared at the door. Really, she did not see how he could move down the long gallery so silently when she made noise even in her slippers. He paused until Vincent looked up from the account book he was going over.

  “Mr. Grenville Pridmore, the overseer, and his wife, Mrs. Pridmore.”

  Vincent exchanged a look with Jane, which managed to convey his concern for her sensibilities when presented with the man that Lord Verbury had implied had certain … appetites. She smiled in return, to reassure him that she was not as fragile as all that. Thus appeased, Vincent shut his book and rose, as a hearty man of five and thirty strode into the room.

  Beneath sandy hair, Mr. Pridmore’s face was rough from the sun but came equipped with a ready smile. He wore a linen coat and trousers, although without the waistcoat that was de rigueur in Britain. His wife, a good ten years his junior, had managed to retain her pale English rose complexion in spite of the tropical sun. Her brown hair had a natural curl to it and set off her oval face neatly. She wore a green lawn dress with a black ribbon as a generous nod to the mourning that the house was under.