Of Noble Family

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “I am certain you will.” His eyes almost twinkled in response. “You have always been accomplished at the womanly arts.”

  Eight

  Customary Restraint

  Jane had gathered little of substance from Mrs. Pridmore, other than what she had already suspected. By the lady’s occasional lapse, it was clear that she and Mr. Pridmore had become accustomed to thinking of the estate as their own. Vincent, too, had found conditions as he suspected. The distillery’s boilers had been poorly repaired and little maintained. He found not only men working in the deplorable heat, but children working among the vats of boiling cane syrup. The whole of it seemed designed for disaster, and, while he had been there, a dropped bucket had scalded a youth across his legs. The boy had been beaten for dropping the bucket and then sent back to work. When Vincent had spoken to Mr. Pridmore about it, the man had brushed his concerns aside and said that he was following Lord Verbury’s instructions. He invited Vincent to take it up with his lordship.

  That conversation had not gone well.

  Monday, their third full day in Antigua, found Jane and Vincent in the counting house. Jane, in a wicker chair by one of the tall windows, was attempting to help him sort out the affairs of the estate and now sat looking through pages of cramped text in the slave registry. It pretended to show the birth and death dates of each slave owned by Lord Verbury, as required by the London Registry, but it had been carelessly kept, and many names were missing. Often a slave was noted without any parentage, even when the dates made it clear that he or she had been born on the estate.

  Jane rubbed her eyes and sat back in her chair. The large metal shutters had been thrown back to let in a breeze, which helped somewhat with the afternoon heat.

  Across the room, Vincent and Frank were bent over an account book going over the finances of the estate. Seeing them with their heads so close in conversation made the familial resemblance all the stronger. Frank’s skin was darker, and his hair had begun to silver at the temples, but their silhouettes were very much alike. Jane sighed and turned back to the ledger again. She had, at least, begun to gather some sense of what Mr. Pridmore had meant by the low birth rate. An alarmingly high number of women lost their babies shortly after birth or never came to term at all. It was not, in her condition, the most comforting of reading.

  Still, it gave her an idea for a distinctly feminine way of determining the state of affairs. “Vincent … my family used to do charity work with the people in our village. We would take such supplies as they could not afford and ensure that they had any medicines they might need.”

  “You are thinking to do that here.” Vincent nodded slowly, clearly recognising her deeper meaning. “Though I am not certain it can be accounted as charity if they are people who … whom we are so directly responsible for.”

  She swallowed. Of course it would not be charity to take better care of your property—even that thought made her ill. She could not shake the English way of thinking that those working on the estate were free. “All the more reason, then. Would that be useful, Frank?”

  “It is, in fact, one of the things that your husband and I are attempting to address.” He placed a finger on the account book to hold his place as he gave her his attention. “The slaves are responsible for growing their own food. While the tending of sustenance plots is common on the island, Mr. Pridmore recently cut their salted fish and pork rations. He felt it unnecessary, since the field slaves are raising chickens.”

  “That—that is absurd.”

  The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched. “If you were to ask Louisa to arrange for a cut of bacon from Cook, no one could say that was wrong.”

  “Thank you.” She sighed, turning back to the ledger. “Meanwhile, would it help if I were to fill in the missing information? If we are supposed to be providing the London Registry with a full accounting of the slaves owned by Lord Verbury, then we are sorely wanting.” Jane drew the book a little closer. “For instance, it has a record for Amey, who has two children, but only Solomon is named. There is a date listed for the birth of the second, but no name, and no death.”

  “Eleanor, I believe. Thank you, it would be appreciated if you could sort this out. I can assign one of the older women to go over it with you. They know who everyone is.” He almost smiled. “You know how old women can be.”

  “I do. You should meet my mother sometime.” Jane took up a quill and wrote the name of Amey’s child in the ledger. “It is really shockingly kept. There is no record of Zeus and Jove at all, for instance. Or you, for that matter.”

  “That may be because Zeus and Jove are just what his lordship chooses to call them.” He bent his head back to the account book. “See if there are a Zachary and a John born in 1805.”

  “I thought those were peculiar names.” Jane turned to that year and traced her finger down the list of births. “Ha! Here we are. Thank you. Should we call them by their real names?”

  Vincent answered, “Not while we are trying to keep my father happy.”

  “Surely he would not know. He cannot even leave his rooms.”

  Frank cleared his throat, and let that be the whole of his remark. Jane sagged in her chair. It was so wearying, having to attend to the desires of a man who was supposed to be dead.

  She wiped her pen clean with more diligence than was perhaps merited, considering that she was not done writing. She had never abhorred someone as thoroughly as she did Lord Verbury. “And you? Is Frank not your real name?”

  “It is a nickname given to me in my youth.” Sliding his chair back from the table, Frank reached for another ledger on the table behind him.

  “I should be happy to call you by your real name, if you prefer. In spite of his lordship.” Jane waited, but Frank only set the new ledger down on the table in front of Vincent and began leafing through it.

  Vincent straightened in his chair slowly. “Frank … Frederick. You are named after my father, are you not?”

  Frank stared at the ledger pages, his expression set. Then he shut the book and pushed it away from him. “Yes, sir. My name, for your wife’s ledger, is Frederick Hamilton II.”

  There was no reason why Jane should be shocked. His parentage had been obvious from the moment she had seen him. What surprised her was that Lord Verbury had been proud enough about the birth of a slave child to name him after himself. “You were his firstborn.”

  “Yes, madam. You will find my birth on the page for the year 1773.”

  Incongruously, Vincent laughed. He covered his face with his hands and leaned back in his chair. It was so out of character and out of keeping with the conversation that Jane could only gape. Frank, likewise, stared with his mouth stopped at the beginning of a word. Vincent wiped his eyes and sat forward again. “I am sorry. It is not amusing. It is only that when he was disappointed with me—which was always—he would say, ‘My eldest would not speak to me this way.’ I thought he meant Garland.”

  Frank opened the ledger again and pulled it towards him. “I suggest that we—”

  “Ah!” Jane made the cry before she understood why. She pressed a hand to her stomach, terrified.

  Vincent’s chair clattered backwards, as he sprang to his feet. “A doctor. Fetch a doctor!”

  The pang repeated, a sharp blow from inside. The baby had kicked. “No! No, I am fine.”

  It was not a cramp. She knew all too well what that felt like. She had felt this, too, from the outside, when Melody’s baby had kicked.

  When Jane had been expecting previously, it had not lasted long enough for their child to quicken. Which meant that she must now be further along than she had thought. Jane put her hand to the spot and willed the child to kick again. Vincent knelt in front of her. When had he arrived?

  Frank was halfway to the door. If he got a doctor, then her condition would be clear to everyone. Jane put her hand on Vincent’s cheek and forced him to look at her instead of her stomach. “It was a bit of indigestion. Something I ate did not agree wi
th me. Nothing more.”

  “But—”

  “Frank!” Jane looked past her husband. “Truly, I was only surprised by how … indecorous my digestion was.”

  He slowed and eyed her. “Should I tell Cook to use fewer spices?”

  “The meals have been delicious, but perhaps … perhaps I should have something plain for dinner tonight.” Jane turned back to the ledger she had been working on and drew a scrap of paper closer. Taking up her quill, she wrote: The baby kicked. All is well.

  Vincent stared at the little piece of paper as if he could not read. He lifted it off the table and sank back on his heels, gazing at it. After a moment, Vincent covered his mouth and gazed up at her. He raised his hand as though to touch her stomach, but caught himself before he did. If Frank had not already guessed, he surely would have then. Clearing his throat, Vincent folded the paper in half and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “If your digestion is troubling you, perhaps you should lie down?”

  Frank was staring at them. He knew. He must know. Jane laughed with a gaiety she did not feel, hoping that she could somehow convince him that nothing was amiss. “Do not be silly. It was a touch of ill vapours. Just be happy that the windows were open and we have such a pleasant breeze. Now go on, back to your numbers. I have some ancestry to sort out.”

  As Vincent stood, with an admirable display of ease, Jane turned her gaze back towards the ledger. Her attention, though, was fixed internally, as she waited for movement within.

  * * *

  Jane’s husband was a man of enormous will and restraint. It took all of Jane’s power to remain in her chair, but Vincent lasted nearly a full hour before lifting his head to regard her. “Were you considering visiting the slave quarters today?”

  She set down her quill. “I had thought to, yes.”

  “I need to stretch my legs a bit, so will walk part of the way with you when you go.” Vincent pushed his chair back, making it clear that he meant for her to go now.

  Frank shut the ledger in front of him and rubbed his eyes. “We are at a good stopping point, and I have some matters to attend to in the house as well.”

  Jane slid her chair back and neatly arranged the small stack of papers and books she had been looking through. Looking “at” would perhaps be more appropriate, as she had spent much of the time waiting for the baby to kick again. Aside from a few brief flutters that truly might have been only the vapours, their child had quieted.

  “I presume you want to go to our room to fetch your bonnet and parasol first.” Vincent’s manner was calm, yet he kept touching his waistcoat pocket where the little slip of paper was.

  Jane suppressed a smile, trying to match his demeanour. “I could not think of going without either.”

  He walked beside her down the steps and across the short stretch of lawn to the great house. The space between them began to fill with unsaid words, and by the time they reached the door to their rooms, the silence seemed nearly as gravid as Jane herself.

  They stepped into the room, and Vincent shut the door. Leaning against it, he closed his eyes and let his fatigue show. Jane sometimes forgot that Vincent was younger than she—only by a year—but the differences in their lives gave him a countenance far older.

  She took his hand, so much broader than hers, and placed it against her stomach where she had felt the kicks. “I do not know if it will happen again immediately.”

  He opened his eyes. “I thought—”

  “I know. I did too, for a moment.” Jane concentrated, willing some movement to occur. “But it means that I am likely well into my fifth month.”

  Scarcely breathing, he nodded.

  Jane pressed his hand against her more firmly, but their child seemed as stubborn as Vincent and refused to perform on command. “Have you thought of names?”

  “I have been a little afraid to do so.”

  “Well … let us begin. If a girl, is there anyone you would like to honour?” That seemed a safer question than asking about boy’s names, considering their situation.

  He wet his lips. “My grandmother? Lady Vincent. Her given name was Grace. Would that…?”

  “Grace Vincent.” Jane rolled the syllables around on her tongue. “That is a lovely name, and as the woman who first taught you to work glamour, I think it appropriate. May I also suggest Virginia?”

  “After your mother?” He seemed almost surprised, though it was the most commonly done thing.

  “Mama has tried to do her best for us and would be so pleased.” Jane frowned, thinking she felt a flurry of movement, but Vincent showed no signs of marking it. “Grace Virginia Vincent—oh. No, that is entirely too many Vs, even if she is going to change surnames upon marriage. Perhaps Elizabeth, taking Mama’s middle name?”

  He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Your mother’s name is Virginia Elizabeth? Truly?”

  “My grandfather wrote a book on Queen Elizabeth that was very well received.”

  This made Vincent chuckle for some reason.

  “He was an amateur historian of some renown. You do not need to laugh quite so hard. Elizabeth is a perfectly lovely name.”

  “To be sure, but you must see the comedy in Virginia Elizabeth.”

  “To be sure, I do not.” She was fully aware that Virginia Elizabeth referred to the Virgin Queen. It had not been an accidental connection. While she was glad to see him laughing, it had been a very good book on the queen. There was a copy in His Majesty’s own library.

  “It is only that—”

  The baby delivered a swift rap to Jane’s side, silencing them both. Vincent inhaled convulsively as a second kick followed the first. His semblance of calm melted, leaving only an expression of open wonder. “That was … kicking?”

  “Or punching.” She ran her fingers through his hair.

  His brows drew together with concern. “Does it hurt? You should sit. Why am I keeping you standing? You should sit.”

  Jane laughed at her husband as he led her to the small sofa in their apartment. “It can be surprising. That is—” The baby kicked again. “—all. Though I’ve been told by Melody that it can get uncomfortable later. Tom was apparently quite the pugilist.”

  Vincent settled her on the sofa with an absurd amount of care. He sank to kneel in front of her and looked for permission before putting his hand back on her stomach. “Do you think it is a boy?”

  “And if it is, what shall we call him? What is Herr Scholes’s name?” That should be safe enough.

  His attention had returned to the sensations beneath his hand. “Leopold Sebastian Faustus Scholes.”

  “Faustus? That will never do. Leopold Vincent?”

  “I was thinking Charles.”

  “After Papa?”

  Vincent looked up, a shyness in his brown eyes. “Would that be all right? His conduct is exemplary.”

  She leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “He would be honoured and delighted.” She took both of his hands and pressed them to either side of her, so that whichever way Charles or Grace kicked, her husband could feel it. In quiet, intimate moments, she had seen Alastar sitting like this with Melody, with a similar expression of stunned joy. Jane traced her fingers through Vincent’s hair and across his forehead. That line between his brows had finally smoothed.

  The door to their room opened.

  Jane pushed back in the sofa, aware that their pose made her state all too clear. Equally startled, Vincent sprang to his feet, eyes widening. And then he replaced the fear with anger. He reached for it like glamour, wrapping rage around him, and spun to the door.

  “How dare you enter without leave!” His shoulders seemed somehow broader, with his hands held away from his sides and flexed almost into fists.

  Louisa flinched back into the door. She ducked her head, shrinking into a curtsy. “I’m sorry, sir. I—Mr. Frank told me to see to Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Knock. You must always knock before entering.” He towered over her, moving his hands behind his back and cl
asping them tightly.

  “Vincent.” Jane stood.

  Her voice seemed to recall him to himself and he rocked back on his heels.

  “Thank you, Louisa.” Jane’s heart knocked against her ribs. While she settled her nerves, she turned from the young woman as though to fetch her bonnet. Vincent rarely raised his voice and had never shouted at a servant before. “Would you be able to acquire cuts of bacon from Cook? I should like to visit the slave quarters.”

  “Yes, madam. Mr. Frank made the suggestion, so I have already arranged for Zeus to carry it for us.”

  “You are not seriously going out.” Vincent spun on Jane, and she took an involuntary step back. He clenched his jaw. The effort he took to moderate his tone made the next sentence excessively calm. “That is to say, I thought you were tired.”

  She took up the bonnet and went to the mirror. “Not so much as to stay in.”

  “But—” He cleared his throat. “In this weather?”

  “We are asking people to work in this weather. Surely I can make a walk.” Jane settled the bonnet, trying not to flatten her hair still more. If she could pretend that all was normal, then perhaps he could steady himself a little.

  “But it could wait until tomorrow.”

  “And would tomorrow be any cooler? Likely not.”

  Vincent narrowed his eyes. It was clear that he was trying to think of a protest that did not amount to telling Louisa that Jane was in the family way. He finally nodded and said, “Well. I shall see you this evening.”

  He turned to the door and stopped. Louisa still stood by it, her head lowered. Vincent let out a slow breath. “Louisa, I apologise for raising my voice. It was needlessly rude.”

  Louisa looked up, brows rising as her eyes widened, but she quickly masked the surprise with a curtsy. “Thank you, sir.”

  When he walked from the room, his hands were still clasped firmly behind his back, but he had apologised, and that was not something that his father would have done.

  Jane let out a slow breath when the sound of his footsteps had faded. Vincent had warned her that his behaviour would alter, but she had not reckoned with how quickly or how much. This was only their third day in Antigua, and the pendulum of his emotion frightened her more than a little.