Of Noble Family

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “Are you mad?”

  “I want a few more days. There are issues of safety that Frank cannot address with Mr. Pridmore, but I can. Once the boiler is repaired and—”

  “No.” Jane turned in his arms. “I will stay confined to this room if I have to, but I will not leave you. Do not—hush. Do not even think of explaining why it seems like a reasonable course to you.”

  “But—”

  “Vincent, husband. No. You asked if I were willing, and I am not. You are not yourself here.”

  He nodded, still holding her, but studying the carpet. A new line had pinched into being between his brows. “I … I think I shall take a walk to clear my head. Will you be all right if I go for a bit?”

  “Yes, only…”

  “Only what?”

  “Why are you not working glamour?”

  He held his breath, and the small whine of protest sounded. Vincent tightened his hands on her waist for a moment, then let out the held breath with a little laugh, stepping away. “I had hoped you would not notice.”

  “Is it … is it because your father would not approve?”

  “God, no. That never stopped me before.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Vincent tilted his head to the side. “I stopped when we realised you were with child.”

  “Vincent! Being exposed to glamour is not dangerous.”

  “I know. I—I was trying to be.… You cannot work glamour, and it distressed you so much before that I thought to abstain, too.”

  Jane’s eyes stung. “That is, without a doubt, the sweetest and most foolish thing you have ever done for me.”

  “I was trying to be respectful.”

  “My love … if we were not here, you would be giving up our livelihood.” That was not strictly true, given the state of mourning in England, but close enough. “More to the point, I would like for you to work glamour. The house feels exposed without it.”

  “The house is, publicly, still in mourning.”

  “So do not work glamour in public. But in the privacy of our room, it would be no different than the great houses that shut up their ballrooms rather than tearing out an expensive glamural during mourning.” Jane sighed. “Also, you are clearly driving yourself mad without that outlet.”

  He looked at his hands. “You are not wrong.”

  “Then I am going to lie down while you work.” Jane matched action to words and pulled the counterpane back.

  “I am an exceedingly fortunate man.”

  “Pray remember that.”

  “Always. Except when your feet are cold in the winter.” He took a breath, rolling his shoulders as he always did before he started working. Jane held the retort he deserved, along with her breath, as Vincent dipped his hand into the ether. He pulled out strands of pure yellow, wrapping the light around his hand. His face softened. The remaining tension turned into concentration as he passed the fold from hand to hand. He reached in again, drawing out warmer golds to go with the yellow. He gave a half laugh. “I am out of condition. My heart is already speeding.”

  “This does not surprise me.”

  He wrapped the gold around the yellow, tying neither off, but simply spinning them. “I promise not to lose consciousness.”

  “If you do, I will let you sleep on the floor.” Jane settled back in the bed and watched him work. It was not a good sign that she thought that Vincent working himself to exhaustion was better than the alternative. “I might pull a blanket over you if the night is too chilly.”

  He almost smiled. “Then I will work next to the bed and try to faint on it.”

  Vincent began with small folds, passing the colours between his hands, wrapping the fabric of light up to his elbows, then sliding it off in a ripple of sunrise. The nuances between a Vincent who was concentrating on work and a Vincent who was angry would be imperceptible to another. Both versions of her husband scowled. Both were abrupt when spoken to. But when Vincent was at work with glamour, he had a fluidity and ease of motion that transported him from being merely an attractive man to one who was dazzling. Each movement extended naturally from the one before it and into the next. Colours sprang from his fingers and followed in the wake of his movement.

  He seemed to hold a cloud made of fire, then set it spinning around himself. Vincent’s breath was audible now. He reached up with one hand, still swathed in glamour that rippled in response to his movement, and tugged his cravat free. His coat would soon follow, if he stayed true to form.

  On one of the turns, he stopped and cocked his head to the side, looking at something in the ether. Vincent kept the glamour moving, but he looked at Jane and compressed his lips in silent warning. Jane raised her eyebrows to ask what was troubling him. He replied with a minuscule shake of his head. His face, which had begun to relax, took on the careful mask of control again. He dipped his head and took the strands he held, pushing them outward until the glamour became quite large.

  The room filled with a fog formed of sunset and abandon. While Jane could not see the folds making up the glamour, she could tell when it changed from something that Vincent was directing to something that he had tied off. It still spun and seemed to be made of disorder, but she knew his work. The glamour did not continue to develop and alter as it had. Vincent was no longer holding the threads.

  Bearing the concern he had displayed in mind, Jane did not ask what he was doing. She clenched her hands under the counterpane but kept her outward demeanour as passive as she could. The glamour was so large now that it overspread the room, obscuring Vincent from view. Jane waited in that tempest composed of fear.

  After a few minutes, the glamour shifted minutely, as though Vincent had taken control of the threads once again. It spun twice more, then dissolved, leaving her husband standing in the middle of the room. His coat was on the floor and his shirt clung to his chest. Sweat shone on his brow. Vincent bent at the waist and rested his hands upon his knees, panting. “I am, indeed out of condition.”

  “Then you clearly need to be working glamour more often.”

  “Indeed.” He straightened slowly, steadying himself with a hand against the chair. For a moment his eyes were bleary with dizziness, but the spell appeared to pass quickly. “I shall join you, I think.”

  Vincent removed his shirt and hung it over the back of the chair. As he walked to the washbasin, his back was to Jane, so the scars from his flogging by Napoleon’s men were clearly visible. They had faded with the passing years from an angry red to a dull grey-brown. Some had left permanent scores; others were twisted and raised in knots. Vincent poured water from the pitcher into the basin and removed the worst of the sweat from his back and face. He extinguished all but the candle by the bed before he finished dressing. The whole while his motions remained controlled. Jane was nearly ready to scream with anxiety by the time he settled into the bed next to her.

  “Good night, Muse.” Vincent put his arm around her and nestled against Jane’s back. Then he wove a sphere of silence around them. The quality of sound changed so that the humming of insects outside and the rustle of the household staff about their work all vanished. Even so, when Vincent spoke next, his voice was low. “There is a coldmonger in an alcove, masked by glamour.”

  Thirteen

  Parasols and Packet Ships

  Jane had to stop herself from rolling over to look at Vincent. If either of them had been working glamour during their time here, they would have seen the threads of both the masking glamural and the ones which cooled the room. In retrospect, the temperature difference between the great house and the exterior made it clear that there must have been a coldmonger present, but in England, coldmongers were only employed by the wealthy, so their presence was a mark of station and they were kept on display. It had not occurred to Jane that things would be different here, but engaging a coldmonger was expensive in England, since the occupation was so dangerous. Spending a man’s health was common practise here, so it could be hidden away with a glamoured façade.

  Jane la
y on her side and forced herself to breathe calmly. Even with the sphere of silence that Vincent had woven, she felt the need to be as discreet as possible.

  “I suspect that he, or one of the estate’s other coldmongers, has been present the entire time that we have been in residence. They have heard everything.”

  Jane shivered in spite of the warmth of Vincent against her back. “May I ask you to reconsider leaving tomorrow?”

  “You may. The only question is one of how.”

  The night passed with Jane and Vincent discussing the “how” of their departure in low tones while pretending to be asleep. Sleep was far from either of them. They considered and discarded several plans as too complicated. If they had learned nothing else in Murano, it was in the importance of robust plans.

  What they finally settled upon was the plan that Jane had proposed upon their arrival. They would use the Verres Obscurcis and walk to St. John’s. From there they would take the first ship to Jamaica.

  Using the cover of darkness and a goodly helping of glamour, Vincent crept out of bed and collected the Verres from their case. Jane was relieved to see that they were still there—after Vincent’s revelation, she had half convinced herself that they would have been removed by someone.

  The chief difficulty lay in delaying notice of their departure until they were safely off the island. Vincent’s routine was varied enough that they thought he could slip away simply by going for one of his walks. While Jane could walk out on the veranda with the Verre, her absence would be noted and an alarm raised.

  They must, therefore, behave as though they had not noted the coldmonger. Vincent rose at first light, as he was often wont to do, and sat on the edge of the bed. They had acted before, in Murano, and applied the same diligence to this scene and all its details.

  Jane stirred and feigned languor. “Can you not sleep?”

  “I did not mean to wake you.” With a groan, he stood and stretched. “I am going out for a walk to clear my head.”

  “Will you be back for breakfast?”

  “Likely not. I shall probably continue on to the distillery or the fields.” He pulled on a clean shirt and the breeches he had worn the day prior. They would have to abandon most of their clothing, but they had faced worse. As he pulled his boots on, Vincent asked, “What will you do with yourself today?”

  “The slave quarters again. I promised Nkiruka a blanket for Amey’s baby, and I have some questions about glamour that I did not ask yesterday. After that … I may make a call to Mrs. Pridmore.”

  “You should go back to sleep.”

  “I shall, as soon as you stop making a racket.”

  He stopped with his waistcoat half buttoned. “Being chased out by my own wife … this is a sorry state.” But he hung his coat over his arm and picked up his hat. If the hat was heavier than it should have been, or the coat’s pockets bulged, neither was apparent. He walked to the bed and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “I shall see you at dinner.”

  “Hush. I have sleeping to do.” But though Jane closed her eyes, she lay awake, listening to the sound of Vincent’s footsteps carry him out of the great house.

  * * *

  As expected, Louisa wanted to accompany Jane to Nkiruka’s. Jane charged her with gathering a basket of provisions from Cook. Some sweets, yes, but Jane also requested cheese, some good bread, and a bit of cured meat to go with the sweets. The bottle of lime juice she added as a neighbourly gesture to enjoy with Nkiruka. Louisa did not seem to think that any of these were out of the ordinary, but the young woman was so good at governing her countenance that Jane could not be certain.

  As for herself, Jane carried a blue and white quilt. Held in front of her, it nicely hid her stomach, as well as the spare dress and petticoat tucked inside its folds. Her bonnet had her necessaries hidden up in its high crown.

  As they stepped from the porch, Louisa unfurled the parasol. “Are you certain you would not like Zeus to come? With the heat today, it might be good to have the larger parasol.”

  “It is not so hot as that.” In truth, the parts of her black dress that peeked out from under the parasol seemed to turn to hot metal in an instant.

  As they walked to the slave quarters, the baby kicked against Jane’s sides in a mirror of her own agitation. It made her aware of how much he or she must have been confined while she was wearing the long stays. Under the cover of the blanket, Jane pressed a hand against her stomach, wishing she could soothe her child.

  They passed through the hedge and carried on down the hill. A grove of orange trees marked the halfway point. The shade, even with the parasol, was a welcome relief, and yet Jane’s nerves made her seem hotter still.

  Vincent appeared directly in front of them. Louisa shrieked at his sudden appearance, dropping the parasol. He sprang forward and took hold of her arms. “There is a sphere of silence around this spot. No one can hear you.”

  That appeared to frighten her more. She twisted in his grasp, turning desperately towards Jane. “Please ma’am. Please. Don’t let him.”

  “I will not hurt you.” Vincent was a large man, and strong. He held Louisa easily as she squirmed.

  “No! No. Please—ma’am, please. I been good. Please don’t let him. Please, please—”

  Jane took too long to understand that Louisa’s fear was not of being tied or whipped. The alternative threat was so far out of character for Vincent that she could not imagine anyone thinking it of him. But he was Lord Verbury’s son. “Vincent—wait.”

  He looked at her, confused, but did not slacken his grip.

  “Louisa—he is not going to … do anything to you. We need to leave, and we need for you to not tell anyone.”

  Understanding blanched the colour from her husband’s face. “Oh. God.” He kept his hold on Louisa’s wrists, but stepped away so she was extended at arm’s length. “No. No. I swear to you that I am only going to tie you up—which may not seem like the comforting statement that I intended it to be.”

  Louisa caught her breath in hiccoughing sobs. Her person and countenance so clearly marked her as Lord Verbury’s daughter, yet her mind had leaped so quickly to the expectation that Vincent would—

  Jane covered her mouth with one hand to keep from retching.

  As gently as if he were speaking to baby Tom, Vincent said, “I will not touch you in any other way. Will you let us tie you up, without fighting? Neither of us wishes to see you hurt.”

  “I will not tell anyone.” Her voice still shook.

  Jane said, “Am I correct that Lord Verbury wishes you to report upon my movements?”

  Louisa bent her head so her bonnet hid her face. After a moment, she nodded.

  “Then if you do not tell him, he will punish you, will he not?”

  Again, Louisa nodded.

  Vincent took a slow breath and let it out. “If you have clearly been overwhelmed by us, it will go better if you can tell him something of our plans. If you escape … he will reward your ingenuity.” He nodded to the side of the road. “Look. I am going to tie you to that tree, with glamour around you to keep you from being seen or heard. I have anchored both with poorfire threads, so you will be discovered before too long.”

  The poorfire threads unravelled with notorious speed, within four or five hours. They were of some use for certain parlour tricks, but they were unsuitable for longer works, which was why they had been considered useless for so long.

  Used as a sort of fuse, though, they would keep Louisa from being able to report for several hours, but not endanger her by hiding her permanently. Jane explained further. “You will be in the shade, and we have the lime juice for you so you do not suffer from the heat. Will you—will you let Vincent tie you to the tree?”

  Head still bent, Louisa gave another nod. Vincent sighed with relief and led her to the tree. She sat when asked, and submitted to having her wrists and ankles tied. As Vincent bound her, Louisa lifted her head a little. “What should I tell the master when he asks wher
e you have gone?”

  The question was precise. Not “Where are you going,” but “What should I tell the master?” Jane wondered if she had mistaken the young woman’s loyalties. “Tell him that we discussed Falmouth and packet ships.” That could mean either the Falmouth here on the island, or the one in England.

  “Will you … will you take me with you? That would be the surest way to be certain I did not say anything.”

  Vincent paused as he secured the last knot. He met Jane’s gaze and shook his head. Even if she trusted the young woman without reservation, buying passage for two on short notice would be delicate enough. Passage for two and a slave for whom they had no papers was out of the question. “I am sorry, but we cannot.”

  “Then, Godspeed, madam. It has been a pleasure serving you.”

  Jane had not expected to regret leaving Louisa behind, but as they collected their effects and left the grove, she very much did.

  * * *

  Vincent had brought the Verres in his hat. With the perfect Antiguan sun, the glass caught the light and wove the Sphère Obscurcie around them. They had left Jane’s parasol with Louisa, and Jane missed it almost from the first, but the shade would have interfered with the Verres. Beneath her black muslin, every pore emitted sweat. It trickled down the back of her neck and stuck her chemise to her skin.

  They had transferred their possessions into the basket, along with the blanket. Jane peered at the slave quarters as they passed but could not see a way to deliver it to Nkiruka without exposing themselves. Far, far more than she regretted leaving Louisa, she regretted going without keeping her promises to Nkiruka and Amey. She could only hope that the doctor would be allowed to continue to tend to Amey.

  When they were safely established in Jamaica and had sent word to Richard about the true state of things, perhaps they would be able to make changes. She wiped the sweat from her brow and sighed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You have been sighing rather a lot.”