For a brief moment, the young man’s eyes flashed up, and then he resolutely studied the floor.
“There are some circumstances that we must explain to you, but at the end of that, I will free you, if you would like.”
At that, Zeus—Zachary—stared at Vincent, mouth ajar a little. Heedless of the etiquette for a servant, he turned to Frank. In the nod that Frank gave in return, Jane could, for the first time, see that the two men were brothers. Frank’s gesture carried assurance and comfort. Zachary’s face worked with great emotion. He lifted his hands, then tightened them into fists and returned them to his sides. A muscle at the corner of his jaw tightened in a way that reminded Jane painfully of Vincent.
Zachary swallowed with his head bent. His voice was thick with feeling. “Please tell me the circumstances.”
“Will you sit?” asked Jane.
Frank put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Moving almost blindly, Zachary sank into a chair at the table with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Frank sat on his other side, and together he and Vincent explained the situation.
At the end of their explanation, Zachary stared at the table, arms drawn tight against his sides. He swallowed several times before opening his mouth to speak, and even then had to clear his throat. “I should like to be freed.”
“Good.” Vincent pushed his chair back from the table, looking across to Frank.
“The carriage is waiting.”
Zachary’s eyes flashed up, brow raised. “Now? Truly—I mean, right now?”
“I would rather it done immediately.” Vincent stood, and on instinct Zachary sprang to his feet.
Frank pushed his chair back, standing only a trifle slower. “I shall stay with Mrs. Hamilton.”
“Thank you.” Jane was certain that he would prefer to go with his brother, but it was not yet safe for her to leave the house. Though it was not spoken, none of them put it past Lord Verbury to take advantage of Vincent being off the property.
* * *
After the visit to the courthouse, where Vincent paid the emancipation fee of three hundred pounds, Zachary was given a day of liberty to decide what he wanted to do: either strike out on his own, or stay on at the estate in his role as footman. He chose to accept the position offered, though made it clear that it was only acceptable under the current conditions—“current” being the Vincents’ continued presence on the estate as a guard against Mr. Pridmore.
It should have come as no surprise that Zachary moved with more assurance, though he sometimes still wore an expression of shock in unguarded moments. An unexpected benefit was that there was one more person in the house who they absolutely knew owed Lord Verbury no loyalty.
Another five days passed before Dr. Jones declared Jane safe enough to leave the house, though even that report came with the warning against travel until after Jane’s confinement. So though Jane was safe, neither she nor Vincent had anything like peace. The thought of dinner with Lord Verbury haunted them.
It nettled to have to think of clothes and gowns, but none of Jane’s evening dresses fit properly. Appearances would matter a great deal, so she arranged to be fitted for a frock of black net and a gown of black silk for under it. She would be able to wear the net with grey or lavender gowns when they moved to half mourning. Later, she could trim it with embroidery and wear it over more vibrant colours. She had seen a black net worn over a red silk gown to great effect in London. It was all very practical and elegant, and she had never abhorred having a gown made more.
Vincent continued to have difficulty sleeping. He and Frank had been studying the bills and the accounts of rum and sugar production, looking for some inconsistency. They knew it must be there, because the larger estate seemed constantly in need of funds, though by their sales of sugar and rum it should have been seeing a profit. As the days passed with nothing that would prove Mr. Pridmore was appropriating funds, Vincent sank deeper. He tried to rally. Jane could see the effort he made to be present and attentive when with her, but more than once she awoke to find him sitting in the dark. Not working glamour, not reading, but simply sitting.
Seeing what a month in Antigua had done to him, it pained her to think of what enduring three more months might do. When she reflected on it, in all likelihood they would be even longer than that. Her delivery might be expected in September, but her confinement would carry them into October even if there were no complications. Travelling with a newborn seemed rash, so Jane was bracing herself to be in Antigua for Christmas.
Anxious for any opportunity to distract Vincent, Jane read with interest the note she had received from Mrs. Whitten. Clearing her throat, she looked across the breakfast table to where Vincent sat pushing a slice of toast around on his plate.
“Vincent … would you like to go with me to Mrs. Whitten’s to look at her ballroom? She has invited me to consult about the glamural for the charity ball.”
He looked up from his frown. “I thought you declined because we were in mourning.”
“Well, it had seemed a good excuse while I was attempting to hide the fact that I was increasing, but…” She looked down at her stomach. It astonished her, the difference that only a few weeks could make in her girth. Their first week in Antigua, she might have only been stout, but the last three weeks had made her condition quite clear. “The mourning period ends in August, and no one would think ill of us if we went to half mourning now. It would give me something to do, and I am in want of some activity.”
“What of your book?”
“I shall still work on it, of course. My hope is that Nkiruka will assist us on the glamural.” Jane felt as if she were pressing too hard, but the circles under Vincent’s eyes alarmed her. “We shall not go until the afternoon and be gone a little more than an hour, so you would still have plenty of time to go over the books with Frank.”
“I worry less about that than your health, to be honest. I do not know if it is wise to be involved in so large a project.”
“I will not be working glamour or exerting myself beyond drawing and consultation.” Jane sighed and reached across the table to rest her hand on his. “I know you are only concerned, but I was not seeking advice on whether I should go. My question was if you wanted to join me.”
He regarded her without expression. It pained her that she could not guess his thoughts. In private or with his few trusted companions, he was generally amiable, with an easy laugh and mobile features. But even in unfamiliar company, when he became more reserved, Jane had become used to the subtleties of his expression. Over the past several days, he had adopted a withdrawn expression that went beyond his usual reserve. Vincent lowered his hand and gave a brief nod. “Thank you. I shall.”
Jane was not entirely certain if he was humouring her or if he had any interest in the glamural. Either way, it would get him away from their troubles for a time.
* * *
The Whitten estate occupied the land next to theirs, although the broad ravine and treacherous ground between the two estates required a roundabout route to reach the Whittens’ great house. It sat atop a ridge with a good prospect of the sugarcane fields. It was an older building than Greycroft, with two long wings stretching back around a central yard. Wide verandas, which seemed to be a prevalent feature in Antiguan architecture, graced the sides of the building, but the front was in a Palladian style that would not have been out of place at a country estate in England.
The ballroom, to Jane’s surprise, occupied its own building set between the two wings. Tall windows opened all the way to the floor, letting a breeze flow through the gracious room. A glamural of what might have been a rustic English landscape occupied the space with a succession of box hedges and strangely lit cottages. A pack of hounds stood among the trees along one wall. Jane frowned. The animals had antlers. Perhaps not hounds, then.
She glanced at Vincent, who was scowling at the unfortunate deer. His gaze went vacant as he looked into the ether, shaking his head
with familiar offended disdain. Never had Jane been happier to see poorly rendered glamour.
At the far end of the room, Mrs. Whitten sat at a table with the other ladies who were throwing the charity. She rose with a smile and hurried across the room to meet them. “I am so grateful that you were able to join us. I trust your health is improved?”
“Much, thank you.” Jane wondered how many details had made their way through the gossip lines. “The heat surprised me.”
“I quite understand. When I returned from my Season in London, I was nearly done in, in spite of having been born here.”
“Mrs. Whitten, may I introduce…” Jane hesitated before she said his name. Mrs. Whitten was thoroughly familiar with his career, so it would come as no surprise, and it might help restore Vincent to himself. “My husband, Sir David Vincent.”
Vincent had shown no surprise that Mrs. Whitten was a mulatto, but his brow rose a fraction at the sound of his own name. He covered any further surprise with a bow. “Madam.”
“I am happy to hear you introduced thus, since, as you see, we have need of a glamourist.” She looked at the antlered hounds and gave a little wince, then she turned to Jane. “Shall I call you Lady Vincent, or would you prefer Mrs. Hamilton?”
Before Jane could answer, Mrs. Pridmore settled the question by rushing across the room with her hands outstretched. “My dear, dear Mrs. Hamilton! Mr. Hamilton! You have my most sincere congratulations. When Mr. Pridmore told me about your impending joy, I was so delighted for you, but of course I was not surprised. I had wondered, you see, though one never likes to ask, as sometimes the subject of one’s curiosity is merely stout. But you had such a glow about you that I was fairly certain, was I not, Mrs. Ransford?”
Mrs. Ransford said, “I am such an admirer of your work, Sir David.”
This caused Vincent’s brow to go up. “That is kind. What have you had the occasion to view?”
“Oh … I am afraid I have not yet had the privilege, but I have read about it. Indeed, being a fellow glamourist, I have made it my business to stay current in the fashions in London, and everyone there is full of praise for your work. I have it on the highest authority that your glamural of a Midsummer Night for the Prince Regent was absolutely thrilling.”
Vincent gave a short bow of thanks.
Mrs. Whitten indicated the table that had been set up at the far end of the ballroom. “May I invite you to sit? We have some drawings I should like to show you.” As they walked, she said, “The reason we are particularly glad to see you is that we are having some difficulty deciding upon a motif. The opinion of a professional glamourist would be most welcome.”
Vincent’s gaze slid a little sideways to Jane. This was familiar ground for both of them. All too often, when they took a commission, the gentleman and lady of the house had differing views of what constituted an appropriate glamural for a dining room or parlour. One might want hunters and hounds, the other would perhaps favour roses in a folly. Having three opinions to contend with would be a challenge, but so petty after the trials of the last weeks as to seem almost welcome.
Jane smiled at Mrs. Whitten. “What are the motifs you are considering?”
“We have narrowed it to two.” She gestured to the drawings on the table. Some of them showed talent, while others showed merely that someone possessed a set of pastels.
“Hm.” Vincent slid a paper to the side and exposed another, which was drawn with some competence. “The Arabian Nights, I believe?”
Mrs. Ransford nodded, straightening in her chair. “I thought a touch of the exotic would be welcomed by our guests. Then, during the course of the evening, we could have a few tableaux vivants of different stories. We could also dress some of the mulatto slaves as Indians to make the scheme more fully realised. Some mulattos can be exceedingly handsome in the right clothes and the right setting.”
No one looked at Mrs. Whitten, keeping their attention firmly fixed upon the drawing, but Jane felt her own face flush on the gentlewoman’s account. Clearing her throat, she picked up one of the pastels, which held an awkward view of a canal. “And this?”
“Oh, Venice!” Mrs. Pridmore clapped her hands together and gave a little shrug of delight. “Your recent visit inspired me. I thought we could do the ballroom in the Italianate style and have glamour in the windows so that it appeared we were at a palazzo looking out over the Grand Canal. It would be so cunning to see a gondola go past, do you not think? I am so enchanted with Venice.”
The Venice idea had some merit, but the gondolas would be rather more difficult than Mrs. Pridmore thought, simply because it would involve either multiple illusions to create the effect of a ship passing from one window to the next, or a single enormous fold that stretched the length of the exterior of the building. And of course it would then need to be masked so it was not visible on the approach to the building. It was not impossible, but it was more complicated than it sounded. Then, too, Jane was not entirely certain she wanted to relive Venice quite so soon.
She glanced at Vincent, who was tapping his finger upon the drawing of the canals with his eyes a little narrowed, as though he were playing out possibilities. He then turned to the Arabian Nights. It would be much simpler to achieve, and it had some merit, but Jane felt ill at ease on Mrs. Whitten’s account. Though perhaps she was being too quick to guess at the other woman’s feelings on the matter. Jane tilted her head, considering, then looked up. “Mrs. Whitten, did you have an idea as well?”
“Oh, no. I am happy to provide the ballroom. I feel no need to do more when we are already so well supplied with ideas.” Her manner was tranquil and she gave an easy smile.
Vincent rubbed his chin, still considering. He turned from the table to regard the ballroom as a whole. Jane rose to stand beside him, considering the prospect.
Behind them, Mrs. Pridmore said, “Oh, I do so love to see a gentleman at work. Do not keep us in suspense, Mr. Hamilton. Which one do you think we should do?”
“If you will give us a moment of privacy.” He and Jane walked a little away from the group, then Vincent brought his hand up, swiftly weaving a small sphere of silence around them. With their backs to the women, it would be obvious that they were conversing, but their subject would at least be obscured. “This is truly awful.”
“It is not so bad as that. The cherry tree is quite nicely done.”
“And wildly out of proportion to the hill upon which it is supposed to rest.” Vincent shook his head, grimacing. “Muse, do you recall when we met and I said that I expected your glamour to be like that of any accomplished young lady? This … this is what I had come to expect from the accomplished ladies of the fashionable set.”
“But you had seen the glamural in our parlour by then.”
“I … I thought a professional had done it.” Vincent blushed charmingly and shrugged. “Allow me to apologise again for undervaluing your skills.”
“You were forgiven long ago.” She very much wanted to take his hand, but with their assembled audience, it seemed best not to. “As for the task at hand…”
“Ah. Yes … which awkward choice interests you?”
“It seems to me that if we pick either of them, there will be difficulties and more than a little enmity. The points they have in common are a desire for the exotic, though achieved in different ways.”
“So perhaps we can guide them to a different kind of place. Russia? That is cold, which surely must be a rarity here.”
“Oh!” Jane recalled something she had read in the paper about Britain mounting an expedition to seek a path to China through the Arctic Circle. “The Northwest Passage Expedition.”
“Ah … glaciers. Icebergs. An ice palace?” He nodded. “That might do. There is a Scottish fellow in charge of the expedition, if I remember correctly, so that should please Mrs. Ransford. We can suggest that it represents the superiority of the empire in an exotic locale.”
“Shall we?”
“You lead, please. I am still
… irritable.”
“Oh, love. You are always irritable with clients.”
He gave her the smallest of smiles. “More so than usual, then.” He undid the threads keeping their conversation private.
Dropping those threads returned them to a room in which a heated conversation was taking place. Mrs. Pridmore was in the midst of saying, “… no use at the estate, so I am certain he will not be missed.”
“Even so, if she cannot work … and in her condition, I hardly see how she…” Mrs. Ransford’s voice trailed away and she coloured, with some degree of consciousness. “Oh. Have you decided? We are most particularly keen to know what your opinions are.”
Jane had doubt on that score. There could be little question as to what the women had been discussing, or of Mrs. Pridmore’s opinions of Vincent’s efforts at managing the estate. He had grown still and grave again at her side. Jane chanced a smile. “We were discussing your disparate schemes. My husband and I found that there were motifs among them that suggested they had more in common than at first blush.”
“Yes, but which does he prefer?”
She had long since become accustomed to clients using “he” and “him” when they were working together, yet she still sighed. Before she could form a response, Vincent said, “My wife is my equal partner in our work. On this matter, we agree.”
“If you wish to help your guests escape from the fatigues of running their estates, then you must provide novelty. In truth, we think that Venice and the Arabian Nights both express a desire for novelty and the exotic, but they share a common flaw. You are too much in the English habit of thinking of warmer climes as exotic.” She nodded to the window. “But that is hardly the case for the patrons you most seek to impress. They spend the day in the hot sun and want nothing more than to forget it.”
Mrs. Whitten said, “What do you recommend?”
Jane answered her, “In honour of Captain John Ross’s expedition to find a Northwest Passage, we thought to suggest an ice palace.”
“Ooooo!” Mrs. Pridmore clapped her hands again and bounced in her chair, apparently delighted by any novel idea. “And our estate has ever so many coldmongers. It is my husband’s especial project, and I am certain he will be willing to loan them to the ball for the occasion.”
Of Noble Family Page 21
