Of Noble Family

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “The column by the entrance has their names written upon it.” Though Jane had requested that those slaves who had worked on the glamural be allowed to attend the ball, none of the owners who had been willing to loan them for the project seemed to be able to spare them for this particular evening.

  “Well, that’s as it should be, eh? Eh? The unpleasant work is always done by the slaves. That’s what they are there for. That’s what they are there for, I always say. And thank God for that.”

  God had little to do with it, but this sense of divine right had been a common refrain through the evening. Jane was beginning to suspect that it was the real reason that Nkiruka did not want to attend. Still, though, this was a charity ball, and Jane did not want to create a scene with one of the patrons. It really was too bad that boors were universal. “I must compliment Mrs. Ransford on her work.”

  “Very kind, I am sure.” Mrs. Ransford beamed with delight. “Though I did miss Mrs. Pridmore’s help this past week. I wish you could have waited until after the ball to fire him, Sir David. I do wish that.”

  Vincent made an indifferent noise that simply acknowledged that she had spoken.

  Mr. Ransford gave a belly laugh. “He hardly had a choice, my dear. The state of the things … I hear your production is already double Pridmore’s, and with a reduction in your slaves at that. How are you managing that? I’ve got to know. Seems we wear out more leather than you trying to get our production where it should be.”

  “I am paying them.”

  With a roar of laughter, Mr. Ransford mimed punching Vincent on the shoulder. “That’s rich. Well, I’m surprised you kept Pridmore as long as you did. It was a credit to the memory of your father, dear man. Although Pridmore is now saying the most shocking things in town. Only proves that you were right—quite right, if you ask me. Quite right.”

  “What sort of things has he said?”

  “Trying to convince people your father is alive. Deuced foolishness. But then, drink will do that to a man.” He shook his head and looked at his own punch cup. “Deuced foolishness.”

  “How astonishing,” Jane managed. “The subject of drink reminds me to ask you for the recipe for your punch, Mrs. Ransford. I have not tasted its like in England, and should be glad to have it when we next host in London.”

  As she hoped, Mrs. Ransford caught the phrase ‘in London’ and leaped upon the topic, moving them safely away from Mr. Pridmore. “You are not going back to England soon, I hope?”

  “Not until after my confinement, but not too long after. My parents would never forgive me if they could not see their grandchild.” They were safe for some minutes, then, because the subject of children could take over any conversation.

  Vincent stood beside her, silent except when compelled by etiquette to speak. He bore the Ransfords’ conversation for some minutes, then abruptly put his hand on Jane’s back. He said nothing, but Jane recognised this as a silent plea to find an avenue of escape.

  Jane gave a sorrowful smile. “As pleasant as this is, Mrs. Ransford, you and I should probably circulate amongst the guests and continue our work for the charity.”

  “Oh, bless me. You are right. Come along, Mr. Ransford! Come along!” She turned from them, hauling Mr. Ransford in her wake. “Sir Thomas! So pleased to…” Her effusions faded into the general bustle of music and dance.

  At Jane’s side, Vincent let out an audible sigh. “It is not a good sign that I am thinking of the opening nights at Carlton House with sentimental regret.”

  “Yes, well, having the Prince Regent to distract attention is an unexpected benefit.” Jane tucked her hand under his arm. “If I may suggest … the columns to either side of the musicians are for show only. You could safely stand within the glamour and no one would be the wiser.”

  “Is there room for two?”

  “Two, yes.” She looked down at her stomach. “Three, though, may be another matter.”

  “Hm…” He rested his hand upon hers. “We may need another solution, then.”

  “My dear Sir David, whatever did you have in mind?”

  His lips compressed ever so slightly, and the skin at the corners of his eyes just hinted at a smile. “A discussion of the rigours of glamour, of course.”

  “I see.”

  “With a possible exploration of breathing patterns and ways to avoid overheating.”

  “That would be—oh! Mrs. Whitten.” Jane’s face must be as red as a poppy.

  Elegant as always, Mrs. Whitten wore a round dress of translucent India silk, trimmed at the hem with a fortune of beads reminiscent of frosted leaves. Over the dress was an elegant quadrille robe, fastened on the left side and edged with still more silver beads. With her white gloves and shoes, the whole was exactly calculated to work in harmony with the ice palace motif.

  She had with her an elderly gentleman in a black coat of an older style, with a mane of silver hair brushed smoothly back from his face. “Lady Vincent, Sir David. Would you allow me to present my dear friend Dr. Hartnell? It is his school for the poor that we are hoping to fund for another year.”

  “A pleasure, sir.” Jane gave him the deep curtsy his age and gravity merited.

  Vincent bowed in a similar fashion.

  The old man smiled, his hooked nose bending along with his wrinkles. “The pleasure is entirely mine. I must thank you for your efforts on our behalf. This…” He waved at the ceiling. “I have travelled a good deal in my day and have not seen its like before. Remarkable.”

  It was so much easier to accept a compliment when one had actually done the work. “You are too kind. In truth, though, the credit belongs to the glamourists who worked with us.”

  “But you designed it, did you not, Lady Vincent?” He tilted his head to the side. “Have you had occasion to visit any of the Arctic countries?”

  “Not yet, I am afraid.”

  “Oh, you must. Iceland, in particular, is one of—”

  “You!” In an elegant frock of Venetian gauze, Mrs. Pridmore pushed her way through the crowd. A full plume of white ostrich feathers tipped with amber quivered over her head as she advanced on Vincent. “Mortal! That blush of shame proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name; First of the mighty, foremost of the free, Now honour’d less by all, and least by me. Seek’st thou the cause of loathing? Look around!”

  It took Jane a moment to understand that Mrs. Pridmore was reciting verses by Lord Byron. Vincent seemed just as taken aback. Mrs. Pridmore’s voice rose as she recited. To do her credit, her elocution was first form and filled with all the loathing of Minerva. The dancers slowed their movements and the crowd turned to watch her chant.

  “First on the head of him who did this deed

  “My curse shall light—on him and all his seed:

  “Without one spark of intellectual fire,

  “Be all the sons as senseless as the sire:

  “If one with wit the parent brood disgrace,

  “Believe him bastard of a brighter race:

  “Still with his hireling—”

  Mrs. Whitten stepped between Vincent and Mrs. Pridmore. “My dear … perhaps this is not the best time.”

  “He had no right! Grenville worked so hard. All the time.” Her voice shook with emotion. “What are we to do?”

  “Let us go somewhere more private, hm?” Mrs. Whitten looked past Mrs. Pridmore and caught the eye of one of her servants. He nodded, and, in moments, two men in livery were sliding through the crowd. “I have been wishing you would come to me.”

  “How could I? After he fired Grenville. With no cause! The humiliation is not to be borne. He is so—we had such hopes, and now…” She began to weep.

  Vincent spread his hands in distress. “Mrs. Pridmore, please accept my honest regrets that you—”

  She screamed and flung herself at him. Without thinking, Jane stepped in front of her husband. At almost the same moment, Vincent took Jane by the shoulders. He turned her, sliding around her, so his back was to Mrs. Pridmor
e. The breath puffed out of him, but he stood, arms wrapped around Jane, as Mrs. Pridmore rained blows against his back.

  For several long moments, the shock held everyone in place. Then, Dr. Hartnell said firmly, “Mrs. Pridmore!”

  “Let go! Let me go!” she shrieked, sobbing. “I will see you hanged! We have friends. Do not forget that! We have friends here!” Still sobbing, she was half led, half carried through the crowd, all of whom stepped back with murmurs at the spectacle.

  Hands shaking, Vincent released Jane. She turned, her shock giving way rapidly to useless fear now that the danger was past. He had closed his expression off so it seemed severe, but nothing more. Holding her at arm’s length, Vincent ran his gaze over her person. “Muse? Are you all right?”

  “Shocked, only. You should not have done that, she—”

  “The baby.” He let go of one arm and wiped his face. “As soon as you moved—her aim changed. Down.”

  That was the only moment of comparative solitude they were granted. The crowd that had stood back during Mrs. Pridmore’s actual assault now rushed around them, wanting to hear all the details.

  In the midst of this, Mrs. Whitten appeared. “Shall I call your carriage?”

  “Yes.” Jane had no need to consult Vincent when his body spoke with such eloquence of wanting to escape. “Forgive me, but yes.”

  With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Whitten nodded. “Good. Because I suspected as much and already did.”

  She extricated them from the crowd, making their apologies for them, and in short order, had Jane and Vincent out of the ballroom and in the carriage. Vincent leaned back against the seat with a heavy sigh. He winced and straightened again.

  “Did she hurt you?”

  “No … although, remarkably, she lands a more solid punch than her husband.”

  * * *

  On the Sunday following the charity ball, Jane and Vincent prepared for a different event. With the assistance of Frank and Nkiruka, they had arranged a thank-you dinner for the glamourists who had helped create the glamural and their families.

  Nkiruka held the violet satin petticoat out for Jane and helped her pull it on.

  As the older woman reached for the black net frock she would wear atop it, Jane sighed and pressed her hands against the base of her spine to massage the dull ache there. It seemed as though her back almost always hurt these days.

  “De picknee hurting you?”

  “Oh no.” It was only when Jane stood, or sat, or laid down. She slipped her arms through the full sleeves. She should not complain about the aches attendant on her condition to Nkiruka, of all people. “You should go on and get ready. Vincent can help me with the rest.”

  “Pfff … he ah glamourist. Not hairdresser.”

  From his place by the window, Vincent raised a brow at that. He had put on his breeches before Nkiruka’s arrival, but he had been turning his shirt over and straightening his waistcoat for the past quarter-hour. Covering a smile, Jane leaned towards the older woman and lowered her voice. “I know, but he is too modest to dress with you here.”

  Patting her hand, Nkiruka winked and left without further protest, although her chuckle was audible after the door closed.

  “I could have used the dressing screen.”

  “I am certain you could have.” Still, that was not Jane’s chief reason for sending the older woman out. She pulled open a drawer and withdrew a small package. “But … it occurred to me that today is the nineteenth of July, and in the nearly four years of our marriage, we have always been in the midst of some crisis on your birthday.”

  He stared at her and at the brown paper parcel in her hands. The severity of Vincent’s countenance made most people assume that he was older than his one-and-thirty years. In this moment, he seemed younger and almost lost. His mouth worked for a moment, until he cleared his throat. “I … I am not in the habit of marking the day.”

  “Well, I will not make a fuss as if you were reaching your majority.” She handed him the package and kissed him on the cheek. “But I liked having an excuse to do a little something for you.”

  “Thank you.” His voice was low and rough.

  “You have not opened it.”

  She watched him keenly as he undid the string tying the paper shut. It was not often that she was nervous about what he would think, but this particular gift had enough of her in it to prompt tremors of anticipation. Inside the paper was a case, smaller than the palm of her hand, made of the local sandbox tree. The thorns of the tree had been sanded away, leaving a pattern of small burs in the smooth wood. It had been polished with beeswax until it shone as though glamoured. Vincent undid the catch and opened the case. Through an ingenious system, it unfolded into a small trifold frame. Frank had arranged the case for her, but Jane had painted the small watercolours within it. On the left was one of herself, and the right held one of Vincent.

  The centre was empty yet.

  “Muse…” was all he managed to say before pulling her into an embrace. His other approbations did not require language to understand, which was fortunate, since neither of the Vincents had the ability to speak for some time.

  When they emerged from the room to welcome their guests, Vincent had the miniature frame tucked into the inside pocket of his dinner coat. It was so slender the outline did not show, but his hand drifted to his breast pocket from time to time. Jane caught Frank’s questioning gaze as they stood in the foyer to welcome the guests. She gave a little smile and a nod to let him know that the gift had been well received.

  If Lord Verbury had still been in residence at the great house, Jane doubted that it would have occurred to her or to Vincent to open the dining room for anyone. He would hear of it, of course, but simply having him under a different roof made it easier. By Frank’s account, Lord Verbury even seemed to be enjoying his stay, which she attributed to the influence of his youngest granddaughters. At the tender ages of six and eight, they possessed such winning ways that even his lordship was not immune.

  They had sent the carriage and the wagons from the distillery for the slaves from the farther plantations. Jane had no idea how Frank had convinced the other estate owners to agree, but she suspected that it involved invoking their station as the Prince Regent’s glamourists. As the first wagon pulled up and its occupants alighted, Jane stepped onto the veranda with Vincent to meet them. “Jeannette, so lovely to see you. Is this your husband?”

  The stout, matronly woman had recovered from the fire at the distillery quite well. Most of her burns had been mild, as she had been some distance from the boiler, for which Jane was grateful. Jeannette did her best curtsy and poked her husband in the side. “Yes, ma’am. This is William Smith.” She wore a simple calico dress, a little faded, but painfully clean. William Smith wore dark trousers, mended at one knee, a white shirt, and a neckcloth of rough cotton.

  Jane welcomed them, regretting that she had chosen to wear her formal gown. As they went in, she turned to meet the next couple. The woman bore a strong resemblance to Amey, with round cheeks and the same warm tones to her skin.

  “Please be welcome. My husband, Sir Da—” Jane cut off as the pain that had been in her lower back reached around her entire middle and squeezed. On instinct, she reached for Vincent. Jane had felt this particular pain before. That time she had tried to convince herself that it was only a cramp.

  “Jane! What is— Oh, God.”

  “No—wait. This happens to some women.” She had to believe that. This had to be a false labour. “Give me a moment.”

  Vincent turned to the interior. “Frank!”

  Jane put her hand on her lower back and forced herself to straighten. “There. See? It has passed.” She took a breath, trying desperately not to cry. The front sweep was full of wagons, and she put on a smile for them. The woman still stood in front of them, watching her carefully. Jane could not remember her name in that moment. “Please come inside and be welcome.”

  Vincent took her arm. “Jane … come
away.”

  “There is nothing to be done.” She swallowed. “Either I am in labour in earnest, in which case we have some time, or, this was a false labour, which seems likely. Let us see what happens before resorting to panic. You recall how long Melody’s delivery was.” She was speaking to herself as much as to him, because the third possibility sat between them.

  She did not let him argue, simply turned and greeted the next guest. Jane had no idea what she said—she relied on her education to carry her through the social forms of introductions and welcome. What little part of her was not turned inward directed itself towards Vincent, who hovered by her side, going through the same forms as Jane.

  He turned away from her only once, when Frank arrived. She half heard the hurried conversation and knew that they were sending for Dr. Jones. Beneath her façade of civility, Jane was too terrified to tell them not to. Deep inside, she repeated to herself, Not again. Please God. Not again.

  And then she greeted the next guest and the one after that. As five minutes turned to ten, and then ten to fifteen, Jane began to relax. Women in her neighbourhood had been afflicted with these pains. So long as they were irregular—or, please God, there was only one—she had nothing to worry about.

  Then another pain started in her back and her entire middle tightened again. Jane stopped with a word half formed on her lips and closed her eyes. It was not that it hurt. Indeed, the pain was no more than when her flower arrived, but it was so clearly a bearing pain.

  Vincent swept her up in his arms, turning towards the house before she could draw breath. She clung to him as he carried her to their rooms. The hard square of the picture frame thumped against her cheek with each step. That inner voice crept out as she pressed her face against his jacket. “Not again. Please, please … not again.”

  “Hush. Shh … shh … Frank has sent for Dr. Jones, and she will take good care of you.” But his grip tightened on her. He knew the math as well as she did. Seven and a half months. Thirty weeks.