Of Noble Family

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  What had been most difficult about their time in Antigua was watching the sharp alteration to Vincent’s manner. During the course of their marriage, he had slowly let her know about the abuse that he had suffered as a child. Nothing had driven the point home so thoroughly as being here and seeing him struggle not to fall victim to his father’s designs again.

  She felt the shift in his breathing before he stirred.

  His chest rose as he inhaled, then tightened with a held breath. Beneath her ear, his heart sped. She pressed her hand against his chest and rubbed circles against the tension there.

  With a soft exhalation, Vincent brought an arm around her and drew her closer. “I am very sorry.” He turned his head to press a kiss against her forehead. “That was an indulgent display.”

  She rose on an elbow to look at him. The evening light had crept under the veranda and now lay across the bed. The pool of ruddy sun gave some colour to Vincent’s face, which was otherwise haggard. Whether it was the colour or the angle, the light caught on three silver hairs at Vincent’s temple. Jane ran her finger over them, wondering when they had appeared. “You seem calmer, so I cannot call it unnecessary.”

  “Well, I am not in danger of throttling anyone, so I suppose that is something.” He turned into the pressure of her fingers with a little grunt of appreciation. “And how are you?”

  “Much the same as I have been.” She moved her attention to his forehead, trying to ease the lines that had appeared there. “Enormous.”

  Chuckling, he lowered his hand and rested it on her stomach. “You have been saying that since we realised that you were with child.”

  “Yes, well, I now have a thorough understanding of why it is called ‘increasing.’”

  “Is it because my affection for you increases?” Vincent ran his hand up her side and pulled her down into a gentle and chaste kiss. Jane inhaled the warmth of her husband and very much wished that he were allowed to agitate her.

  * * *

  On the first of August, Jane woke from an involuntary doze in the late afternoon to the sound of murmured conversation outside her room. Vincent was speaking with someone, but she could not make out what was being said. She pushed herself up to sit against her pillows, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Nkiruka was not in the room. Perhaps they had stepped into the hall so as not to disturb her, but there was Frank’s voice as well. She thought about ringing the bell to let them know she was awake, then thought better of it. She was not her mother, to require attention simply because she was afflicted with ennui.

  The baby pushed against her side, making a brief visible bulge under her shift. She had reached two-and-thirty weeks, and the baby’s activity had increased in strength. Jane smiled and pressed back. The pressure was met with another thump. “Patience, my little pugilist. I know you are crowded.”

  Jane picked up the bundle of notes she had made during Imogene’s visit that morning. Imogene had only had an hour to spare, but she had been able to help translate some of the phrases that Dolly had used. Kyim homa, for instance, turned out to be comparable to boucle torsadée. Other words simply had no equivalent concepts in European glamour.

  The door opened and Vincent entered. “Good afternoon, Muse.”

  “I had not expected to see you until dinner.” She set the papers aside on the bed.

  “Yes, well … I hope I am not disturbing you?” He drew his chair from its usual spot and turned it so he sat near the middle of the bed rather than at the head of it. He sat stiffly in the chair, face in profile.

  “Not at all.” The baby kicked again, hard enough to startle an exclamation from Jane. She laughed before Vincent could fret about something beyond whatever was troubling him. For something was troubling him, of that Jane was certain. She would see if she could ease his mind a little before she pressed him to find out what was the matter. “Your child and I have been playing a thumping game today.”

  “I did not know that was possible.”

  “I will show you. Here.” She took his hand to draw it to her side.

  As she pulled on his hand, a glamour tore. It frayed into oily rainbows, obscuring Vincent’s face for a moment. He jerked free, turning in his chair so his back was to her before the last edge unravelled back into the ether.

  He had been holding a masking glamour in front of his face. Small wonder he had looked uncomfortable. It was devilishly difficult to walk with a glamour in place. Doing so required holding all of the threads in correct relation to each other, to oneself, and to the ether, and none of them could be tied off to conserve strength. Which raised the question of why.

  “Show me.”

  He let out his breath in a long sigh. “I am sorry. I thought you would worry unnecessarily if you did not hear the explanation first, so I wanted to assure you that I was well—and I am—before you saw this.” Vincent turned in his chair to face her.

  His left eye was swollen nearly shut, and deep purple bruises surrounded it. More contusions mottled his cheek. The skin over his brow had torn and been stitched neatly back together. All of this had clearly transpired much earlier in the day, and no one had told her.

  Internally, she again railed about being confined to her bed. “Did Mr. Pridmore do that?”

  He snorted. “I have not seen him since his visit with the admiral. With luck, he has taken his wife and left the island. I think word has gone round that he is not to be trusted, so he is unlikely to find work. No … this was an accident with my father.”

  If Jane were allowed out of bed, she would have been halfway to Lord Verbury already. That hideous man. “Hideous, cankered, ill-hearted, splenial spit-poison.”

  Vincent looked up, eye widening, and Jane realised that she had spoken aloud and with some vehemence. “You see why I wanted to tell you first, before you saw the bruises?” He spread his hands. “The fault resides largely with me.”

  “I fail to see how you can possibly bear any blame for being so misused.”

  “I had not been to see him since Pridmore’s visit. I had been too angry. But he does not like being kept in the dark any more than you do.”

  “I do not ever have the urge to hit you.”

  “Be that as it may, I know that he nurtures a grudge, and I had given him several reasons recently. He complained that he had to hear of Pridmore’s visit from Frank and not from ‘his son.’ I pointed out that Frank was also his son, which started an argument about legacy. He again raised the desire that we should name the child after him, and I, foolishly, said ‘No.’”

  “You have refused before.”

  “I have used polite evasions. This time, I was blunt.”

  Jane waited, but Vincent seemed little inclined to continue the story. He did continue to drive his nail into the side of his thumb. “How did a man confined to a wheeled chair do that to you?”

  “I would rather not … very well. He seemed to let the matter drop, which is an approach that I really should have recognised. Then his lap blanket slipped to the floor.” Vincent’s jaw clenched, and, when he continued, his voice was flat and unaffected. “I bent to pick it up, and he struck me with his cane.”

  “He hit you with his cane?”

  “Not in the face. Across the back. The blow shocked me enough that he had time to land a second before I took it from him. Then he—he seemed to lose his mind to fury. I have never seen him so … but then, I have never stopped him before. He tried to get out of the chair. I was afraid he would do injury to himself, so I restrained him, which was when … this happened. His head.” He waved his hand at the bruises. “But, as I said, it was my own fault.”

  “That is not your fault.”

  “If I had not taken his cane, he would not have had cause to become so angry.”

  “He hit you with it.”

  “Yes, but I—I know what things anger him, and I did not shy from any of them.” Vincent stopped and spread his hands helplessly. Slight tremors ran through them. “At any rate, it was a good reminder.”
<
br />   “Did you really need a reminder that your father is a vindictive fiend?”

  “No, that I have—” Again, he stopped himself, this time shaking his head. “So. How is your book coming along?”

  “Changing the subject would work better if you at least made an effort to tie the two topics together.”

  Vincent stared at his hands still longer before pressing them together to quiet the shaking. Jane gave him time to organise his thoughts. Her much-tried patience was rewarded when he sighed and sat forward, turning his face so that the bruises were more prominent. He did not meet her gaze, though, and seemed to be studying the base of the wall behind her. With one hand, he touched the heavy purple under his eye. “This. My response to Pridmore, both when he was here, and when I punched him—I needed the reminder that.… It has been easy to pretend that I do not have a temper these past few years, but that is only because it has not been tried.”

  “I would say that it has been sorely tried on several occasions and that you have exhibited admirable restraint.”

  “Restraint. You mean when I am afraid to move because if I do I will hit something?”

  “But you do not.”

  “The urge is there.” He glanced towards her, but not quite at her. “I needed the reminder of my relationship with my father, because you are with child.”

  Of all the things that Jane knew, she was certain that he would never strike their child, and she was equally certain that this was a fear his father had deliberately implanted. Jane held out her hand, resting it palm up on the bed until he took it. “You are not your father.”

  “I am glad you think so.”

  “You are not like him. You do not use people. You do not beat them for a difference of opinion. The fact that you have the urge to hit … I have that urge sometimes. What is telling is that you do not act upon it.”

  “Because I am practised at stifling the impulse does not mean— My capacity for violence terrifies me.”

  “It does not frighten me.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “You do not frighten me.”

  “But I have.”

  Jane shook her head. “I do not count my nearly constant dread that you will overwork and drop from a strained heart as a fear of you.”

  “Can you honestly tell me that you have not been frightened of me at some point in the past three months?”

  Jane sighed, knowing the moments he was thinking of, when she had taken an involuntary step backwards or when she had flinched because he raised his voice. “Are you able to look at me? I want you to have no thoughts that I am dissembling.”

  Too slowly, Vincent lifted his eyes to hers. Even with one eye swollen nearly shut, his fear was obvious. Jane held out her other hand, waiting until he placed his there.

  Holding tight to both hands, Jane fixed Vincent with her gaze. She made no effort to govern her countenance, because he would note that effort and likely take it as a sign of things concealed. “You have startled me. Several times, I have been alarmed by the strength of your temper, but not because I was afraid of you. I have been frightened of what being here is doing to you. Our first day here—after we discovered your father, you said ‘Forgive me. I am not myself.’ I do not think you have been yourself since we arrived. He has stretched and warped and twisted you out of yourself, until you believe that this extremity is your natural state. It is not. You are not yourself. And you are very much forgiven for it.”

  Vincent shut his eyes, hands trembling in her grasp.

  “You will not hit me. You will not hit our child. It is not in your nature.”

  In a very low voice, as if he were forcing the words out, he said, “I am afraid it is.”

  “I know you are. That fear is part—only part, mind you—of why I know that it is not your nature.” She lifted his hand and kissed it. “You are obstinate, imprudent, and sometimes rude. You are not cruel. The most I will grant is that you are insufferable and occasionally inscrutable.”

  His smile, weak though it was, seemed like sun breaking through rain. Jane kissed his hand again, closing her eyes to hide her own anger. When she was allowed out of bed, she had a list of words to present to Lord Verbury, all of which would shock her mother.

  The baby squirmed in answer to her agitation. She could do nothing about Lord Verbury for the present, but she could try to help Vincent settle back into himself. Jane opened her eyes and lowered Vincent’s hand to her stomach. “Here. I was going to show you the game we are playing. Push and the baby will push back.”

  “Will I not hurt you?”

  “No more than this inconceivable child does.” Jane put pressure on the back of his hand, pushing it into the part of her stomach where the baby had last nudged her.

  A moment later, an answering bump pushed at Vincent’s hand. He let out an unsteady laugh and pushed again. “That is remarkable.”

  “I try to think of it that way.” Truly, every time the child moved it was a good sign, even if there were occasions on which it was a trifle uncomfortable. “I think the baby recognises your voice, too.”

  “Really?” Vincent lifted his head.

  Jane tried to reply only to his surprise, not the bruises. “At any rate, he or she moves more when you talk.”

  “Perhaps I should sit here and recite the classics, then. Or moralize upon—God!”

  Jane’s stomach had glowed.

  It was only a brief flash of ruddy light, which had seemed to originate deep within her. Suddenly breathless, Jane stared at her own middle. “I suppose that should not be a surprise, given whose child this is.”

  “And at not quite eight months.” Vincent leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I will be certain to boast to Herr Scholes that our child is more of a prodigy than his grandchild.”

  “You are going to be insufferably proud as a father, I suspect.”

  He sobered a little, regarding her with earnestness. “I hope I am.”

  * * *

  Over the next week, Vincent’s bruises turned impressive shades of purple and spread down his cheek in greens and yellows. The swelling reduced, making it more obvious how bloodshot his left eye was. It was impossible for Jane to look at him without recalling what had caused it. If the mere impulse to hit someone caused bodily harm, Jane’s thoughts would have flayed Lord Verbury.

  But giving way to her frustration and anger would do Vincent no good, to say nothing of her own state. There was a notable increase in the frequency of pains when she was agitated. So Jane turned that weakness into a strength. If she could not leave the bed, and if she needed to remain calm, then she would make their bedchamber a refuge for her husband.

  She lay on her left side with Vincent curled against her back. One of his arms lay nestled against her chest. He seemed to actually be asleep, which was not the case every night, so she tried not to move in response to the discomfort that had awakened her. Jane looked to the shelf clock to note the time. Twenty past midnight. Trying to ease the tension, she inhaled slowly.

  Jane smelled smoke.

  Frowning, she lifted her head, peering through the sheer lawn curtains and out the window. The moon was only a thin crescent, but dull orange glowed at the base of the frame. “Vincent.”

  He made a soft grunt.

  Jane turned and shook his arm. “Vincent. Wake up.”

  He startled into wakefulness, half sitting. “What is it? Are the labour pains—”

  “I think something is on fire.”

  A glance at the window had him out of bed. He crossed the room and flung the veranda doors open. The charred sugar smell increased. Vincent swore, and then ran back into the room, snatching his breeches from the chair he had hung them on.

  He continued on to the door and flung it open. Leaning into the hall, he bellowed, “Fire! Alarm the house! Fire in the cane fields!”

  Jane sat up, pushing the mosquito netting aside. She could just see over the edge of the window, but as the house sat on a hill, she could not get a clear view of the fire
.

  Hastily, Vincent drew his breeches on, not troubling to change out of his nightshirt. “Ring for Nkiruka. I want someone with you in case the wind shifts or Pridmore shows up.”

  “Do you think he set it?”

  “One field might be natural.” Vincent shoved his feet into his boots. “This is all of them.”

  Thirty-one

  Fire and Smoke

  For the first quarter hour, the great house was filled with frantic activity, as everyone who was able was roused to try to fight the fire. Pinned in bed, Jane listened to people running past. Nkiruka, wrapped in one of Jane’s old robes, lit a candle and sat by the door to the balcony to report on what she could see from the house.

  All Jane could do was sit in bed, pick at the counterpane, and listen.

  After that first quarter hour, the house fell into deep stillness as it emptied. Even the coldmongers went to help. Still, Jane strained her ears, trying to tease some knowledge out of the air. If Pridmore was out there and setting fires, what might he do to Vincent? With such a slender moon, the night would be very dark. That started a whole new string of worries about what might happen to Vincent near a fire. The memories of the people burnt in the distillery accident rose in her head.

  Jane slipped a hand between the pillows and her lower back, trying to massage away a dull ache of tension. “Has anything changed?”

  “If anything change, me’ll tell you.”

  “I know. I am sorry. I know you will.”

  As the ache in her lower back spread in a band around her middle. Jane closed her eyes and tried to calm down. “What time is it?”

  “Another?” With a grunt, Nkiruka got out of her chair and carried the candle to the shelf clock. “Ten to one.”

  That was only a half hour since her last. Jane put her hand against her stomach, which was hard and tight. “I am going to lie down, but I shall not be asleep.”

  “Na worry, sec. Me’ll tell you wha me see.”