“I love you because of your imperfections. I love the way you try to protect me when I do not need it. The way you become cross while working, your stubbornness and independence and that you can be utterly insufferable.” She looked down at the trifold case that she somehow still held in one hand and turned its roughened surface over. “I would not wish any of them away, because then you would be someone else.”
“And this is why you are my Muse.” Vincent came to sit beside her on the bed. He leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Only thank you.”
Jane slid over to allow him room to curl beside her. She wanted strength for anything more, but marital duties can take many forms, and in this instance they involved only silence, and understanding, and a release of cares.
Thirty-six
With a Will
It was another week before Jane was allowed to sit up in bed, but she felt no desire to try to leave this time. She was not able to nurse Charles, and she felt a pang of jealousy every time she saw Amey give him suck. With children only two months apart, Amey and Jane had much common ground for conversation. They were thrown together often, as the newborn needed regular feeding.
Jane sat on her bed holding Isabella, a lively little girl with the stamp of a Hamilton, while Amey nursed Charles. Isabella had a decided fondness for the strings of Jane’s cap and held one fast in her plump fist. Jane laughed as her cap was knocked amiss yet again. “Very well. You may have it, though what you shall do with it, I do not know.”
The answer was to shove a corner of the cloth into her mouth and chew upon it.
“Don’t spoil her, ma’am.”
“I think she has other plans.” Jane bent her face down to the little girl and blew a rude noise upon her cheek.
Isabella squealed with laughter. Jane did the same upon the other cheek, which was velvet soft, and then laughed herself. “Amey—” Jane stopped, staring at the woman who was nursing her child. The tenderness with which Amey watched him drove whatever insignificant thing Jane had been about to say straight from her mind. What she wanted most in Charles’s life were people who cared for him. “Amey…”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Will you call me Jane?” She took one of Isabella’s hands in lieu of her mother’s. “It seems only appropriate, since I believe your daughter is my son’s aunt.”
Slowly, Amey smiled and then laughed. “I guess she is.” She reached across the space between them and offered Jane her hand. “I would be glad to.”
“Would you … would you like to come with us to London? With Isabella and your other children, I mean.”
Amey hesitated and looked at Isabella, face twisting a little with indecision. “You know that people would think she’s your husband’s.”
Jane looked down at the little girl, clearly a Hamilton, even at so young an age. Amey was correct, of course, that any person who looked at the child would assume that Vincent kept a mistress under their roof. But after months of worrying about what Lord Verbury would think and how he would use things against them, Jane found that her fear of London gossip was very low. To leave Amey here because of that? Noblemen got away with worse, and Vincent was a glamourist, so he had the advantage of already being considered eccentric. It would likely be the subject of gossip for a time but not quite rise to a scandal. It might even help Isabella make a better match when the time came. Jane might be considered a fool or an object of pity, but she could not summon the necessary concern to count that a thing worth fearing. “I think that we can manage. If you want to come.”
“And have my children be free in truth? Yes. Thank you. Yes, I will.”
* * *
Another week passed before Jane was declared well enough to be moved back to the great house. Jane did not know how Frank had managed it, but he had somehow hidden their absence from the neighbours thus far. She was carried there on a pallet and felt almost as though she were a young rajah. Amey and Nkiruka accompanied them, with a promise from Jane and Vincent that they could leave at any time they wished. Dark smoke stains marred the stones of the great house, but their apartments had been cleaned and restored for their use.
One of the things that had been impressed upon them was that not every slave on the island knew about Picknee Town. The rebellion in 1736 had failed because one of the enslaved had boasted carelessly. So there was a council that carefully selected who was trusted with the knowledge of its exact location. Steady rumours placed it as being in a series of caves accessible from Devil’s Bridge, on the opposite end of Antigua, while contradictory rumours said that it was an old wives’ tale and did not exist at all. The planters tended to be of the latter opinion since, of course, it was not possible for the slaves to do something so organised and clever.
This careful secrecy meant that only those closest to Amey had known that she was in Picknee Town, though not necessarily where it was. They had put it about that she had been close to death, but had recovered, and in the chaos after the fire, her return went largely without comment. Which was fortunate, as Jane had much need of her assistance.
Jane had an uncomfortable familiarity with being able to go only between their bedchamber and the blue parlour. This time, however, her domain was expanded to include the nursery. The room next to theirs had been converted, and Isabella and Charles settled there. What was most remarkable to Jane was how much more pleasant and inviting the house was, now that she was not dreading what lay on the far end of the building.
She was sitting in the blue parlour making some notes to herself when Vincent arrived with Frank, as she had requested. Jane wiped her pen clean and smiled at the gentlemen. “I have a proposal.”
They exchanged matched expressions of circumspection as they sat at the table opposite her.
“We were brought here on the pretext of Lord Verbury’s having a will in Antigua. I propose that we deliver one.” She slid her sheet of notes across the table to Vincent and Frank.
Vincent looked over the notes and immediately drew a sphere of silence around all of them. “This is a bold plan, Muse.”
“One of the chief advantages of being ill is that I have nothing to do but think, and I keep thinking about Picknee Town. It seems to me that it will always be at risk so long as the land is in white hands. The ‘ravine’ makes it useless land, so I see no reason why the Hamilton family should object if Lord Verbury chose to leave that plot of land to Frank. Amey tells me that there is precedent of other owners leaving land to their children.”
“And the deeds of transfer for Frank’s mother, wife, and children? That is a significant number of slaves for the estate to part with.”
“Yes, but the least expensive route. Freeing them would be the right course of action, but not one that would be believed, I think.”
Frank shook his head. “You are thinking my mother would draw this up.”
“I am.” Jane straightened her shoulders as best she could. Her posture had suffered since the birth.
“But why would he have done this?” Vincent stared at the paper, still shaking his head. “It is not just the list of actions, but making sure that he appeared to be in his right mind. No one who knows him would believe that he would be so generous.”
“But he freed Frank before his supposed death, which would be a necessary step to granting Frank slaves of his own. And what is your birth name, Frank?” Jane warmed to her topic. “What did he keep insisting to Vincent? That we name our son after him, as he named you. In a better world, with a better man, I think he would have done this for his firstborn son. So if not for benevolent motives, then to spite Vincent by replacing him in the will.”
“And the rest of the estate stays in Richard’s control … which no one could question.” Vincent leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table with his fist over his mouth. His brows were drawn together. Frank drummed his fingers on the table, alternately frowning and looking blank. Sometimes they were so much alike. V
incent scrubbed his hands through his hair and sat back with a little bit of a groan. “It is a legacy of generosity, which is better than he deserves, but one I would rather see in the world. If your mother can create it, I can present it as genuine in London. Since Jane’s suggestion would formally disinherit me, I cannot be accused of being partial.”
“Are you certain? Not that it would be accepted, but that you wish to give up your inheritance.”
“I gave it up years ago. It is better that it stay that way.” Vincent reached across the table and took Jane’s hand. “We are not Hamiltons.”
* * *
Sir David and Lady Vincent had many heartfelt discussions about what they would do upon their return to England. The mourning period for Princess Charlotte would be over in November, and new commissions would be plentiful as the nobility restored glamour to their homes for the first time in a year.
Jane still fatigued with alarming ease, and although she had dipped her hand into the ether, she would be in no condition to do serious work for some time yet. It would have caused her more concern prior to the experience of creating the glamural for the charity ball. She could still participate in the design, so long as she had assistants to help with the execution while she regained her strength.
Since both Jane and Vincent had a strong desire to never travel again, they determined to settle in London, where they could be engaged by the most discerning clients and, of course, the Prince Regent himself. They had hopes as well that the position at the school in London, which Herr Scholes had mentioned, might still be open. If not, Jane was of half a mind to begin their own school.
With all of those thoughts in mind, she sat down with Nkiruka to ask her to come to London with them.
The older woman laughed and laughed, wiping tears from her eyes as she shook her head. “Eh. I know you mean well, but no. Thank you. Me’ll tap right ya.”
“But in London you would be free.”
“You saying you only free me if I go?”
“Oh—no.” Jane knit her brow, trying again. “I only meant that the society is less restrictive. You would have more opportunities there.”
“You t’ink dem will le wan black woman be mayor of London town? Hm? No. I have family here. I have responsibilities here.” She spread her hands. “I leave dem for what—sleep on cotton sheets and teach white babies glamour? No. Thank you. I stay here.”
* * *
Jane and Vincent sat on the veranda with their son, enjoying the afternoon breeze. Vincent was wiping off some milk that Charles had spit up on his lapel. He had a cloth thrown over his shoulder, but at the ripe age of three weeks, their son had developed remarkable aim.
Jane laughed, “Shall I take him?”
“No, no. There are parts of the coat he has not adorned yet.” He shifted cloth and infant to his other shoulder as he continued to wipe ineffectually.
Watching them fondly, Jane rocked in her chair. She should perhaps go inside, since she was so close to dozing. It seemed to be her natural state these days, which she chafed at more than a little. She did feel steadier, but that was only by comparison to the days immediately after Charles’s birth.
A cloud of dust appeared on the road to the great house, though the direction of the last bend in the road kept its source from being visible. A sound grew to accompany it. A carriage and a number of horses approached the house.
Vincent looked up as they came into view. Jane grew cold with alarm. These were British soldiers. But Pridmore was dead—how could he possibly have done anything? No. It seemed more likely that this was something Sir Ronald had arranged as a final revenge from Lord Verbury.
“Jane, would you take Charles and go inside?” Vincent stood, not taking his eyes off the soldiers or the unmarked carriage that had arrived in their midst.
She reached out for their son but made no immediate move to go inside. With Charles’s comforting weight in her arms, she stood and followed Vincent down the length of the veranda to the front steps of the house. If this were some action against them, there was nowhere she could reasonably go to hide. With her health as poor as it was, Jane was not even certain she could pull a thread out of the ether, much less weave a glamour.
The carriage rolled to a stop at the head of the sweep, and one of the soldiers dismounted to open the door. A military officer got out first, uniform bright with braid, followed by the man Jane had least expected to see.
Her father had come to Antigua.
Thirty-seven
Familial Relations
For a long moment, Jane could only stare at her father, so out of place in the heat and dust of Antigua. His white hair fluttered under his tall dark hat. “Papa?” Without a word, Vincent took Charles from her and freed Jane to all but run down the stairs. “Papa!”
Mr. Ellsworth met her halfway, the tension in his face fading as he pulled her into his arms. His embrace unlocked a fountainhead of emotion, and Jane found herself sobbing on her father’s shoulder. He rocked her, smoothing her hair. “There, there … shh … there, now.”
“What are you doing here?” She drew back, still weeping. “I thought you were in Vienna.”
His dear face was reddened from the voyage, and his eyes had a suspicious wetness. He wiped one with a knuckle as though he had something in his eye. “We left for England not long after you. The letter must still be en route, I suppose.” He broke off as Vincent’s footsteps ground across the gravel behind her. “And is this…?”
It was not how she had pictured introducing her son to her father, but Jane nodded. “May I introduce you to Charles Vincent?”
“Charles…?” Now her father’s eyes were wet in earnest. He held out his hands to Vincent. “May I?”
With tender care, Vincent transferred the older man’s namesake into his arms, for all the world as if they were not surrounded by British soldiers. It seemed odd to Jane to be suddenly surrounded by so many white faces.
Once relieved of his burden, Vincent eyed them with some concern. “And the soldiers, sir?”
“Those came with me.” The voice was so strikingly like Vincent’s that Jane felt dizzy. Struggling out of the carriage, assisted by two soldiers, was Vincent’s brother Richard. “Received your messengers, old man. Seemed best to bring some support, given our father’s past dealings, and the Crown agreed.”
His features still had the signs of indolence that are so striking among young men of fashion, but with new lines on top of them, as though he had been quite ill. He leaned heavily on a cane and swung his right leg with a pronounced limp, stopping next to a distinguished white gentleman of middle years.
“General Montgomery, allow me to present my brother, Mr. Vincent Hamilton, and his wife.”
Vincent shook the general’s hand. “A pleasure. Although I hesitate to correct my brother, and it risks presenting the news in the wrong order, we are more accurately Sir David Vincent and Lady Vincent.”
“The Prince Regent’s glamourists, yes.” General Montgomery held his hat under one arm. “His Royal Highness was most concerned about your situation.”
To General Montgomery, Vincent said, “As to that … my father died three weeks ago.”
“Dead!” Richard’s composure divided into a mixture of shock and relief. “Are you certain that he is truly dead?”
“There was a fire. I saw the body, and, believe me, I made a thorough examination. So while I am grateful—beyond grateful—that you came, I am only sorry that you made the trip to no purpose.”
General Montgomery shook his head. “Not at all. The fact that your late father was able to remain at will for as long as he did makes it clear that there is rank corruption in the naval forces here. Your message to your brother mentioned Sir Ronald … bad business, that. Well. We should be able to clear it up and make good use of our time here. We have three ships-of-the-line in the harbour with steady men who can be trusted.”
“May I also recommend Admiral Cunningham? Though I regret to say that circumstanc
es forced me to lie to him.” Vincent grimaced. “Still, I believe he is an honourable man.”
“Good to know. Given what your brother has shared, I would be surprised if the admiral did not forgive you the indiscretion.”
The successive shocks, welcome though they were, were making Jane’s heart race and familiar grey spots swim at the edge of her vision. She put her hand on Vincent’s arm. “Forgive me, but I think I am about to faint.”
“It is all right, Muse. I do not need to be—”
“No, really.”
“Oh!” He lifted her into his arms as grey splotches danced around her vision.
* * *
Her faint did not last long. By the time Vincent had carried her into the foyer of the great house, Jane had revived. She lifted her head, turning to look over his shoulder for her father. He followed close behind, holding Charles. Richard limped at his side, but the military officers came no farther than the door, taking up station there while the General supervised arrangements for his men.
Mr. Ellsworth let out an audible sigh of relief when he saw she was awake.
“I am so sorry. The heat sometimes overwhelms me.”
Vincent growled, “You mean you almost—gah!” He twisted as she found the spot on his ribs where he was ticklish.
Jane glared at him and gave a little shake of her head. The time to tell her father that she had almost died in childbirth was not now. Preferably not ever, but especially not after he had just spent a month at sea worrying about her.
“I might have dropped you,” he murmured.
“There are many things I am afraid of, but that is not among them.” Jane looked down the long gallery. “But please do set me down when we are in the blue parlour.”
“I was going to take you to our rooms.”
“I know. I am asking you not to.” Jane’s pulse was steadier, and she thought that if she were sitting she would be all right. “I will be more nervous being secluded.”
Of Noble Family Page 40
