Sir Waldo nodded at Melody. “I have not read it yet, but it does seem in line with all that the church teaches us about the worth of charity.” If he sympathized with the coldmongers, then that might account for his having sent a footman to Mr. O’Brien. Could he, though, be said to sympathize if he were ignorant of the bill?
“I wish I had your confidence. I would never feel comfortable conversing about a bill I had not read.” Lord Verbury speared a slice of lamb with his fork. “But I assure you, after having read it and having argued against it in Parliament for hours, that this sort of bill will create a precedence that will cripple the drive of the English for self-sufficiency—a drive that allowed us to defeat Napoleon in war. It will create a public millstone to hang about all of our necks, and cause every one of us—every one of us at this table—to suffer.”
“But not the poor.” Jane laid down her fork and knife, having lost her appetite. She watched Sir Waldo to see his further opinions on the topic. “They suffer now.”
“Exactly so,” Lord Garland said. He leaned forward and looked down the table at Vincent. “I say, Vincent. Your wife appears to be uncommonly clever.”
“She is very much so.” Vincent nodded and gazed at Jane as though they were the only two in the room.
For a moment, she could not breathe with the longing to stand and walk to where he sat and take him out of this place. Her breath, when it came, caught in her throat. Jane lifted her glass of wine and took a sip to fortify herself. “I wonder, Lord Verbury, what method you might propose to deal with the unrest, if not to provide relief.”
“Would you care for some trifle? I must recommend it. My daughter’s cook excels in trifles.”
If she had been vexed before by the inability to engage the Earl in conversation, Jane now shook with anger. The man was refusing to take notice of her—had been, in fact, since the second course began. This time, however, his actions were conspicuous enough that Vincent stepped in. “Yes, tell us what your methods would be.”
Without lifting his gaze from his plate, Lord Verbury said, “I would call up the guard and put the revolt down. It has had a significant impact on the Luddites, and I see no reason that it should not be effective on coldmongers or any other group whose sense of rights and consequence exceeds their sense of place.”
Major Curry’s statements about action in the north of England played heavily in Jane’s mind. “Would you fire upon your own countrymen?”
“Vincent, do you and your wife always discuss politics at the table?”
Though it was not her habit to call Vincent by his style when speaking to him, she found herself wanting to make clear the distinction that he no longer belonged to this man. “Sir David and I often discuss art or what we have been reading, and sometimes how our day has been. Politics, of course, will come up.”
Lord Verbury looked back to her and called a footman. “Let me get you some fresh water. Your face looks a little red—perhaps the ragout?” In his tone, he was perfect concern. Nothing in his words or manner could be pointed to as an attack, yet Jane felt it all the same. “Over-spiced, you know.”
“Your concern flatters me.” She watched the footman pour the water, but kept her hands in her lap so that they did not betray her anger any further by their trembling.
“Sir. You have not answered my wife’s question.” Never had Jane heard Vincent’s voice so cold and level.
“You must think of the populace as a small child, who has ideas and schemes that are not good for him, but he is incapable of reason. He throws a fit. He must be beaten.” Lord Verbury picked up his glass of wine and saluted his son. “I have no reason to think that this ‘unrest’ is any different from a tantrum. Of course … some children never learn better than to cross their elders.”
Fifteen
A Studied Withdrawal
When the ladies removed to the drawing room, Jane was only too happy to escape the stifling atmosphere of the dinner table. Seated as she was at the opposite end of the table, Jane could do little to support Vincent. Had it been only his father present, she would have been willing to provoke more of a scene, but with the husbands of Vincent’s sisters present, the wiser course was to let Lord Verbury’s conduct speak for itself. She suspected that he was trying to spur her into exposing herself though irrational response, so she had endeavoured to meet his studied civility with her own.
The drawing room, on the other hand, offered a welcome opportunity to learn something of Vincent’s mother, with whom she had thus far exchanged only a few words. As the ladies settled themselves around the room, Melody joined Lady Garland, the only other woman from outside the family. The pale woman seemed almost surprised to be addressed by anyone at all.
Jane sat on the sofa by Lady Verbury. She must have been a great beauty in her day, because her refined features still had more elegance than most younger women ever attained. She carried herself with an innate grace, turning to smile with welcome at Jane. “Now, my dear, we shall be able to have a little tête-à-tête.”
“I am glad, as well, to have to opportunity to talk with you.” Jane glanced at the other ladies and used that subject for her opening. “Your daughters are lovely.”
“Thank you. One might call them a blessing, as all daughters must be considered.”
“Are they very accomplished?”
“Their father felt it was important.” Which did not answer Jane’s question about whether or not they had achieved any accomplishments. “I understand you have some skill with glamour?”
Blushing, Jane smoothed her dress. “I have been fortunate to have good teachers, such as your son.”
She sighed. “His interest was such a disappointment to his father.”
“I—I have heard some stories … but do not wish to pry.”
“Hm…” Lady Verbury placed a confiding hand on Jane’s arm. “Then perhaps we should discuss the weather. I always find that a safe topic. Or Penelope’s son. Such a charming boy, but then it is to be expected that I should dote on my grandson, and so I do.”
Jane tilted her head, frowning. “Have you only the one grandson?”
“Oh, no. Caroline has three young sons and a daughter. Alas, neither Richard nor Philip have produced an heir. It frets the Earl dreadfully.” She glanced at the piano. “Do you play, my dear? I believe I heard that you do.”
“Yes, it is a favourite diversion when we are not working.”
“Would you do me the favour, then, of playing?” Lady Verbury, too, eluded topics—not as though she were neglecting Jane, but more as if she were unwilling to let any hint of her actual opinions pierce her beautiful countenance.
“But of course.” Jane had no interest in playing, but she did not wish to decline a request from Vincent’s mother. She would like to be on good terms with at least one member of his family. After the trick that Lady Penelope had played on them, Jane had rather little trust for Vincent’s sister.
Lady Verbury followed her to the pianoforte and leaned against the instrument with her back to the rest of the room. Jane turned through the music, settling on the Marche triomphale for piano in E Flat major, by Field, as having a pleasant air. It was a simple enough tune that it did not require her full attention, and the few strands of glamour that the score suggested to supplement the music allowed her to consider what an Essex footman might have been doing with Mr. O’Brien. Her attention had been so absorbed since their arrival that she had thought of no way to ask about it.
If he had worn his wig—or if she had not overheard those pieces of conversations—then she might believe that he had been to Stratton House on a commonplace errand. It was puzzling in the extreme.
Lady Verbury leaned forward to look at the music, and turned the page for Jane. As she bent over Jane’s shoulder, she whispered, “My lord is very jealous. Vincent was right to get out. Tell him that I love him and miss him.”
Then the page was turned, and Lady Verbury was back in her place with the same placid smile as befor
e. She stood so that if Jane had happened to look at her with astonishment—which she did not do—her expression would have been masked by the Countess’s figure. It took all of Jane’s will to continue to play without cessation.
The insipid chatter and smooth opinions that Lady Verbury expressed were a shield. If she felt the need to conceal, even from her daughters, this single expression of concern for Vincent, what must it say about how she lived her life? Vincent’s stories of how his father treated him and his brothers came back to Jane. Lady Verbury must live her life in constant fear of saying the wrong thing or showing the wrong look.
The song, sadly, had only the one page turn. If Jane had realized the opportunity it offered, she might have chosen a piece that was rather longer. As it was, she was eager to select another and continue to play, but the gentlemen entered before she could move on. Lady Verbury turned from the piano with an expression of welcome on her face. Beckoning to Lady Penelope, she said, “My dear, would you favour us with a tune so that Lady Vincent might have the opportunity to become better acquainted with our family?”
That lady was only too glad to oblige, standing with readiness to assume her place at the pianoforte. Jane relinquished her seat with some reluctance, but only because she had hoped to engage Lady Verbury in further conversation, so seeing Vincent’s mother glide across the room to meet her husband made giving up the instrument that much easier. Jane moved to Vincent. Only by his compressed lips did he signal that he was at all uneasy.
She longed to have a private moment with him, but Mr. Hamilton claimed her attention next. “You have done wonders with him, you know.”
“Pardon?”
He walked her over to the fireplace and lowered his voice. “No one else will admit it, but Vincent is much easier with you than he ever was at home.”
“I am not sure that I can take any credit for that, sir.” If Vincent’s mood tonight counted as “easy” among the family, she could only imagine how he had been before. She suspected his change in spirits had more to do with escaping his father than any influence of hers.
“No? I saw him smile at you twice tonight.” Mr. Hamilton leaned against the fireplace and looked into it with as relaxed an attitude as any young dandy might affect.
Jane studied the flames with him. “Had you seen him since he left?”
“No. God, no. His lordship made it clear that any of us who did would be cut off.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Now you are deciding if I am unfeeling, or a coward.”
This was too close to the truth for Jane’s comfort, so she shifted the subject. “Was he always brooding? As a child?”
“Hm? No … no, I do not think so. I recall him being a merry infant.” He shrugged easily. “I think we all were.”
They were joined by Lord Garland, and any private conversation ceased. “Vincent tells me you saved his life. Twice.”
“Oh…” Jane folded her hands together and examined the carpet. She had not actually thought of it as such.
“Look! She blushes. So charming … still, the war! I should like to have been there, but with Lady Garland increasing, it was not a choice I could make.”
“Have you children, then?” Jane frowned. She had been certain that Lady Verbury said they did not.
“Only a girl, so I could have gone after all with no fuss. More’s the pity.” He clapped his brother on the back. “But you never can tell, can you?”
“If you could, many things would be a good deal easier, eh?” Mr. Hamilton laughed as though his brother had made a clever joke, but Jane failed to see the humour in it. She glanced over her shoulder at Vincent, who stood in conversation with Lord Merrick. Lady Verbury had taken a seat by Melody on the far side of the room, and the two seemed to be engaged in chatting placidly. Her sister had that tranquil expression she so often employed when listening. Occasionally she spoke earnestly, but the distance was too great to catch any hint of their conversation.
At the pianoforte, Lady Penelope brought her song to a close. “Caroline, do come and take a turn. I want to hear that Italian aria you were working on.”
Lady Merrick waved a slender hand in denial. “Oh, no, thank you. You have all tired of my playing, I am certain. I would rather hear Miss Ellsworth play.”
Melody jumped at her name and twitched her hands almost as though she were untying a glamour. “Oh, no, thank you. I am wanting any real skill at any of the arts, I am afraid.”
“Oh, my dear. You must apply yourself.” Lady Merrick shook her head with an expression of genuine regret. “A want of accomplishments will make it ever so much harder for a girl in your position to catch a husband.”
At so flagrant an attack on her sister, Jane decided she had had quite enough. She stepped away from the gentlemen. “Sir David? I hate to call your attention to the hour, but we perhaps should take our leave. We do have to work tomorrow.”
“Ah yes … Vincent’s hobby is now a profession,” Lord Verbury drawled. “How amusing that a son of mine works for a living.”
“I think many people work, sir, but some do not know the wages they pay for their style of living. We, at least, know who our masters are.” Jane turned to Vincent and held out her hand. “Sir David, shall we?”
“By all means, Lady Vincent.” He turned to his sister and offered her a full court bow. “Lady Penelope. Sir Waldo. The pleasure has been indescribable.”
* * *
The carriage had barely left the drive of Essex House when Vincent sighed back against the cushions of the seat and pulled Jane’s hand into his. “That did not go nearly as badly as I thought it would.”
The sisters broke into a chorus of shocked outrage. “How could you—” “Not as badly?” “That was nothing like good.” “The worst possible—”
“No, truly.” He held up his hands as though to fend off their words. “I knew that Penny might invite the rest of the family.”
“And you did not warn us?” Jane prodded him with her finger in outrage. “You are as bad as they are.”
“I—no. I was not certain. I hoped not.” He fidgeted with one of the buttons at the knee of his breeches. “Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I feared she would, but wanted to believe the fear irrational.”
“But why would she?” Melody frowned and pulled her shawl tighter.
Vincent shrugged. “She was always my father’s favourite. Whatever he asks, she delivers.”
Jane squeezed his hand. “I do not see how you could survive such a parent. And your brothers and sisters are nearly as vicious.”
With a bitter chuckle low in his throat, Vincent looked out the window. “Oh, my dear. They were all on good behaviour tonight.”
This brought stunned silence to the ladies in the carriage. Jane pulled away to peer at her husband’s face, but as the carriage rolled through the streets, it was too dark to tell if he was jesting. “I have a difficult time believing that.”
He shrugged. “It does not matter. They are all creatures of my father. That Garland intervened for you is a sign that he liked you. No, truly. He was willing to needle my father on your behalf. He will pay for that infraction later, though he has more independence than the rest of them.”
Jane said, “For my part, I cannot understand why you retained any tie to them, even the name Vincent.”
“I—I never told you? I named myself after my mother’s father, who was always kind to me when he was alive.” He traced his finger around Jane’s hand and stopped at the wedding band beneath her glove. “My grandmother was an adept amateur glamourist who introduced me to the art. I am pleased to have another Lady Vincent in my life. Also, the name has always nettled my father.”
Melody cleared her throat. “Which brings us to the most unusual conversation I had with Lady Verbury.”
Jane sat up. The brief sentence from Vincent’s mother had been forgotten among the other events of the evening. “I too—when I was at the pianoforte, she took the opportunity of turning the page to tel
l me that Vincent was ‘right to get out.’” Vincent’s breath caught at that and she laid her other hand on top of his, grateful that the dark interior of the carriage hid him from Melody. “She said that she loved you and missed you.”
Jane could just catch the faint silhouette of his face staring at the ceiling. The carriage rocked over the cobbles to the clop-clopping of the horse, and the creak and groan of the springs. Outside, other carriages passed with a rush and rumble. Party-goers called boisterously to each other.
Vincent’s exhalation almost blended with the night sounds of London. “Well, Melody. What did she say to you?”
Melody’s swallow was audible in the small confines of the carriage. “She was afraid for you. She said … she said that Lord Verbury speaks in front of her because she ‘does not matter.’ She knows that you thwarted him, but not how.” Her voice got smaller. “She wants you to be careful.”
Jane sat up, trying to see her sister through the gloom. “When did she say all this to you?”
“On the couch. After the gentlemen came in. She said—she thought I had a similar want of consequence to the Earl, and so … so I was safer than Jane.” Melody’s fan opened with a rattle and air finally stirred inside the carriage. “La! I had so much difficulty keeping my composure.”
“I can imagine.” Vincent stirred on the seat, disengaging his hand from Jane’s. “She took quite a risk to speak to you.”
“There is more. She said that Jane had come too close to the point with her questions. Then we ran out of time.”
“I am sorry to have drawn you into my family’s politics.”
Melody said, “I do not mind. I am happy to help, if I can.” She hesitated and cleared her throat. “You might ask Mr. O’Brien about Lord Eldon. He is very well informed on the question of the coldmongers.”
Vincent humphed in surprise. “Is that where you learned of the bill?”
“Yes.”
Jane winced, but there was nothing to be done. She longed to tell him of the footman and ask what he made of that, but she did not want to mention the existing connection to Mr. O’Brien in Melody’s hearing. Not when that subject was still so raw.
Without a Summer Page 16
