Now Vincent was taking Mr. O’Brien’s part? Had he forgotten that this was not the only concern about Mr. O’Brien, not when so much unaccountable conduct remained? “I am sorry, I cannot allow him to stand before us with professions of openness while I know him to be in a secret league … when I have seen Mr. O’Brien meeting with Lord Verbury.”
“What?” Mr. O’Brien’s mouth dropped. He appeared so openly confounded that Jane doubted her own recollection. “I mean, yes. I have met the man, but can barely claim a speaking acquaintance.”
“I saw you on the street speaking with him.”
“So, you are accusing me of having a secret meeting on the street? The man stopped me and introduced himself as Sir David’s father. I thought I was being polite.”
“What about the area of silence in the musicians’ gallery?”
He looked even more confused. “It is for them to take a break in.”
“You must do better than that. Why not have them simply leave the gallery?”
“Because, Lady Vincent,” Lady Stratton said, “the string players need a place in which to tune their instruments. The temperature difference between the gallery and the hall would be too great in winter.”
Melody spoke up, then. “Mr. O’Brien is a cellist.”
He seemed to have a ready answer for everything.
“And yet, you have made use of it for private conversation. How do you account for the system of deceit—even espionage and treachery—which you have so recently undertaken? What of your meetings with the coldmongers? Do not deny your plans, sir. I was in the ballroom today and overheard your conversation.”
Mr. O’Brien’s expression soured. “Aye. I see how it is. Being a Papist is not a black enough mark on my character for you. Now you would have me be a traitor to the Crown.” He looked as though he would spit upon the ground if they were outdoors. “The work I do with the coldmongers is nothing that I am ashamed of, nor will I deny it.”
Lady Stratton said, “I must ask why, if you thought my son was engaged in something so deplorable, you did not speak to Lord Stratton.”
“I— It was only supposition.” Jane could not put voice to her reason for not approaching the Baron.
“And it has nothing to do with the fact that we are Irish, I suppose?”
Jane flushed, feeling the warmth of mortification mount in her cheeks.
With her head high, Lady Stratton put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “I am proud of the good work that my son does.”
Vincent asked, “May I ask what work that is?”
“We bear a responsibility to those who are less fortunate than us.” Mr. O’Brien turned, seeming to speak to Melody more than anyone else in the room. “The coldmonger in our house took ill and passed away last summer. I performed the office of returning his effects to the Coldmongers’ Company before we left on our tour of the Continent. I learned that the illness which took him was common to coldmongers. Chilblains occur regularly among them, but in some, the ulceration of the skin becomes so severe that it sloughs off entirely. Infection sets in. They die. Did you know that the word is a corruption of ‘child bane’?”
“I did not.” Vincent still stood by Melody. He held his hands behind his back as though he were listening to any common lecture.
“Children have the constitution and strength to manage the skeins of cold. More importantly, they are too young to feel mortal. Until recently—and still in America—slaves served as coldmongers. That is how Lord Eldon’s father first made his wealth.”
“I thought it was as a broker.”
“That is what he calls it now, to hide the fact that his wealth was made upon the backs of children. Is it any wonder that the coldmongers are outraged that they have been forgotten by him? He promised them that he would push a bill through to give them some relief, and has disregarded that.” Mr. O’Brien beat his fist into his open palm. “After our march to the Tower, I think that he will remember us.”
“My God.” As though someone had pulled a slipknot, the pieces of the glamour fell away and Jane could see the pattern at last. Lord Verbury had been playing upon the coldmongers’ unhappiness to create a revolt. By suppressing them brutally, he would “save” the city from the coldmongers and seem a hero. “Vincent, is this the Earl’s plan? Creating the march and then striking against it?”
He paled and cursed vehemently.
Melody lifted her head, eyes red from weeping. “Oh, no. Please say that’s not true … it is though, is it not?”
Mr. O’Brien and Lady Stratton looked at each other. Confusion was writ large upon his face. “Will someone explain?”
Vincent and Melody both looked to Jane. Swallowing the bile in her throat, she took a breath to try to steady her nerves. “Lord Verbury wants to displace Lord Eldon as the Lord Chancellor. I believe that he plans to do so by creating a revolt. The footman who spoke with you this afternoon is in the employ of Verbury’s daughter, and she is very much her father’s creature. The march was the footman’s idea, was it not?”
Mute, Mr. O’Brien’s face drained of colour.
Jane faltered. “I am sorry—I thought you were knowingly entangled with Lord Verbury.”
He shook his head.
“When you gather, I think this same footman will tell Lord Verbury the time and place of the march. Verbury has said that the way to deal with such a revolt is by martial law. The coldmongers will be fired upon by British soldiers to ‘restore order,’ and then all of Lord Verbury’s predictions will come to pass.”
“And no one will complain about coldmongers being shot because too much of the populace faults them for the weather. It will be a massacre.” Lady Stratton pressed her hand to her mouth in horror.
“Pardon. I need to be away.” Mr. O’Brien snatched up his hat. “We are marching tonight.”
Vincent glanced at Jane, then tipped his head to Melody, suggesting that Jane take her home. She gave him a half-nod back. Pulling himself upright, Vincent turned to Mr. O’Brien. “I shall go with you. As I know Lord Verbury, my words may help you explain the situation.”
The offer stopped Mr. O’Brien. “I—thank you, sir. That is very generous of you.”
Melody picked up her pelisse and bonnet. “I shall come as well.”
“No. We are going home,” said Jane.
When Melody opened her mouth to object, Lady Stratton shook her head. “Go with your sister. The Coldmongers’ Company does not admit women. We would only be in the way.”
“Sadly, correct.” Mr. O’Brien crossed back to Melody and took her hand. “I would rest easier knowing you were safe.” With an obstinate glance at Jane, he lifted Melody’s hand and kissed it.
* * *
Once they were safely in the carriage, Jane strengthened her resolve to speak with her sister about her conduct. “Melody, dear. I know that you are upset with me.”
“I am, and so I beg you not to speak.” Her eyes were still red from weeping, and strangely magnified by the spectacles she wore.
“I … all right.” It would be best for both of them if they waited until their heads were cooler.
For the rest of the carriage ride, Melody sat facing the window and staring out, at times lowering her spectacles and looking over their rims before restoring them to their place. Jane sat on the bench opposite, fidgeting with a tassel on her pelisse. She felt once again the mortification and shame of the moment when Mr. O’Brien had said that there was no barrier to their marriage. Her conviction had been no better than those who thought that coldmongers controlled the weather: wild supposition instead of fact.
Jane rubbed her forehead as if she could massage her vexation away.
The distance between the oculist’s and their home seemed to expand in the silence. She thought, more than once, that the driver had taken some longer route, but whenever she looked out the window, she saw Piccadilly passing by with its wealth of haberdashers, linen drapers, and booksellers.
It was with greatest rel
ief that they arrived at Schomberg House. Melody descended from the carriage in silence and went into the house without waiting for Jane. Jane settled with the driver and followed her sister inside.
Mrs. Brackett met her in the foyer. “You found her, I see.”
“Yes. The alarm was over nothing.” Jane could not allow gossip to spread through the servants’ channels that Melody had run off. “She had an appointment with an oculist and forgot to tell me it was today. Did you mark her new spectacles?”
“Yes, madam.” Mrs. Brackett’s mouth turned down as though they were distasteful. “I confess that I was surprised. Most young ladies go to pains to avoid such things.”
“True.” Jane pulled off her coat and bonnet. “But my sister likes to read, and these are easier to manage. Did she go upstairs, or to the drawing room?”
“Upstairs to her room, madam.”
“Thank you.” Jane went up the stairs, not looking forward to the interview she was now to face. She knocked on Melody’s door and waited, feeling older than her years.
“Come in.”
Jane let herself into the room. Melody sat at her dressing table holding a handkerchief close to her face. “Did you know that cloth has individual fibres?”
Jane sighed. “I am sorry that I did not believe you, but is it really necessary to rub my face in my error?”
Melody dropped the handkerchief and turned. “Why must you always assume that I am trying some manoeuvre to play upon your sensibility? I am not a glamourist creating the world out of whole cloth. I am twenty years old and this is the first time—No. I reconsider. This is not an argument that is worth having.”
Pressing her hands to her temples, Jane tried again. “I am sorry. That was unfair of me. I have been under considerable strain for the last week, and I thought you were in some danger.”
“I am sure you have been … but, Jane, you have not told me anything.” Melody picked up her hairbrush without seeming to recognise it and turned the thing over in her hands. “You are my sister, and if you expect me to confide in you, then you must do the same. Why did you not simply tell me about Lord Verbury? Or your concerns about the coldmongers? I could have set your mind at ease on that, at least, or perhaps—imagine!—we might have worked together to stop events before they came to a head. La! But why ask your pretty little sister?”
“I did not approach you because it was all just suppositions. Until the footman spoke today, I was not certain of Mr. O’Brien’s guilt beyond his conduct toward you.”
“Which you must now confess has been irreproachable.”
Jane was not ready to admit that. “He should not have invited you to the oculist’s, and you should not have gone. I am certain you will see that when you have had time for rational reflection.” She turned and walked to the door before she could say anything more she would regret.
“For heaven’s sake, Jane. His mother was there. What do you think—” Melody visibly gathered herself, tightening her grasp on the hairbrush as though bodily restraining her emotions. When she spoke, she was quite calm. “I assure you that my anger is completely rational.”
Jane paused before leaving, her conscience stopping her. “I know. I do know that.” She spoke to the door. “My conduct has not been all that it might, either. Nevertheless—”
“Oh, stop! Stop. Can you not leave with an apology instead of an excuse?”
Jane swallowed and pulled the door open. Some small part of herself shouted that she was blaming Melody for things that were not her fault. “I am sorry. That is as much as I can say at this time. Perhaps we may speak later, when we are both calmer.”
She slipped out and pulled the door shut behind her. Melody gave a garbled cry and something metal slammed against the closed door.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted Vincent. Desperately, at this moment, she wanted to not be responsible for her sister’s conduct or disappointment or anger. She was responsible for all of that and more. She bowed her head and pressed her hand against the wall, trying to anchor herself.
And now Vincent was trying to ease the predicament of the Coldmongers’ Company. That trouble, at least, was simple to repair. Once Mr. O’Brien explained what Lord Verbury planned, they could put off the march and make a new plan. Now that they knew about the footman, they could keep him from telling Lord Verbury about the change.
If he had only the one spy, that is. But a man such as that would have more than one way to accomplish his plans. Vincent would realise this the moment he had time to think, but in the meantime, chances were good that he was relating everything to someone who would betray them.
If they allowed women, Jane would go warn Vincent now. This was hardly the first time that wearing a gown was a barrier, but—
Jane lifted her head. She did not have to wear a gown.
Hurrying down the hall to her bedroom, Jane rang for Mrs. Brackett. As she waited, she pulled off her dress and petticoat. She had worn men’s clothing for two weeks in Binche, and she could do it again.
In a few moments the housekeeper entered, expression showing nothing at finding Jane in a state of dishabille. “Lady Vincent?”
“As quickly as possible, I require a suit of gentlemen’s clothing that will fit me, as well as a pair of boots.” Jane did not, at that moment, care to think about what sort of gossip would spread through London about her attire.
“But, madam—”
“If it makes it easier, I am going to a fancy dress party.” She and Vincent were artists. Surely she could be granted this oddity.
Nineteen
Above the Clamour
The ride through London on horseback was much different than in a carriage. Jane had always been an indifferent horsewoman while riding side-saddle, but had come to understand that it was because the position itself was challenging. Though she felt exposed in her breeches, sitting above the foot traffic gave her a sense of being somehow more private. The hack that Mrs. Brackett had sent the footman to hire for her was a calm mare, which Jane was grateful for, and she was able to guide it past the knots in carriage traffic with relative ease. The trip to the Coldmongers’ Company took half the time that it had taken her formerly.
The porter knuckled his forehead when she presented herself at the gate. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Jane tried to keep her voice low enough that it would not arouse his suspicion. “I am on an errand to find Sir David Vincent and Mr. O’Brien.”
“I will send someone for them.” He turned from the gate.
“If you will not let me in, then Sir David is preferable.”
“Aye.” He whistled, and a boy of ten, with the warm gold skin of the West Indies, left his playfellows and scampered inside the main building.
Jane had expected to be allowed in. It made sense that they would be somewhat cautious about whom they admitted, particularly with the march in question. She swung her leg over the saddle and lowered herself to the ground. Though she landed heavily, it was still an improvement over a gown. With a riding habit, she always needed help to mount or even dismount a horse.
Waiting, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Wearing breeches in Binche did not seem as revealing as here on her native soil. If they would not allow her in, then there had been little point in changing clothes.
Vincent came out the door, frowning deeply. He looked past her for a moment, then his gaze snapped back. Even across the yard, she could see his nostrils flare with alarm. Vincent ran the last few yards to the gate. “Let him in, please. I will vouch for him.”
“As you say, Sir David.” The porter touched his cap again, and pulled it open for Jane. “What name do I put in the register?”
Vincent’s mouth opened and hung that way. “Um…”
“Henry Vincent. I am his cousin.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I wouldn’t have kept you waiting out here in the cold.” The porter turned to his register and paid them no more mind as Jane followed Vincent into the yard
. She gave her horse to a lad with copper skin and shockingly blue eyes along with a shilling to watch the creature.
The moment they were out of hearing, Vincent lowered his head. “What is the matter?”
“It occurred to me that the footman would not be Lord Verbury’s only agent.”
Vincent cursed. “I should have thought of that.”
“You were distracted.”
“Perhaps.” Vincent pulled the door open for her, then looked at her curiously. “I suppose I should not do this while you are dressed so.”
“Men are not courteous to each other?” She went through the door into the small dark entry hall of the Company. A set of double doors stood open at the far end and let out on a larger sitting area, lined with benches. Beyond that she could hear shouting from a mass of people somewhere deeper in the building. “Where is Mr. O’Brien?”
“Speaking to the coldmongers. It is not going well, which makes me think your supposition is correct. They did not care about what I had to say at all.” Vincent scowled and hurried down a hall. “And we are courteous. But the manner in which the door is held is different for a lady than a gentleman.”
“You will have to teach me someday.” Jane followed him, boots tapping against the bare wood floors.
“How is Melody?”
“She is unhappy, which is understandable.”
“Did you quarrel?”
“Why do you assume that it is my fault?”
“I do not.” Vincent stopped outside a set of massive double doors. The shouting came from behind those. “I assume that a quarrel happened, but make no further conjecture. I merely wanted to know her state of mind.”
“We did.” Jane looked at the floor and was startled anew by the sight of her legs instead of a smooth sweep of fabric.
Vincent clapped her shoulder, as though she were a man. “It will all work out.”
Nodding, Jane pulled the door open for Vincent. The wave of sound that rolled out was full of anger. With a wince, Vincent passed into the room. The assembly hall of the Worshipful Company of Coldmongers had a high ceiling, hung with banners showing the various guilds around the country. Tall, narrow windows set high in the walls let in thin beams of light, which were supplemented by heavy iron chandeliers. It seemed one part monastery and one part fortress. The room was filled with boys and men in every shade, from the dark Moor to the milk-white Scot. Many of them had abandoned the benches that faced the front of the room and stood, shouting at the three speakers on the dais.
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