Vincent knelt on the ground supporting a limp body. Her husband held the boy’s hand and whispered to him.
“Major Curry—my husband.”
The Major did not slow down, but turned their path toward Vincent. Making certain that the Major had Melody, Jane ran forward to Vincent. “My love?”
“I think he is dead.” Vincent lifted his head, seeming to be unaware of the madness around them.
He held William.
The sign that the boy had been carrying lay next to them, the handle still in his grasp. Vincent held his other hand. “He was not when I got here. But I think he is now.”
Blood stained the boy’s shirt and coat and cooled between the cobbles on the bridge. His eyes had rolled back in his head so that the whites stared at the clouds. So much blood. Jane thought she had seen blood before, but it was as nothing to this.
Jane touched his throat, praying for a pulse, but found none.
Twenty
By the Fire
Somehow Major Curry managed to get them a carriage and send them home. Jane had few memories of the time in between. She went from the bridge, to a memory of Melody leaning against her in the carriage, to one of helping Vincent remove his bloodied clothing.
The sight of his breeches, drenched through with William’s blood, reminded her too deeply of her miscarriage. She sent them out to be burned.
It did not seem possible, sitting in her bedroom beside Vincent, that they had been on a bridge being fired upon by British soldiers. It did not seem possible that William was dead.
William was dead. She tried the sound of that again in her mind. The young man who had been so excited to meet them, who had possessed too much pride to take a job when it was not needed, had been shot for carrying a sign to the Tower of London. It seemed too much to have saved him from the mob at the grocer’s and have him meet this needlessly tragic end. They had taken his body to St. Margaret Pattens church and sent word to the Coldmongers’ Company, hoping they would know his relations. Only a few coldmongers had returned from the march. More were detained. Many were dead.
As much as she tried to come to terms with what had happened, the enormity of it was too great, and Jane could only muster a stupefied ache. Vincent seemed more deeply affected. But then, he had held William as the life bled out of him.
Vincent stared into the fireplace with his arm around her. At times he would tremble, then it would pass, and he would go back to staring. Jane rubbed his chest and leaned her head upon his shoulder. Mrs. Brackett had set out a cold supper for them, but neither Vincent nor she had the appetite for it. Melody had retreated to her room.
Vincent trembled and sighed. “We have to tell Lord Stratton.”
Jane held still, remembering the confrontation in front of Lady Stratton. “They will know, surely.”
“We were there. They deserve a first-hand account.” Vincent pulled his arm from around Jane and leaned forward to sit with his elbows on his knees. He supported his head on his hands. “I feel particularly responsible, after today.”
“You tried everything in your power to stop the march.”
He made that small whine in the back of his throat. When he let his breath out fully, he said, “I was thinking of the oculist’s shop.”
Jane shifted on the sofa, pulling her shawl around her. “That was unfortunate, but it has no bearing on his arrest.”
“No. Had we behaved differently, however, we could have prevented other events from coming to a head.”
“I do not know if I am equal to speaking to this.” Jane stood and walked around the room. “I am ashamed.”
She paced from fireplace to bed and back again. What would she say to his parents? That she was sorry she had been wrong in her judgement of him? Something banal, such as: it was the worst of all possible outcomes?
“Are you suggesting that we should stay home tonight and then go to work tomorrow as if nothing had happened?”
“No … but I am ashamed,” Jane said again. “Will they even condescend to see us?”
“If we can give them news of their son, I think, yes.” Vincent stood and shook himself like a bear throwing off water. “Lady Stratton knew where he was going. She must suspect something, if they have not already heard.”
Jane chewed the inside of her lip. She did not want to go, because she felt more than ashamed; she felt guilty. She had done everything in her power to separate Melody from Mr. O’Brien. Even after he was released, she doubted that her behaviour in this would allow his family to ever consider her sister as a suitable match. And yet … and yet, Lady Stratton had shown her sister a great kindness. How could Jane be so selfish as to stay home? How could she even consider not doing what she knew was right? “You are correct. They should not hear this from a stranger.”
Vincent relaxed his shoulders and Jane realized that he had been holding his breath. If she had said no, he would have gone without her. This breach of hers would have been a far greater chasm between them than his indiscretion with Miss de Clare so many years ago. He had been a boy then, not knowing what was right. Jane had no such excuse.
“Thank you.”
He frowned. “For what?”
“For being patient with me.”
“Muse…” He held out his hand and she went to him. Vincent kissed her on top of her head. “You are far more patient with me.”
* * *
From the lights in Stratton House, it was evident that the family was up. For a moment, Jane had hope that Mr. O’Brien had returned home, but the anxious nature of the servants they passed made it clear that the master’s son was still absent.
The butler showed the Vincents into a part of the house that they had not yet been in. It was a small chapel, done in the rococo style of the last century. The walls were ornamented heavily with china cupids and the stations of the cross. A font stood just inside the doors, carved out of marble. Five rows of pews faced the small altar at the front. Above it hung a crucifix, showing Christ as the carpenter’s son he had been and not the starveling that Jane had sometimes seen.
At the front of the chapel, Lord and Lady Stratton knelt on the velvet kneeling rail. When the door opened, Lord Stratton raised his head. He glanced over his shoulder, showing alarm. Standing, he crossed himself, then came back to receive them.
His face was grave.
“You have heard, I see,” Vincent whispered. “I apologise for troubling you so late. We were not certain.”
He nodded. “You were there?”
“I am sorry.” Vincent glanced to where Lady Stratton still knelt. “Should we step into the hall?”
“You may stop whispering.” Lady Stratton crossed herself and rose. “I am too anxious to think of anything but what I am almost hearing.” She walked down the centre aisle with her back straight. The lines around her eyes seemed deeper than they had that afternoon.
“My apologies.” Vincent offered her a short bow.
“Accepted.” She raised her eyebrows and looked pointedly at Jane.
Blushing, Jane swallowed heavily. “I owe you and Mr. O’Brien many apologies. For my doubts, for my conduct … for not coming to you sooner with my concern. This is, I think, my fault.” She took a breath, bracing herself. “At the end of the march, the militia met us. Mr. O’Brien was arrested. Had you known, you might have kept him away from the march.”
“Away?” Lady Stratton shook her head. “As much as I might wish this undone, I would have encouraged him, had I thought that it was only the militia. No, your warning … I would have liked it as a sign of trust, but it would not have undone any of this. He still would have gone.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “He was in good health when we saw him. They had taken him from his horse, but he had no injuries.”
“Thank God for that.” Lord Stratton placed his hand against his wife’s back. “You see?”
“For all the good that will do him.”
“Harriet…” Lord Stratton sighed and turned to Vincen
t. “Forgive us. We are both discomposed.”
“May I set your mind somewhat at ease? I studied law at university. The charges for disorderly conduct are not so severe—”
“Sir David, forgive me.” Lord Stratton cut him off. “But Alastar was not arrested for disorderly conduct. They are charging him with treason.”
Lady Stratton took her husband’s hand. “We are Irish, you see. What possible motive could any of us have for marching, except to overthrow the Crown?”
“Under the circumstances…” Lord Stratton cleared his throat and looked across the room to the first station of the cross. In the image, Christ stood with his arms bound behind him, a centurion guarding him with spear at ready. “Under the circumstances, I hope you will understand that we no longer require your services.”
* * *
There had been little to say to the Strattons. Jane and Vincent took the time to collect their few effects from the ballroom and then were escorted to the door. Lord Stratton gave them the use of his carriage as a final courtesy, but the leather seats seemed to burn Jane all the way back to their house. Vincent held his silence for the entire ride.
Her thoughts rode ahead of her to Melody. Jane would have to tell Melody before she saw it in the paper. She walked into the house, dreading going upstairs to talk to her sister, but it needed to be done.
In the foyer, a bustle announced that someone had arrived. Trunks stood by the stairs, waiting to be carried to their proper place. Jane lifted her head, looking for Mrs. Brackett to demand an explanation.
The door to the drawing room opened and her father walked out, beaming with delight. “There you are!”
Mrs. Ellsworth followed close on his heels, exclaiming, “What a charming house! Such a desirable neighbourhood!”
Vincent inhaled sharply beside her. Jane’s surprise was no less great. She crossed the floor, alarmed. “Papa. What are you doing here?”
His face fell. “Did you not get my letter?”
“No. I am so sorry.” Jane gathered herself and led them back into the drawing room. “Let me welcome you properly.”
Vincent greeted her parents with solemn correctness. His usual taciturn nature was a benefit here, as it kept his lowered spirits from being so obvious. Jane had to exert herself to receive her parents with anything like animation. She would confide in her father at the first opportunity, but wanted to keep the events of the riot from her mother as much as possible. She would fall into hysterics at the mere thought of it.
Jane examined her hands to make certain, again, that she had really removed all the blood from them.
“Where is Melody?” Mr. Ellsworth looked around, beaming. “I most particularly want to talk to her.”
“She is upstairs resting.”
“She is not ill, is she? Oh, depend upon it, these mad London nights and the high society you keep will have quite ruined her health.” Mrs. Ellsworth shook her head and settled into a chair by the fire. “I should never have consented to her coming here without me.”
“Do not trouble her. I will see her soon enough.” Mr. Ellsworth beamed and looked around with obvious satisfaction. “The glamour here is very nicely done.”
“Oh. Thank you. The house came decorated in this manner. We have been quite fortunate.” Jane still had not had time to address it. “As delighted as I am to have you here, since I did not receive your correspondence … what brings you to London?”
“Ah. I have had a most charming letter.” Mr. Ellsworth patted his coat pocket. From the rustle that sounded, it was evident that the letter in question was there. “A most charming letter.” More than that, he would not say.
“He will not even tell me, can you imagine that? You would not treat Jane so, would you, Sir David? No, of course not. Charles uses me abominably.”
Vincent stood by the fire with his hand on the mantelpiece. He did not need to be in here, plagued by her mother. “Vincent, would you let Mrs. Brackett know that she might prepare the south bedroom for my parents?”
“Of course.” The look he shot her was filled with relief and thanks.
Jane stayed in the room and chatted with her parents, trying to talk about innocuous things, but every topic she brought up seemed to bring them back around to some point of pain. At last, Mrs. Brackett came in to let her know that the south bedroom was ready.
The housekeeper’s mouth was turned down in another of her habitual frowns, as if to say that Jane and Vincent had deliberately withheld knowledge of the Ellsworths’ arrival. Jane thanked her as if she had brought the news in with a smile. “Would you show my mother up to her room so she might refresh herself?”
“Of course, Lady Vincent. Will madam follow me?”
“Oh! Quite.” Mrs. Ellsworth stood. “Are you coming, Charles?”
“In a moment. I just want to finish looking at this.” He held up a book and smiled at her.
“Oh, you and your books. I never saw such a man for reading.” She bustled off with Mrs. Brackett, quite happy to have someone to whom she could freely express herself.
As soon as she was out of the room, Mr. Ellsworth set the book down on the table. “Now, Jane. Tell me what is the matter.”
Jane’s relief at being able to disencumber herself to her father was extreme. In no order, she poured out the tale of the past month, holding back only some of Lord Verbury’s cruelty. As much as she needed to relieve herself, she did not want her father to know about Miss de Clare. Nothing should damage her parents’ good opinion of Vincent.
As she spoke, her father’s face grew longer and he sat forward with his elbows on his knees, listening. He only paused her recital once or twice to ask for clarification. Otherwise, Jane spoke and Mr. Ellsworth listened.
When she was finished, he sat back in his chair, astonished. “This is very bad, Jane.”
“I know. Lord Stratton and his wife are beside themselves.”
“No—I mean…” He sighed heavily and pulled the letter from his pocket. “You must not tell anyone about this. Not until we sort out what to do.”
Jane did not reach for the letter. “I can keep no secrets from Vincent.”
He chewed on his lower lip for a moment and turned the letter over. “That is not a concern. He understands discretion.”
“Papa, you are alarming me.”
“Oh. The letter is nothing bad. Or rather, it was not.” He sighed and opened it. “Mr. O’Brien had written to request permission to address Melody.”
Jane stared, stupefied. She had been so wrong, about every possible thing. “Am I—am I to understand that he was planning to offer his hand?”
Her father nodded. “In a most charming letter. Under the circumstances, I think it best if she not know right away. Not until his situation is certain. Your mother would … well. It is best to keep it quiet, I think.”
“Of course.”
Mr. O’Brien had planned to marry her sister, and Jane had done everything in her power to separate them. Of all the evils surrounding Melody, Jane was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst.
Twenty-one
Apologies and Favours
With the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth, it was important to Jane that Melody have a chance to prepare herself. No matter how much they esteemed their parents, the fact was that their mother was prone to effusions of emotion that might be difficult to bear under the current circumstances.
Jane slipped upstairs at the first opportunity to knock on Melody’s door. “Dear? May I come in?”
An audible sigh preceded the door opening. Melody stood by the door in her dressing gown and prevented Jane from coming in farther. Her expression seemed almost blank, though her glasses still startled Jane.
Jane cleared her throat. “Mother and Father have arrived.”
Melody’s eyes widened at that, and she let Jane in. “Here? Why?”
“Papa apparently wrote to say he was coming, but I did not get the letter.” Jane sat on one of the chairs by Melody’s
grate. The fire in the hearth did nothing to warm her. “I told Papa about the march, but did not think it wise to tell Mama.”
Melody nodded. “I could not bear it.”
Jane bit her lip and straightened the folds of her gown. “I also wanted to apologise to you. I should have trusted you and did not. I am—I am not even certain where to begin with apologies. My offences seem endless.”
If Jane had hoped that Melody would stop her with a protest, that hope was sadly dashed. Her sister simply watched her, with more composure than Jane would have given her credit for in the past. Her eyes, behind the lenses, seemed curiously distant. The light refracted through her spectacles to make her eyes larger and bluer than Jane was used to. It was clear from their redness that Melody had been crying, but save for that, she appeared entirely calm. Jane did not trust this calmness.
No sooner had she the thought than she immediately rebuked herself. She had just apologized for not trusting Melody and was starting it all over again.
Jane tried again. “I deeply regret that I did not take you to get glasses when you asked for them. I am sorry that I jumped to a conclusion regarding your purpose at the oculist. Although—” Jane stopped herself before she could point out the erased “Mrs. O’Brien” in the appointment diary. She was here to apologise, not to offer excuses for her conduct. “Although I cannot be sorry that I followed you. I am glad, mortifying though the manner was, that I am no longer so mistaken about Mr. O’Brien’s character. He is an honourable man.”
“Yes. He is.” Melody bit her lower lip and sat across from Jane. “Did you tell Papa that?”
“I did.” Jane winced, remembering why her father had come to London, and how Melody’s prospects were seemingly at an end. “And now … I have some news that I do not want you to come across by chance. Vincent and I went to see the Strattons this evening.”
Melody leaned forward, face brightening for the first time that night. “Is he there? Is he all—no. He is not, is he? Else you would not worry about me finding it out by chance.”
Without a Summer Page 21
