“Lady Verbury, who is not required to testify against her husband, was so appalled by his actions that she came of her own accord to speak against him. But you need not rely on her testimony alone, because she brings with her divers papers in Lord Verbury’s own hand, which delineate his plan in great detail. These pages include payments to Mr. Devenny and Miss de Clare.
“The character assassination that the prosecution has attempted is decidedly false. Mr. O’Brien should not be on trial here. Indeed, none of the coldmongers should. The charges against Mr. O’Brien and the coldmongers are so clearly fabricated that your only course is to return a vote of ‘not guilty.’”
The judge continued through the forms and summed up the arguments for the jury, but even before they clustered for deliberation, it was clear what verdict he wished them to return. After only eight minutes, the jury delivered a resounding “not guilty.”
The courtroom burst into shouts of good cheer, making it clear how many friends and supporters Mr. O’Brien had. That worthy gentleman succumbed to tears of relief, which no one begrudged him. Lady Stratton ran down from the spectators’ gallery. She embraced her son, sobbing and laughing at the same time.
The coldmongers leaped about with the exuberance that only the very young can show. They ran forward and lifted Mr. O’Brien into the air, raising another cheer from the gallery.
Jane leaned into Vincent, embracing him. He was shaking violently. She looked at him in alarm.
“They are going to kill him,” he whispered at the floor.
“No.” Lady Verbury took a seat next to them, clearly understanding which “him” Vincent meant. “Your father will be on a ship to his West Indies estates by the time they organise enough to seek his arrest.”
Vincent stared at her. His mouth opened but no words came. Jane gave voice to what she thought he must be trying to ask. “How did you come to be here?”
“Miss Ellsworth…” Lady Verbury looked down, frowning. Jane had never seen her with anything but a placid smile. The frown suited her. Lady Verbury sighed and continued. “She came to ask Penelope to testify while I was visiting. When my daughter refused to participate—when she laughed…” Lady Verbury stopped and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I have made many mistakes, but my path was never clearer than in that moment. She thought it was a game.”
Vincent reached across Jane and took his mother’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Jane! Sir David! Oh! I am so relieved.” Mrs. Ellsworth flung herself down the aisle with Mr. Ellsworth close behind. “I knew they were lying, but—” She stopped, recognising with whom they sat.
Lady Verbury smiled at Jane—a genuine smile with a hint of fear behind it, not the placid mask she had worn before. “Would you do me the honour of introducing me to your parents?”
Jane did, and gladly. Mrs. Ellsworth was a little overcome to be introduced to an actual Countess, which kept her from being too exuberant. Mr. Ellsworth gravely thanked her for her assistance in the trial.
She waved that away. “The credit belongs to your daughter, Miss Ellsworth.”
At that, Mr. Ellsworth frowned, looking about. “Where is Melody? She has been absent a great deal these past few days.”
Jane turned and spotted her sister. She stood with Mr. O’Brien, embracing him in the full view of the public. His parents stood next to them, beaming. An answering smile spread across Jane’s own face. “I believe … I believe that Melody is engaged.”
* * *
When two young people are in love and well matched, it would be foolish parents indeed who stood in the way of their marriage. Mr. Ellsworth had already come to London determined to give his permission to Mr. O’Brien to address Melody, and nothing he saw of the young man’s character made him less inclined to see the pairing with anything other than delight.
Mrs. Ellsworth, when she realised that Melody would have a London wedding, with all the consequence that marrying the heir to a Baron could bring, fell with equal delight into planning the wedding. Two weddings, to be exact, for the law required Melody and Alastar to be wed by an Anglican priest before they could proceed to the Roman Catholic ceremony. By necessity, they were to be married by Special License, which would give the happy couple the ability to wed in the family’s chapel. Mrs. Ellsworth could not have been more pleased by having a Special License, as it was favoured by the most fashionable set. She and Melody went to all the best dressmakers and—with Lady Verbury’s assistance—procured a trousseau that would not have shamed Princess Charlotte.
As for Jane and Vincent, they returned to the Strattons’ employment, but this time to ornament their chapel. When it came down to it, Vincent would indeed perform glamour for a wedding, if asked with sufficient sweetness by his wife. The activity was welcome to them both, and not simply for the pleasure of helping prepare for a joyous occasion. The distraction came at a time when they both sorely needed it.
Vincent had slept poorly since the trial. More than once, Jane had woken to find him shuddering in the throes of a nightmare. She rubbed his back to awake him, feeling his nightshirt slide over his scars. Jane curled up against him, pulling him close to her.
His breathing eased and Vincent intertwined his fingers in hers. “I am sorry I woke you.”
She kissed his neck, tasting the salt on his skin. “I wish I could do something for you.”
“Oh, Muse…” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. “You do.”
“The same nightmare?”
She heard, more than saw, his head slide across the pillow in a nod. “He should be in Antigua by now.”
As Lady Verbury predicted, the Earl had taken ship to visit his estates in the West Indies. John Devenny sat in prison awaiting trial for treason, abandoned by the Earl. He professed, loudly, that Lord Verbury had told him that he was working for the good of the Crown. Vincent’s eldest brother was working with legal counsel to preserve the family seat in the event that the Earl should be found guilty of treason. Jane dreaded that trial when it came about.
She slipped her hand free of Vincent’s and rubbed his brow, trying to ease the lines that creased it. He grunted in satisfaction and nestled closer. “That feels good.”
“I surmised as much by your grunt.”
“I did not grunt.”
“Yes, you did.”
Vincent rolled onto his back. “I do not grunt.”
Laughing, Jane kissed his cheek. “My dear, when you are pleased, you grunt like a bear, and when you are upset, you whine.”
“No!”
Jane found a spot most likely to provoke a response and caressed him there. Vincent grunted with pleasure and then laughed. He swept her into his arms, still laughing, and pulled her on top of him. She giggled as well, covering his face in kisses between chuckles.
He made his small satisfied noise again, and his laughter redoubled. “Oh, lord. I do.”
“I told you.”
They spent some time with Jane proving this assertion in a variety of ways, and Vincent being forced to acknowledge that it was true. This release of laughter and high spirits proved better at restoring his steadiness of mind than any fold of glamour could.
When they fell back among the pillows at last, Vincent wrapped Jane in his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder and she traced a finger among the fine hairs on his chest.
He kissed her on the forehead. “And I whine? Truly?”
She nodded. “You hold your breath first. It is only when you need to say something you do not wish to say.”
“But a whine?”
“It is a small one. Like this.” She imitated the high little keen and provoked a new round of laughter from Vincent.
“No, no. I do not believe for an instant that I make so silly a sound.” He kissed her cheek. “You shall have to prove it.”
“By making you say something you do not wish to say?” Jane let her hand drift lower. “That sounds unpleasant.”
“But you
have made me curious.” He barely silenced a grunt by turning it into a moan. “Since your first claim is clearly true, I want to hear this whine.”
Jane stopped moving and rested her hand on his chest again. There was one question that had disturbed her, but she had not been able to bring herself to ask. “When you first came to Long Parkmead … did Melody remind you of Miss de Clare?”
Vincent held his breath and a little whine of protest escaped him. Jane nudged him in the ribs. “There. Do you hear it?”
He gave a half-laugh. “I do.” Pulling her closer still, Vincent rolled onto his side and buried his face in her neck. “I—yes, she did.”
Jane held him, running her hands over his back, tracing the lines drawn there and knowing that other scars went deeper still. A bead of moisture dropped onto her neck and rolled down her skin. Jane kissed Vincent’s forehead. His breath hitched and caught as he struggled with his sensibilities in her embrace.
Voice hoarse and hot against her skin, he whispered, “But you do not. You are unique and wonderful and—and a thousand other hackneyed things. You are my Muse.”
Jane could hardly breathe for the force of her emotions. “And you are mine.”
The result of that moment of distress was that the Vincents spent that night, and others, proving the strength of their love to each other. They repeated it in their actions, and in the art that they wove as they worked glamour side by side.
No glamural could have had more love displayed in it than the one that they wove for the wedding of Miss Ellsworth and Mr. O’Brien. The chapel had been done over in a picturesque motif with a few laurel trees masking the pillars that supported the high ceiling. The ceiling itself was where the chief of their effort went. They made it vanish behind layers of glamour so that, in spite of the continuing rain outside, Melody and Alastar would be married under an unclouded blue sky.
At the back of the chapel, Melody stood next to Jane, shifting her weight from foot to foot. In a dress of fine white muslin, with a small lace-trimmed cap to match, she was radiant, with such a glow to her complexion that Jane almost felt they had not needed any glamour at all. Almost.
Jane whispered to her sister, “Do not forget to breathe.”
With no sign of having heard, Melody turned to her. “Should I take my spectacles off?”
“Will you be able to see him clearly if you do?” Jane stood in front of her to show where the bridegroom would stand. “He will be about this far.”
Melody pulled the spectacles down her nose and shook her head.
“Then you should wear them.” Jane straightened her sister’s primrose silk shawl to show off the embossed white satin flowers. “You will want to remember this, and the day will be enough of a haze as it is.”
“La! Jane … I am so nervous.” She peered toward the front of the chapel. “Is he there? He is. Oh—oh, he is so handsome. Are you certain I should wear the spectacles? Perhaps I should take them off.”
“He wears them as well. Do you love him any less because of that?”
Melody coloured and her cheeks curved into a deep smile. She shook her head. “He is all that I could wish for.”
Jane’s eyes pricked with tears, which made her grateful for the handkerchief she had tucked in her sleeve.
The Catholic service was strange to Jane, but she found that, aside from an abundance of Latin, the wedding was very much like other weddings. She felt a greater desire to weep than at others, but that could be attributed to seeing her sister marry a man that she truly esteemed. The small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony were equally confident that their wishes and hopes would be fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
Jane and Vincent had been married in a small private ceremony. This one had all the pomp that Jane’s mother had regretted theirs as wanting. Mrs. Ellsworth would have had even more parade and spectacle were she allowed, but the taste of the artists conquered that tendency.
From time to time, Jane looked across to Vincent, whom Mr. O’Brien had invited to stand up with him. She met Vincent’s eye as the ceremony came to a close and they both pulled a slipknot, releasing a flight of peacocks and white doves overhead.
Vincent winked at Jane. His fingers moved at his side, and a single word sounded in her ear alone, carried by glamour. “Muse.”
In spite of her earlier fears, Jane was deeply satisfied to see her sister happily married and with a muse of her own.
Author’s Afterword
I should first acknowledge my husband, Rob, upon whom certain aspects of Vincent are very heavily modelled. He is quite literally my Muse for this character. He is also endlessly patient as this is the second book in this series that I finished in the midst of a cross-country move, this time from Portland to Chicago. I am working on the fourth book, Valour and Vanity, at the moment and am happy to report that we are not currently moving.
As with any book, there are people who helped this story be what it is. Mark Pallis, the BBC historical consultant for Garrow’s Law, vetted my legal scenes. British law and American law are vastly different, and even more so when you hark back to 1816. He was amazing and there are copies of his notes on my website, along with the original scene, if you are interested in that sort of geekery.
Paul Cornell helped me translate William from the Dick Van Dyke dialect into something appropriate for a Londoner.
Laura Plett, an English Country dance caller, helped me sort out the dance movements for the Almack’s scene. She also answered my questions about the waltz, which was different in the Regency than in our modern era.
Mark Beswick, archive information officer at the Met Office National Meteorological Archive in the United Kingdom, got me a scan of meteorological records for 1816 in London. To the best of my knowledge, the days that I have it snowing are days when it actually snowed.
John Scalzi helped me sort out how to handle the fact that my readers all thought the bad weather was caused by magic instead of a volcano.
Mary Anne Mohanraj offered excellent advice on my handling of Miss Godwin.
The Multnomah County Library reference librarians continue to be an invaluable resource for all the myriad things that I cannot find on my own. Librarians rule the world.
Jodi Eichelberger helped me with adapting the hymn “Twas in the Winter Cold” to “Twas in the Summer Warm.” The original hymn was written in 1873, so I could not use it, but desperately wanted to.
As always, thanks to the ladies of the Oregon Regency Society, who continue to provide inspiration and support as I work on these books. Part of the trial scene was written at an ORS retreat in costume and with an actual quill. While the way my writing rhythms changed were fascinating, I was very happy to return to my computer. In particular, I need to thank Stephanie Johansen, Charlotte Cunningham, Nora Azvedo, Agnes Gawne, Lauren Marks, and Angel Bruce.
Of course, without my editor, Liz Gorinsky, this book would be messier and not as interesting. She does a wonderful job of helping me craft story. Likewise, my agent, Jennifer Jackson, does more than just sell books and manage contracts, she also helps me sort out where I want the story to go while I’m still in the planning stages. Michael Curry, for whom Major Curry is named, is one of my first readers and provides invaluable advice.
I also have a host of alpha readers, who get the raw draft of the story and tell me how it is playing. Thanks to: Karin Abel, Hanna Brady, Sharat Buddhavarapu, Laura Christensen, John Devenny (Yes, that’s where the name comes from), Peter Ellis, Grant Gardner, Randall Haverinen, Brent Longstaff, Maggie, Donna McLaughlin, Ian Miller, Nina Niskanen, Kurt Pankau, Putergeekguy, Julia Rios, Dallan Simper, Leonard Suskin, and Natalie Wolanski. I also had a number of people who listened to me read the whole darn thing out loud. In particular I want to thank Annalee Flower Horne, Fric Hayoz, John DeLong, and Peter Ellis, who not only listened, but provided useful feedback.
And I should close with thanks to Miss Austen, from whom I stole three sentences and the essential cha
racter arc of Emma.
A Note on History
1816 was known, historically, as “The Year Without a Summer.” In 1815, the volcano Tambora blew up in the East Indies. This was the largest volcanic explosion in recorded history. That said, very little about this explosion was known in London in 1816. I cheat a little in the book, because its connection to the weather was not understood until 1819. The blanket of ash that it kicked out was so large that 1816 was cooler than usual, to the point that Washington, D.C., had snow in July. There was widespread famine because of crop failure, combined with the return of all the soldiers from the Napoleonic wars, which increased unemployment.
This was at a time of great social upheaval, as the industrial revolution was beginning. The Luddites were a real movement that began to protest the introduction of automated looms. Prior to this, cloth was woven by individuals at home, for a factory. The introduction of the looms reduced the demand for this labour. It also meant that workers were now employed outside the home, which suddenly caused a need for childcare. For this and other reasons, the looms were seen as a disruption of lifestyle and weavers began a series of riots. They were eventually stopped when seventeen of the protesters were put on trial in 1813 and the key members were hanged.
I based the coldmongers’ situation on the Luddites and also on the Cato Street Conspiracy. Some of the language of the trial came directly from the Cato Street trial, and you can read the full transcript in the Old Bailey archives. One of the things that I found interesting while reading these was that there were a number of men of colour involved in the conspiracy and that in 1820 the correct term was “men of colour.” I think of that as a modern construction. It is also easy to forget that London was a cosmopolitan city and had people of every colour in it. The media tends to depict the Regency as entirely populated by white people, and it was not.
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