Glamour in Glass

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Seven

  Ensconced in Glamour

  Jane matched intent with action and, gathering her skirts, dashed across the courtyard to the studio. Bursting inside, she tried to slow down to a semblance of reserve, but her excitement moved her through the space at a speed which only narrowly escaped being a trot. Jane spotted M. Chastain standing with M. Archambault, the student who had created the glamour à la Chinoiserie.

  “Madame! What can I do for you?” Chastain left M. Archambault and met her half-way.

  “Forgive me for troubling you, but I wanted a word with my husband.” She looked past Chastain, expecting to see Vincent ensconced in the glamour.

  “I am sorry your trip is for nothing. He left shortly after you.” He smiled. “Is there anything I can help you with instead?”

  “No, thank you.” Though Jane was bursting to talk of her idea, she wanted to share it with Vincent first. On reflection, she thought that it was probably prudent as well, for if there were a flaw in her scheme, he would spot it. “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Back to the house, I believe.”

  Jane thanked him and returned at a slower pace to the house, wondering how she could have failed to see him, sitting as she was on the main stairs in the entrance. The wind had kicked up while she was indoors, and the first snowflakes, which had been predicted by the dark clouds drifted down, encouraging her to speed her way into the house. It was quite possible that he had entered during the very moment she had her epiphany, as her sight had been directed almost entirely inward.

  The idea of catching a glamour in glass would not let her go, so she went to the parlour, hoping to find Vincent there. Mme Chastain sat sewing by the fire, and Jane had to endure some conversation with her as the snow coated the courtyard. Her thoughts ticked in time with the falling flakes as she spun through the possibilities opened by her discovery.

  She had to constantly apply herself to keep her attention on Mme Chastain. They spoke of the children, the weather, and dinner parties to come, none of which held the slightest interest for Jane at that moment.

  She resisted the urge to ask Mme Chastain for the addresses of glassblowers in town, though she wanted nothing more than to start experimenting right away. More than that, though, she wanted her husband.

  As if someone had unstitched a pillow, the snow-storm wiped the courtyard from view in a wash of white. Miette and her brothers scampered into the room to seek their mother’s permission to go out and play.

  With this excuse, Jane made her escape and went up to her room. Though she could not see how it was possible to have missed Vincent on the stairs, she could still set her thoughts down on paper, which would give her some measure of peace. It might be that she would discover a flaw in her thinking as she did so.

  And yet, Jane was certain that she would not. The theory was sound; the practice would be telling.

  She opened the door to their rooms, anxious to begin at once, and stopped with her hand on the door. Vincent’s coat, snow melting on its shoulders, hung on a chair by the fire and dripped upon the hearth. Her husband stood at the table by the window, his hair plastered against his skull and his high collar quite wilted by the damp. “I believe the snow is wetter in Belgium than in England.” He dropped a paper into his writing desk and locked it.

  “You are soaked through!”

  “Believe me, I am well aware of that.” Vincent undid the buttons at his cuffs.

  Jane hurried to his side and began working at the buttons down the shirt’s front. “Where have you been? I have been searching everywhere for you.”

  “The studio.” He lifted his cuff to his mouth to pry a stubborn button with his teeth. “Caught by the snow on my way back.”

  Jane pulled his arm away and undid the button herself. His hands were cold to the touch. “I was just there, and M. Chastain said you had returned to the house.”

  “I had planned to, but was delayed.” He slid the shirt off, revealing his broad shoulders and the deep ribcage of a glamourist. “Why were you looking for me?”

  Now that it was time to explain her idea, Jane’s doubt in her own abilities came back with force. “I had an idea and wanted to share it with you to see if you thought it had worth.”

  He waited, prompting her to continue by his attentive silence. She explained. “I chanced upon Miette on the stairs, and she had a discarded crystal from a chandelier. She was using it to make rainbows on the wall.” Jane smoothed the damp shirt and carried it to the fire, hanging it on the corner of the mantel, suddenly afraid that her idea was without merit. “It occurred to me that the prism bent the light in exactly the same pattern I use to create a glamoured rainbow. It seemed, looking at the prism and the rainbow, that one might craft a glass that could bend glamour in other ways, almost like a lens.”

  “Of course. Isaac Newton demonstrated this in his treatise on opticks. But splitting glamour into colours has no practical use other than giving us a greater understanding of how visible glamour relates to light.” Vincent shook his head. “Besides, Newton’s theories have been discredited by Thomas Young, who proved that glamour and light are not particles but related wave forms. The effect is interesting, but not useful.”

  Jane clenched her jaw, momentarily annoyed that he would assume that she had not read the latest works. Young’s paper had been written in 1803, and she had read it eagerly. “Actually, it is Mr. Young’s theories on the wave nature of glamour which led me to the realization that since glamour affects certain substances it might therefore be possible to record a glamour’s pattern in glass. Such a record might stand in for a glamourist’s hands, and create a path that the glamour is compelled to follow. The visual aspect, at any rate. I do not think it would work with other folds.”

  Vincent stood exactly as she had left him, feet spread wide and hair slicked against his skull. His eyes glazed over as he sketched a rainbow in the room. “My God.” He raised his hands, tangling them in his wet curls. “My God, Jane. That might … I think.” Abandoning words, he pressed her to his heart, the fine hairs of his chest tickling her cheek. His pulse thundered in her ear. Vincent squeezed her tightly, then lifted her off the ground, spinning in place with a laugh.

  “You think it might work, then?”

  Setting her down, he kissed her soundly. “Muse, we need to find a glassblower.”

  Eight

  Language and Politics

  By mutual consent, Jane and Vincent did not share their theory with M. Chastain, though each for different reasons. Jane feared that it would fail, and did not wish to appear the fool. Vincent, sure it would succeed, wanted to work out the technique and present it as fait accompli to his friend. Jane could not truly begrudge him this small professional competition, as it was not that far from her heart, either. This decision, though, hampered their ability to enlist his aid in a search for a local glassblower who had the requisite skills. Every event they had to attend, even those intended for pleasure, tried Jane’s patience and seemed an insurmountable obstacle.

  On the day following Jane’s revelation, their attention was taken up by preparations for a dinner party that Mme Chastain was throwing in their honour. All the first families of Binché were to attend, and Chastain’s students were pulled away from their studies to strip down the overwrought glamour in the hall and replace it with a more decorous glamural.

  Upon learning of the dinner, the first thought to come to Jane’s mind was of how she could possibly survive an evening in which only French was spoken. When Anne-Marie came to help Jane dress, she confessed her fears to the maid and begged for her help. “I am only comfortable speaking with children, and that will hardly suffice tonight.”

  “Never fear. I have seen the seating plan. Mme Chastain has you paired with Colonel de Bodard, who speaks competent English, having been an émigré during the Revolution. He and M. Chastain should keep you tolerably occupied during dinner, though the conversation will tend toward war recollections.” She opened the wardro
be. “What shall you wear tonight?”

  “The primrose with the demi-train.” Jane began pulling pins from the muslin frock she had on. “War talk is sure to be an improvement over hunters. At any rate, that is such a relief. I do dislike forcing others to speak in English for my benefit. My comprehension has improved in just the short span since our arrival, but I despair of my speech ever being fit for company.”

  Anne-Marie laid the dress on the bed and took a delicate bodiced petticoat from the bureau. “Madame, you do not need to fret. My mother never became fluent in her adopted language, and yet made herself well understood. No one will expect you to speak without error.” Switching languages, she said, “And now, I will speak to you only in French. You must answer me so as well.”

  Choosing the easiest answer en français, Jane said, “Yes.” After a moment, she added, “Thank you,” and felt her vocabulary exhausted.

  “Lift your arms, madame.” Anne-Marie pulled the old petticoat off and slipped the new one on. Jane obeyed each instruction, sometimes gathering the intent from the actions rather than the words, but they managed to proceed with only the occasional bout of laughter born from misinterpretation. Through it all, Anne-Marie was unfailingly gentle of Jane’s sensibilities, and yet firm in not allowing her to speak English.

  Forced to use the language thus, even for simple tasks such as getting dressed, Jane began to realize that she knew more words than she had thought. Once dressed, Anne-Marie had her sit as she attended to Jane’s hair. “I suggest that we play at conversation. I will pretend to be another guest and plague you with questions.”

  “That seems a good plan.”

  Heating an iron in the fire, Anne-Marie began the thankless task of attempting to force Jane’s straight hair into fashionable curls. “I will begin with the most obvious questions. Where are you from?”

  “I am from near Dorchester.” She wrinkled her nose at the smell of heated hair.

  Releasing the curl, Anne-Marie took up another section of hair. “Have you lived there always?”

  “No. We lived in London these three months past.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “We created a glamural for the Prince Regent.” To her surprise, Jane realized that since so many of the common terms for glamour were French, she was suddenly possessed of a broader vocabulary than she had hitherto suspected. She chattered happily about the glamural as Anne-Marie worked her way through the rest of Jane’s hair, leaving her with a respectable set of curls.

  “All of that sounds lovely. I am consumed with jealousy that you got to see the Prince Regent.” Anne-Marie took a tortoiseshell comb out of Jane’s jewellery box and held it up to try the effect.

  “It was on his recommendation that we came. I do not think we could have found passage at this time of year if it were not for his influence.”

  Shaking her head, Anne-Marie replaced the comb in the box. “That is a surprising kindness.”

  “Do you ever think about returning to England?”

  “No.” Anne-Marie’s tone was short and took Jane by surprise. “I have never lived there, so I can hardly return. France is my home.”

  “Forgive me, that was thoughtlessly asked.”

  “It is nothing.” Anne-Marie wrinkled her nose and selected a coral ornament, nodding with satisfaction as she pinned it to Jane’s hair. “In truth, since Mama chose to stay here, I have always been given to understand that she found France preferable to England.”

  “I imagine your father had some influence on that.”

  Anne-Marie’s face darkened for a moment. “Papa died in the Revolution. His ideals, I am afraid, were stronger than his judgement.”

  Sorry to have troubled her with a topic begun in innocence, Jane began to frame a more profuse apology, wishing to switch to English just for the moment. Instead, Anne-Marie held up a hand mirror to show the back of Jane’s head. “There, Madam. Does that please you?”

  It pleased Jane enormously. Dressing alone, she could never manage to tease her hair into anything so nicely arranged. “Anne-Marie! You are a treasure. I have always thought my hair unmanageable.”

  “I was at court for a time.” Anne-Marie set the irons by the hearth to cool. “You would not believe the horrors I saw there, so please trust me when I say that your hair is lovely. One merely needs to know the trick of coaxing it.”

  Jane did not quite believe that mouse-brown could ever be lovely, but saw no need to press the point. When Vincent came in, she excused Anne-Marie and attended to tying his cravat for him.

  Venturing to continue using French with her husband, Jane asked, “Have you had a pleasant afternoon?”

  He did not seem to notice her efforts, instead slipping smoothly into the language. “Somewhat. No success in finding a glassblower yet.” He lifted his chin to allow her easier access. “And you?”

  “Anne-Marie has helped me practice French.” She stepped back to admire the effect and decided that it would do. “Where did you learn to speak so fluently?”

  “We had a tutor who was an émigré. Mistakes were not tolerated.” This was one more reminder of his life as an earl’s son, which he had abandoned for his art.

  Together, they descended the stairs to wait in the parlour for the guests to arrive. Stomach twisting with dread, Jane managed to use her French to greet those to whom she was introduced, and learned to ignore the raised brows at her mispronunciations and mangled tenses. The purpose, she reminded herself, was to be understood, not to pass as a native. Even were she fluent, her dress would mark her as English, for the fashions had moved in different directions during Napoleon’s reign, when communication between the two countries had been at a standstill. English waist-lines had begun to drop back to the natural waist, while French waists had remained high, and the decorations and embellishments here had a noted emphasis on lace, for which Belgium was justly famed. When Jane was introduced to Mme Meynard, she had a moment of coveting the belle’s beautiful Pomona green gown with blond lace embellishments.

  Jane soon realized that conversation was not so hard as she had thought it might be because at a party such as this one merely repeated the same topics again and again with different partners. How are you? Fine weather. Are you staying long?

  She became more confident as the phrases loosened on her tongue, and by the time they went in for dinner, Jane had relaxed as much as was possible. As guests of honour, Jane and Vincent were led in by M. and Mme Chastain, but from that point forward, the dinner differed in nearly every regard from what Jane was accustomed to in England.

  At home she was used to the dishes being placed upon the table in two great courses, and being confined to those closest to her. In France, though, the dishes were presented singly and carried round by servants to every guest.

  Colonel de Bodard, far from regaling her with tales of battles as Anne-Marie had threatened, spoke instead of England, with an open fondness for his time there. He was the old style of chevalier, moderated somewhat by his time in England, and wore his greying hair pulled back in a tail. His coat was a pale green with some restrained embroidery confined to his waistcoat as the only nod to the more ornate fashions of his youth. He and Jane quickly established that they had acquaintances in common, and soon felt like the oldest of friends. He did her the favour of allowing her to struggle with her French, then offering correction in the gentlest manner.

  As the table was cleared after dessert, the subject moved to politics, and a cross-table conversation began. Jane despaired of leaving the kind Colonel’s side, but to her surprise, the ladies made no move to exit the table.

  “I cannot like the formation of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, no matter how expedient the heads of state think it is.” Mme Meynard, wife of the celebrated banker, accepted a glass of port from a footman. “Did not du Mezzier say, ‘Blending wine must be done with care, else the character of both is lost’?”

  Colonel de Bodard shook his hoary head. “You are mistaken to oppose it.
Without a strong ruler, it is only a matter of time until the Bonapartists seek to reclaim what they regard as theirs.”

  Jane thought immediately of the brigands who had accosted them on the road from Calais to Binché. If those men were representative of the Bonapartists, Belgium had little to fear.

  “Fie!” Mme Chastain shook her finger at him. “Napoleon is deposed and has no power here. I do not object to the new kingdom, but neither will I see support for it come from conjuring mitten-biters out of shadows.”

  Jane could hazard no guess as to what a mitten-biter was, but the conversation moved on before she could ask the Colonel.

  “You do not oppose, but neither do you support!” M. Archambault pounced on Mme Chastain’s statement with a vigour which surprised Jane. She still expected the party to separate at any moment, and yet there was no move resembling that.

  The footmen distributed port to the gentlemen and ladies alike. Jane was at a loss as to whether propriety meant she should accept or decline.

  Colonel de Bodard settled the matter by pouring a generous glass for her. “Who could fully support it when they plan to put William VI on the throne? Him, I do not mind, but his son is as idle-headed a buffoon as ever lifted a sword, and I dread the day he inherits.”

  “Which is why”—Mme Meynard swirled her port in her glass—“it is worth attending to the Bonapartists. Napoleon might be deposed, but his son is still King of Rome. Might he not come to claim the land that belonged to his father?”

  “With what soldiers? ‘King of Rome’ is a mere courtesy title with no power behind it.” Vincent tilted his glass to her. “I hardly think that a threat, especially as Napoleon II is only three years old.”

  “What does it matter if the king is fit to rule if there is a strong regent? You British, of all people, should recognise that.”

  “I think,” M. Chastain said, with enough force that his voice bounced off the far wall. Jane cringed, remembering anew his address to his son. “I think that I should like a cigar. Would anyone else care for one?”