Glamour in Glass

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “Then, madame,”—he offered her a bow and held out his hand—“allow me to greet you again, and know that you have my full admiration for your wit and your honesty.”

  After a moment, Jane placed her hand in his. He kissed the back of it very gently, and Jane could not doubt his sincerity.

  * * *

  When she returned to the Chastains’ home, Jane practised French with Anne-Marie, who was wild to hear about the French officers. Jane found it not at all surprising that she had already met young Lieutenant Segal and was quite in raptures about him. It seemed that he had been making the rounds of Binché society without regard for social distinctions. He was quite the favourite, and Jane was forced to admit that she could understand why, for his manners were appealing even if the content of his remarks was impertinent.

  Her mind still troubled by their conversation and the way in which she had been unable to defend her countrywomen, Jane retreated to the drawing room and the pianoforte. In many ways, the solitary pursuit of music best suited her temperament, and Jane applied herself to it in an effort to make up for the deficiency of glamour accompanying it. She tried to see it as a blessing that she could focus on but one aspect of performance, but in truth she missed the glamour too much to be content with mere sound.

  She finished playing an air by Rossini, one which she thought the Prince Regent might enjoy, recalling as she did his fondness for the composer. She then leafed through the pages toward the beginning, in search of a passage which had troubled her.

  “That was very pretty.” Vincent said from the door.

  Jane turned, surprised at how much her heart sped at the sight of her husband. She could not help but compare him to Lieutenant Segal, who might have more elegance to his carriage, but had none of Vincent’s strength. “How long have you been back?”

  “Since the coda.” He came in and sank into the chair closest to her, weariness evident in the sag of his shoulders. “Play it again?”

  Jane did, letting her attention drift from the page to her husband’s face. He listened with his eyes closed, brows drawn a little together in concentration. As she played, his tension slackened and slowly, slowly, his head tilted forward until his chin rested on his chest. Jane kept playing long after he had clearly fallen asleep and begun to snore. She could not suppress a smile at this. Her husband had the tiniest snore in the world, more like a small cat than a barrel-chested man. It pained her to see him so tired, but she had no way to relieve his fatigue if he insisted on making the ride to Brussels so often.

  Bringing the music to a close, Jane let the notes fade from the room until the only sound was the faint wheeze of Vincent sleeping. It was impossible, seeing him so reduced by fatigue, to have anything but tenderness in her heart toward him. Her husband stirred and lifted his head, his eyelids still heavy. “That was lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Jane did not point out that he had slept through the most of it. “Shall I ring for some dinner for you?”

  “No, thank you. I have already eaten.”

  “Were you in Brussels today?” When she had woken, he was already gone from the house, as had been common these past few weeks.

  “With Mr. Gilman.”

  “I take it he needed the sheep adjusted again?” It seemed as though once a week, Mr. Gilman sent a message asking for the number of lambs to go up or down.

  “Yes. Well.”

  “Have you thought of suggesting a random braiding of lambs so that the number appears to rotate?”

  “Even if—” Vincent rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “That would not work with the Chastain Damask.”

  “Of course.” She perused the pages of her music, pretending that ordering the score took more attention than it actually did. She was uncertain why she still felt the need to offer opinions on the subject when Vincent clearly had no interest in her thoughts.

  “Forgive me.” He pinched his eyes shut in a wince. “I am tired and irritable today.”

  “If you … if you wanted to stay the night in Brussels, I should not object. It would make me easier to know there was one less fatigue weighing on you.”

  “Thank you. But I needed to spend part of today in Binché, and likely will again this week.” Vincent tugged at his cravat and Jane was fairly certain that only being in the public rooms rather than their apartments kept him from removing it altogether.

  “Oh. I had not realized you had business in Binché.” She paused, waiting for him to tell her what it was.

  He stood instead. “Come upstairs and tell me about your day.”

  That he had changed the subject, and baldly, was apparent, but Jane could not account for why. This did not mark the first time he had done so, but the subjects he wished to avoid were so varied she could see no pattern in them. At times she thought he did not wish to speak to her at all, at others his pleasure in her company was so evident it seemed impossible that any coldness had ever existed.

  Had he not been so evidently fatigued, she might have pushed him for an explanation. Indeed, she found herself tempted to take advantage of any lack of discretion which his weary state might lend. “I would rather hear about your day, if you do not mind. I see so little of you that I find myself quite hungry for even the smallest details.”

  He tucked his chin in as he did when he was thinking. “Would you humour me and allow me to forget about the day? I will confess that I am somewhat overweary.”

  “Of course.” She accompanied him upstairs, taking his arm and feeling him lean some weight upon her rather than the reverse.

  “That does not mean you should be silent.” He squeezed her hand on his arm. “Distract me. Tell me what you did today.”

  “I went with Mme Chastain to the Meynard’s home.” Jane tried to drag her mind away from wondering what could leave Vincent so irritable and exhausted. “Mme Meynard is charming enough, but the conversation is … challenging. She delights in introducing people who are likely to disagree, so she might observe the resulting fireworks. Today she had me paired with a French lieutenant.”

  “Are there troops in town?” Vincent opened the door to their apartments and let her pass through.

  “Only a small contingent. Some four or five officers. I did not hear what their purpose was, only that they seem determined to attach every young woman in town.” Jane helped Vincent off with his coat, making a note to send it out to have the road dust removed. He had ridden so much lately that the coat was more brown than blue. “According to Anne-Marie, who has also seen the officers, Lieutenant Segal is absolutely the most noble man she has ever seen.”

  He tugged off his cravat and dropped it over the back of a chair. “This sounds much like your sister. Are all women thus taken with dashing young soldiers?”

  “Not quite all.”

  He bent down to kiss her cheek. “I am relieved to hear this.”

  She smiled as his lips tickled her skin. “I confess that I do not understand what it is about a red coat which makes young women lose their minds, but it seems that a tricolour cockade can do the same.” Jane reached to undo his cuffs and considered telling him about Lieutenant Segal’s outrageous flirtation, but Vincent moved away to the window.

  “Tricolour cockade, eh? Interesting fashion choice. How long are these officers in town, do you know? I am certain that there must be a ball. It is impossible for officers to be in town without the young ladies demanding a ball.”

  “I little doubt that you are right, but I do not remember anyone noting their departure date, so perhaps they are to be here for long enough that time is not a concern, or perhaps they will be gone so soon that there is no time to plan a ball.” She followed him to the window and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning against his back. The difference was yet small, but already she could tell a change in the way they fit together. “Would I be able to persuade you to go to a ball?”

  “Possibly.” He stifled a yawn, poorly. “But at the moment, I need to write some letters before I fall asleep st
anding.”

  “Should you like me to rub your shoulders while you write?”

  Vincent drew in a breath as if to speak, and let it out again unvoiced. Removing her hands gently from his waist, he turned and lifted them, kissing first one, then the other. “That will make me fall asleep all the faster. Go to bed, and I will join you shortly.”

  There was a stillness or a reserve in his face, which spoke volumes more than did his tender caresses. This distance between them, which came and went for reasons she could not penetrate, had returned. Jane only knew that he kept something from her. “What could be so urgent when you can barely keep your feet?”

  “I owe Skiffy a letter.” Vincent sat at his desk and rolled the glass Sphère under his palm. “If I wait until I am not tired, I shall never write it.”

  “And this is part of what concerns me. I do not like seeing you this exhausted, and have serious concerns about where it will lead. You must rest.”

  “Then let me write this letter in peace.” He saw her chagrin and immediately softened. “I am sorry. I did not mean to snap. Only I am weary, and really must write this.”

  Jane nodded, having done her best to protest, and withdrew. She could not help but notice that, though he sat at the table and played with the ball of glass, Vincent did not unlock his writing desk while the door to their bedroom was still open.

  Thirteen

  Leaves and Embroidery

  Jane woke after Vincent had departed, and took her breakfast in their apartment. The dry toast, bland though it was, turned her stomach, and she had to force herself to chew each mouthful and then swallow methodically. If she focused her attention on other matters, she could put much of the nausea out of her mind. It was fortunate, then, that her mind occupied itself so thoroughly with Vincent’s odd behaviour.

  She sat at the table under the window, and tried to ignore Vincent’s writing desk, which sat upon it. Running her hand along the edge of the travel desk, Jane did not try the latch, but it was clear from the solidity of the connection that it was locked. She took another bite of toast and drummed her fingers on the wood surface of the writing desk. What would Vincent need to keep secret?

  The only thing which Jane could summon to her mind was the glass glamour, although he left that sitting upon the desk freely enough. In truth, there was little need to hide it, since the experiment had failed. She sighed and pushed the toast away from her. It would lead to no good, worrying at a problem which had no basis in anything more than her own unease. Still, she could not keep her mind from wondering what Vincent would have cause to hide from her.

  To escape the perambulations of her thoughts, which would insist upon treading paths she did not wish to visit, Jane took herself downstairs, intent on seeking Mme Chastain’s company in the parlour. As she descended the grand stairs, Vincent came out of M. Chastain’s office, his riding coat slung over his arm.

  “Oh, I thought I had missed you already.” Jane hurried down the last few stairs.

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise and bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “I was in the studio, and only stepped in to see if the mail had come before I head out.”

  “Where are you off to today?”

  “I have a few errands to run. Nothing terribly interesting.”

  “Shall I come with you, then? To keep you company?”

  He shook his coat out and slipped one arm into it. “Thank you, but as much as I would enjoy your company, I must go on to Brussels today and will not have time for dallying.”

  Jane helped him with the other sleeve, trying to mask her hurt. Of course, if he needed to go to Brussels then she would only slow him down. Of course, that was entirely sensible. And yet she felt that only part of the truth had been spoken. In each of these instances where she had the sense of omission, she could not name the elements which built her unease. That he had not looked at her when he had spoken could be no great reason for alarm, for what could be more natural than to look at one’s coat while donning it?

  And yet … and yet.

  “Jane? What is the matter?” Vincent took her hand and rubbed his thumb across the back.

  She concentrated on the blunt shape of his thumb, and the way the weather had reddened his knuckles. “I miss you.”

  “But I am here.”

  “Yes.” She struggled out of her melancholy state and resolved to have this conversation with him in earnest when he returned that evening. The foyer was not the place for confessions. “And now you must be on your way. I should not want you to be any later in your travels than necessary.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Thank you.” Vincent took a step away, and paused as if he wanted to say something more, then shook his head. “I will see you this evening.”

  As Vincent strode out the door, Jane took herself to the parlour. M. Archambault and M. Bertrand sat by the window, poring over a book, each with a steaming cup of coffee beside him. Their gestures and the snippets of conversation that burst from them from time to time indicated that they studied some obscure bit of glamour history.

  Mme Chastain sat by the fire and smiled as Jane entered. “How are you, my dear?”

  “Well enough, thank you.” Jane pulled her chair closer and took up her work basket, rather wishing she could sit nearer to the students so she might overhear their conversation, unbecoming as eavesdropping might be.

  Peering over the edge of her embroidery frame, Mme Chastain tutted. “I think you are not eating enough, am I right?”

  “Perhaps.” Jane shook her head. “Is it … do you enjoy being a mother?”

  Mme Chastain took another few stitches in her tapestry. “I think there is only one acceptable answer to that question. But the truth of the matter is that there are days when I do and days when I wish that my life were somewhat more my own.” She lowered the frame. “But to answer the question you did not ask, yes, it is worth every ache and pain and worry. For me. Not all women are the same, I think.”

  Jane bit her lip and bent her head to her embroidery once more. Her own mother had been so much the invalid while Jane was growing up that it had often fallen to Jane to act as mother to her younger sister. Her bond with her mother had been strained by the fact that Jane could not trust her as a source of comfort. She loved her mother, yes, but she had little respect for her beyond what was due by filial duty.

  As Jane was pondering this, Mme Chastain caught her eye and nodded to the door. Yves stood there, his hands in his pockets and his head dipped in a modest manner. His left cheek was tucked in as though he were chewing upon it. Mme Chastain raised her eyebrows and cocked her head as if to say, “behold,” then bent her head to her embroidery, ignoring her son’s presence.

  After some minutes spent thus, neither in nor out of the parlour, Yves fixed his shoulders and sauntered in, affecting nonchalance. “Good morning, Mama.”

  “And to you as well, my dear.” She tilted her head to accept a kiss upon her cheek without appearing to take her attention from her embroidery, though Jane could not help but notice that her stitches had slowed.

  Yves leaned over her chair, his brown hair tousled in the most stylish manner. “That is very pretty.”

  “Thank you. The window seat needs some attention, and I thought to replace the covering. It will have the view from the Roman walk when I finish.” She smiled up at her son. “Do you approve?”

  “Approve!” He clutched his hand to his breast. “Mama, you could doubt my approbation? Of course I approve. You are the cleverest of mothers.”

  Jane tucked her tongue into her cheek to keep from smiling at his excessive flattery. Mme Chastain had no such compunction. “And how many mothers have you with which to compare me?”

  He lifted his hand and ticked off names. “There is Giroux’s mother, who cannot embroider. And Mme Meynard, who has not seen her son in five y—”

  “Hush.” Mme Chastain narrowed her eyes at her son. “I will not have you speak ill of her. You know well why their son was sent away.”
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  “You would have kept me though, would you not?” Yves sobered and put a hand on her shoulder. “No matter what.”

  She patted his hand, her face softening with such obvious devotion that Jane’s heart ached to witness it. “Yes, my dear.”

  “And no matter how wicked I was, you would still love me?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she glanced at Jane. “Why do I suspect that you will apprise me of some wickedness in a matter of moments?”

  “It is not wickedness, Mama. Only…” He came around and knelt at her feet, taking both of her hands in his. His cheeks coloured prettily. “Only, I have run through my allowance and am somewhat embarrassed because it is my turn to treat the lads at Brinkmann’s.”

  “I see.” Mme Chastain pursed her lips. “Mme Vincent, what would you do in my position?”

  Startled at being brought thus into the conversation, Jane felt a sudden rush of heat. She looked down and inhaled swiftly to gather her thoughts. “I suppose it depends on why he has run through his funds.”

  Yves flushed and stammered. “I do not know. Everything is expensive, and it is hard to keep up when my allowance is so low.”

  “Perhaps you might retrench,” Jane offered.

  “But if I do that, what will the other fellows think?”

  “It starts so young…” Mme Chastain shook her head and took up her embroidery hoop once more. “Have you spoken with your father about this?”

  “No! That is. I mean—” Yves stood, and paced away from her. “I thought you might understand. The need for hospitality. And all.”