Glamour in Glass

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  As the little girl scampered away, Jane asked, “Did something happen on the road?”

  Vincent shook his head, rising to his full height again. “Give me but a little time.”

  “Vincent—” Jane cut herself off as M. Chastain came hurrying down the hall. His face had as much worry on it as she felt.

  Her husband pushed her gently toward the stairs. “I will be up in a moment.”

  Before she could protest further, Vincent had left her and gone down the hall to meet M. Chastain. They had a hurried and whispered conference, during which M. Chastain occasionally turned his gaze past Vincent to Jane. She shivered at the bleakness in his face.

  After only a few minutes, Vincent returned to her, his long legs eating the space between them. The tails of his coat flapped as he walked. Without a word, Vincent took her by the arm and led her upstairs. She could feel him curtailing the length of his stride to match hers. No sooner had they set foot in their apartments than she said, “Will you tell me what happened to you today?”

  “I was on the road to Brussels. It seemed to me as if the traffic were heavier than usual.” He pulled aside the curtains by the window, looking first on one side then on the other. “I quickly learned that Napoleon had landed some two weeks ago, and was proceeding to Paris with no resistance.”

  “But General Ney…”

  “Will not stop him.” Vincent paced restlessly to their bedroom, peering into the room and then behind the door. “I have asked M. Chastain to arrange passage for you on the next ship to England.”

  “Passage for me? What of you?”

  “I will stay and study with M. Chastain. There is no need for you to stay as well.”

  “Nor is there need for me to flee. We are in Belgium, not France, and we are perfectly safe here.” She did not mention the incident at the notions shop nor remind him of the events on their trip to Binché. “M. Chastain is not sending his students away.”

  “None of his students are my wife, nor are they carrying my child.”

  Anger rose in Jane, and she knew it stood out like a red badge upon each of her cheeks. “I will not be sent away like I am an object. If you feel secure in staying here—”

  “I do not!” Vincent stopped and wrapped both hands in his hair, pulling his head toward his chest. “I do not feel secure in staying here, but I must. Please, Jane, for the love you bear me, please go because I have asked.”

  Her breath was but shallow, and silence stood tense between them. “What are you not telling me, Vincent? Why must you stay?”

  He groaned and paced in a circle away from her. “Why must I stay … why indeed?” Vincent stopped at the window and faced her, posture rigid with tension. “I am here as a spy for England. Somewhere in this town is a stronghold of the Bonapartist movement with plans to assassinate King Louis XVIII. With Napoleon on the move, it is all the more vital that I be here. Jane … any Briton who stays in Belgium is in danger, but if we were discovered, we would be shot. I can take that risk for myself, but cannot ask you to do the same.”

  Jane set her hands into fists so tight that her nails bit into the palms. She had to clench her jaw to keep the rage from spewing forth.

  Vincent took a step back, and Jane had a moment to wonder what colour her face had turned. “Jane, I am sorry. I promised you a honeymoon and—”

  “Do you think me so feebleminded that I am worried about a honeymoon? I am angry because you do not trust me. Do I not love King and country as much as you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What is more, you have lied to me. Methodically, since the day this charge was first laid upon you.”

  He shook his head. “I never spoke a word of falsehood to you.”

  “Lies of ambiguity and omission are every bit as great.” Jane’s entire body shook with anger. “What am I to think? That you have no confidence in my discretion? That you see me as weak, without the fortitude to even grasp that secrecy might be necessary? Tell me true: if I were a man, would you have had these thoughts?”

  “No! It is not that at all. I was charged to tell no one.”

  “I am your wife!” Jane found she could say no more.

  She left him to go into their bedchamber. If he could not understand the very real breach of trust he had committed, then no words of hers, especially words spoken in anger and haste, would make him see it. Her hands shook so much that she had to cross her arms and clench her elbows to stop them from trembling. Jane paced back and forth in the room, trying to drive the fury from her body with activity.

  On one of her returns, Vincent stood in the door. His broad shoulders drooped, and his hands twisted together in supplication. “Forgive me?”

  “Why.” She stopped her pacing.

  “Because you are right. I should have either told you, or told the Prince that I could not accept the charge.”

  Jane waited.

  “I thought only to protect you.”

  “By keeping me in the dark? How does that protect me? It is like not telling a child that a fire will burn, in order to protect him from the heat. What if I exposed you unknowingly?”

  “And what if you exposed us both by an alteration in your behaviour?”

  “Do you really think so little of me as that?” Jane took two furious strides closer. “You might recall that we ladies are trained from girlhood to give no hint of our feelings, lest we stray into an impropriety. That I am so open with you is only because of how deeply I trust you.”

  He had no response to that, and stood with his head bowed. When he spoke again, his voice was very low. “Is there no explanation I can offer to make it clear that I meant no harm?”

  “I know that you intended no harm.” Jane made an effort to calm herself so that she did not immediately refute her own assertion that she could govern her conduct. “That does not lessen the hurt I feel because you did not trust me. Vincent, I need you to understand the substance of my anger. Our marriage depends on mutual trust and respect, and at this moment I do not have any faith that you feel either for me.”

  Vincent grimaced and spread his arms to grip the doorway. He clung to it, veins standing out on the back of his hands, as a drowning man might cling to shipwreck. “On more than one occasion you have claimed that I do not trust you. First with glamours, now with this. What must I do to convince you that you are mistaken?”

  “Act as though you trust me.”

  With an almost animal snarl, he released the door and stalked into the other room.

  Jane closed her eyes, swaying. She had pushed him too far. Even if every word she uttered had been justified, a wife could not speak so to her husband.

  “Actions.” Vincent stood again in the doorway. He held his battered writing desk. “Sit with me, and I will explain all.”

  Now that she had won her point, Jane doubted the wisdom of her course. “What of the Prince Regent’s command?”

  “I am not married to him.” Vincent tried for a smile and succeeded only in curling his lips. “Please, Muse. I have no gift with words.”

  Jane nodded and followed him into the sitting room, but she took no triumph from her victory, for she could not help but feel that she had used emotion as a weapon. Beneath that unease lay another, deeper fear: that Vincent had been right she would give him away by some change in her countenance, and her husband’s life would be forfeit to her pride.

  Seventeen

  Retreat and Regard

  Vincent sat Jane down at the table and put his writing desk in front of her. He pulled his pocket-book out from his coat and opened the slim leather folding-case to withdraw the key to his writing desk. “Now, I have been taking notes and then passing them to Mr. Gilman in Brussels, so what I have here are only those which I have taken for my own benefit. They will require some explanation.”

  Frowning, Jane ran her gaze down the sheet of densely lined paper he had pulled out. “This is a recording of breeds of lambs.”

  “Yes.” He drew up a chair and sat next
to her. “Mrs. Gilman has no real interest in lambs gambolling. Her supposed requests were a code for Napoleon’s movements.”

  “So you knew?” Jane lowered the sheet and stared at him in astonishment. “You knew he was in France.”

  “No. We knew that he had left Elba, but not where he had gone. The day that Mr. Gilman asked for the single lamb, he was passing on that message to the circle of spies in Brussels.”

  “That seems an awful lot of work, when you could just meet in private to discuss things.”

  Vincent nodded. “So we do. However…”

  “However, you could not meet when I was present.”

  “Just so. Forgive me, Muse, for being so cross with you.”

  Jane raised his hand and kissed the back of his fingers. “Now that I know the reason, you are forgiven. But I still do not comprehend the purpose of the lambs.”

  “No one would take note of Mr. Gilman’s meetings with a glamourist, so we were able to meet with relative ease. Mr. Gilman’s chief benefit is that he is known to be a society man, absolutely disinterested in politics. If he were seen meeting privately with any of the political characters he would be suspect at once. A glamural in his drawing room can serve as a map which others may consult while at his home for parties. In much the same way, my benefit is that I am known to be a glamourist. It affords me entry into homes that would mistrust another Briton.”

  Jane remembered now the portrait of Napoleon over Mme Maçon’s fireplace. “Such as discussing folk glamours with Mme Maçon.”

  “Exactly. That ostensible interest and a few small odd jobs took me to homes that our fellow countrymen do not have access to.” He pointed at the Scottish Blackface section, which had a list of ewes and rams after it. “This is my most promising lead, given accidentally by you when you mentioned the tricolour cockade.”

  “Lieutenant Segal.” That, coupled with the memory of the ribbon shop—which seemed so long ago now—came together in sudden understanding. She had been so used to the tricolours representing France during the long years that Napoleon reigned that she had not recognised the cockades as unusual, but with the Bourbons in power, the lieutenant should have been wearing a white cockade. Jane hastily told Vincent about the ribbon store, leaving out only the moment when the woman had struck her.

  When she had finished, Vincent rubbed his jaw, a muscle tightening in the corner. “Are you certain you will not take ship? I would rest easier if you would.”

  She did not dignify that with a response, fixing her attention on the paper instead. “Should we visit Mme Meynard? I owe her a call, and the officers frequent her house.”

  “Not yet. Let us see how the week plays out. We may yet be taking ship.”

  “You have more breeds of lamb. Who are your other suspects?”

  “The Awassi represent M. Archambault, M. Chastain’s student who made the glamour à la Chinoiserie. Belgium Milk Sheep is M. Bertrand. Cotswold…” He sighed heavily and tapped the page with his finger. “Cotswold is the Chastain household.”

  Truly shocked, Jane could only stare for a moment. To have accepted hospitality from a man and then to spy on him was beyond the pale. “You cannot believe that.”

  “Not willingly, no. And yet, Yves seems a likely choice, because of his youth and the influence that they might promise him for being a cousin of the Bonapartes.”

  “But he thinks that Napoleon is the wickedest man in Europe.”

  “That is what he told his youngest brother. But if he were a Bonapartist, and under his father’s roof, what else could he say?” Vincent rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I do not like the thought any better than you, but I have been watching them. Your observation on our first day here was right: there is an unnatural tension between father and son.”

  “Surely though, were there cause enough for Yves to so betray his father’s wishes, he would not remain under his roof.”

  “Yes … well.” Vincent covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. When he drew it away, a shadow remained. “A young man might not always have his independence. I was fully an adult before I renounced my father.”

  “Love…” Jane stopped, unwilling to push him into a revelation he did not wish to disclose.

  He drummed his fingers on the table, jaw working silently. “I have never related what caused the breach with my father, have I?”

  “No, beyond that he did not want you to pursue glamour.” She took his hand. “If it is too private, I do not wish to intrude.”

  He snorted. “No, I am learning that it is better to keep no secrets from you, though I would rather not burden you with my troubles.”

  “I trust you understand now that I do not think it a burden.”

  “I do.” Vincent sighed heavily, then stood to pace around the room. “Forgive me. I am so in the habit of keeping this to myself that it may take me some time to order my thoughts.”

  Though she longed to comfort Vincent, Jane held still rather than risk frightening him into flight. He strode with the restless grace of a caged bear.

  “My father, as I have implied, has strict ideas of propriety and exacting standards for what comprises the masculine ideal.” He knit his hands together at the base of his neck and paced another moment before continuing. “He saw my interest in the ‘womanly’ art of glamour as being evidence of … partialities which alarmed him. When I refused to drop the interest, he whipped me. I was a stubborn child, and simply found ways around his injunction. He then devised a schedule and course of curriculum designed to turn me into the model of good breeding.”

  Vincent stopped his pacing and put his hands against the mantel, leaning forward and bracing himself there. Jane suppressed her own reaction, though she could feel nothing but horror. He blew out in a huff as if trying to dislodge some tension. “In a display of ‘fairness,’ my elder brothers were included in these lessons. If any of us performed with less than perfection, we were punished. The punishment ranged from whippings to privation of food. He once had me suspended from my arms for hours so that I might learn that my hands were not to be used for glamour. In defiance, I learned to work glamour with my toes. In fact, my ability to push past the physical limits many other glamourists face comes directly from my father’s efforts to stop me, so for that I suppose I should thank him. I owe to him as well my command of French, Latin, and German, my abilities on horse-back, as a pugilist, and with a sword. Even my penmanship is borne of his desires.”

  Jane now understood the unexpected ability her husband had shown when they were accosted on the road to Binché. As much as those skills had saved them, the price still seemed too high.

  “Where was your mother in all this?”

  “My mother is very beautiful.” That single phrase carried more condemnation than compliment. Bending his elbows, Vincent leaned forward until his head rested on the mantel. “As befitting a third son, my father sent me to Eton to study law. I studied, of course, because I did not know how to do anything else, but never before had I possessed unscheduled time. Every moment not spent in lessons was spent pursuing glamour. It represents the first unfettered freedom I ever experienced. You cannot know how glorious it is to fail with no consequences but one’s education.”

  “This is why you feel that art must be free of constraints.”

  “Yes.” He lifted his head from the mantel, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think this went on for two years. And then, after my adventure with the clock tower, word reached His Lordship about what I had been doing with my free time.

  “I thought I had seen my father angry before, but nothing matched this. What had changed was that he could no longer physically intimidate me. His own fault, of course.” His smile was a cold and bitter one. “He threatened to cut me off entirely, but because I had spent my time studying law as carefully as I had studied any other task he set me to, I offered a counter-proposal. In exchange for a small living, I would give up my name and never trouble him again. If he refused, I would make pu
blic his displeasure with me and continue to practice glamour under his name. The threat of humiliation was quite enough.”

  Jane swallowed, remembering how Vincent had come to propose to her. He had brought his family’s solicitor with him and had taken up his family name again. “You were ready to give up your art and return to that unfavourable circumstance to marry me?”

  “Yes.” Vincent sat in the chair next to her and took her hands. “Jane, I had nothing, and was afraid your father would decline my offer for your hand. That was not a risk I could take.”

  “And yet your father took you back?”

  “Neither of my elder brothers have yet produced an heir.” He placed a gentle hand on her middle. “That is why I have not written to him about our child. When you accepted me as I was, and we chose to continue working as glamourists, I had no reason to keep the Hamilton name. If—when—my father learns that there is another potential Hamilton in the world, he will exert pressure to have an influence in the child’s rearing.”

  Jane shrank from the thought of letting such an unfeeling man into their lives in any fashion. “He will have none.”

  “No, he will not.” Vincent pointed to the papers on the desk. “So, you understand now when I tell you that it would be fully possible and even probable for Yves Chastain to have been seduced by the Bonapartists. If he is at all estranged from his father, they would be able to play upon that and appeal to his vanity through his relationship to Napoleon.”

  Jane grimaced with understanding. “He has run through his funds, and I believe that his father is not sympathetic to the situation.”

  “That alone could drive him to join the Bonapartists, and added with the rest … I hope that I am mistaken.”

  They went over the remaining papers, Vincent leaning over her chair to point out details. Though she was still greatly shaken from the disclosures which her husband had shared with her, Jane could not help but rejoice, for here was the camaraderie of their marriage, which had been replaced of late by a stiff and awkward reserve. To ask questions and have them answered without dissembling made her inexpressibly happy. The answers themselves disturbed her, but the fact that the behaviours which she had attributed to a diminishing regard lay instead in Vincent’s secret duty gave her considerable relief. Jane reproached herself for the shallowness of her thought, and yet she returned to it again and again: Vincent loved her.