“I won a point? I shall have to record that.”
His humour cheered her more for its attempt than for the joke itself. Jane shook her finger at him, then came to help him with his cravat. It was wrinkled and had lost most of the stiffness of its starch, so though Jane tied it as best as she could, no one could mistake Vincent for a young gentleman of fashion. “I am going out with you, however, to see if I can find some employment of my own.”
“Muse, you do not need to—”
“Yes, I do.”
Vincent stopped arguing, though he did shake his head. He was smiling as he did, so Jane let it pass. They climbed down the narrow stairs and stepped onto the street. By mutual agreement, they made their way toward the main canal, where most of the larger residences and businesses were situated. As they walked, Vincent explained that his plan was to go door to door and attempt to demonstrate his abilities in lieu of a letter of recommendation. In truth, he said, even with a letter, he still almost always had to display his talents.
Then he slowed and pulled her to the side, toward an aged church of brick, which sat close to the canal upon a wide green lawn. “Is that … is that the church that Sanuto wanted a donation for?”
The stone engraved above it said SANTA MARIA DEGLI ANGELI. Jane tried to recall, but had only heard the name in one conversation. “Perhaps?”
“Huh. I had expected that it, too, would not exist.” He rubbed his hair into a wilderness. “I wonder if they know. Or, for that matter, if they are involved.”
Jane spied a nun working in a small vegetable garden by the side of the church. Without being entirely certain what it would accomplish beyond gratifying her curiosity, Jane walked up to the iron fence that stood around the church grounds. “Pardon me—”
The nun looked up and favoured her with a smile. “Yes?”
Jane had a moment of surprise that beneath her wimple, the nun had the clear brown complexion and lively dark eyes of a mulatto. She wore a heavy canvas apron over her habit and had a basket of vegetables by her side. Wiping her hands on the apron, she approached the fence. “May I help you?”
“This is an odd question, but do you know a Signor Sanuto?”
The nun frowned and shook her head. “I am afraid not, but I rarely leave the convent aside from taking the children to the park. You could ask Sister Aquinata. She has family here and may know people that I do not.”
“Oh. Are you not Venetian?”
“Rome before this, but Vienna originally.”
“Ich habe einige Zeit in Wien verbracht,” Vincent said, and offered her a bow. “Sie sind ein langer Weg von zu Hause aus.”
The nun’s face lit up at the sound of her native tongue. Though Jane could not understand the conversation that followed, she knew that Vincent had spent time in Vienna when he studied with Herr Scholes. It seemed that they were sharing fond memories about the city, and some introduction must have occurred, because Jane heard her own name at least twice.
After a few moments, they returned to Italian, and the nun was introduced as Sister Maria Agnes. “My apologies, Lady Vincent. With the Hapsburgs in power, German is spoken more frequently here than it used to be, but it has been too long since I have had the pleasure of meeting someone who has been to my home city.” She wrinkled her nose and lowered her voice to a collusory whisper. “We are supposed to withdraw from the world when we take our vows, but I can never quite let go of my love of home.”
“I am in full sympathy with a love of home.”
“Well, come in. I will introduce you to Sister Aquinata, and you can ask her about the gentleman. Although … Sir David will have to wait outside. Convent. You understand?”
Jane squeezed Vincent’s hand. “If you want to go on, I will meet you back in our room later.”
He smiled gratefully and took his leave of Sister Maria Agnes. The nun gathered up her small basket of produce and led Jane to an opening in the gate, which she unlatched so that Jane could step onto the cool green grass. Chattering merrily about Murano and how much she liked the gondolas, the nun kept up a happy string of conversation that pulled Jane along in her wake. She led the way past a small yard in which little girls skipped rope and played under the watchful eye of other nuns. Turning around a corner created by a vine-covered wall, Sister Maria Agnes led Jane into what appeared to be the convent’s kitchen.
The nun set her basket down and whisked off her apron. While most of the women had the dark look of Venetians, there was a freckled redhead, and two Africans. As Sister Maria Agnes peered about the room for someone, Jane was overwhelmed by the smell of bread baking. A half-dozen nuns worked with their sleeves rolled up to knead and bake dozens of loaves.
The warm yeasty aroma had more of heaven in it than any perfume. Jane’s mouth watered at the thought of the fragrant loaves. Their deep brown crusts had a powdering of flour, even after coming out of the oven. The ones that waited to be baked sat in plump, pale rows on the broad wooden table. When she was finished here, she would have to buy a loaf of bread. And perhaps some cheese.
Sister Maria Agnes saw the direction of Jane’s gaze, but misinterpreted the reason. “We contribute to relief for the poor, so most is for that, and the rest is for the orphan house.”
Jane pulled her gaze away from the bread. “It must be gratifying to be doing such good works.”
“Mostly. Like any occupation, there are times when it can plague you. But the trials are the Lord’s way of making you stronger, or at least that is what the Abbess says. Ah—there is Sister Aquinata.” She waved, as though to beckon her fellow nun over, but then darted across the room to her. Jane hurried after her and was soon in front of a tall, round nun who wore a flour-splashed apron over her habit and an additional smudge of flour upon her ruddy nose.
“Sister Aquinata, Lady Vincent here is looking for a gentleman that she thinks we might know. What was his name?”
“Signor Sanuto. But he might have used a different name, or he might not have come here at all.”
The nun cocked her head and stared into the middle distance. Then, with a shake, she said, “The name is unfamiliar. What does he look like?”
“He has silvering hair and—here.” Jane reached for the ether and began a very rough sketch of Signor Sanuto’s face in the space between them. Her breath and her heart sped, with a jump in tempo that surprised her. Spots of grey swam at the edges of her vision. Jane continued to work, knowing full well that this was not enough glamour to make her faint.
Then the spots grew darker, and more numerous, and Jane knew that she was wrong.
* * *
Jane woke moments after she fell in an ungraceful heap upon the floor. Sister Maria Agnes was still bending down to her, with deep concern. The room spun, but Jane pushed herself up into a sitting position so as not to cause the nuns further alarm. “Forgive me, that is ordinarily well within my limits.”
“Sit, sit.” Sister Maria Agnes patted Jane’s shoulder as if that would somehow heal her. “Water, please? Will someone bring a glass of water?”
“Truly, I am perfectly well.” More than anything else, Jane was vexed with herself and somewhat embarrassed. “It is only that I have not eaten since…” She broke off, frowning. The night before last? Her mind went to Vincent at once, wondering how he must be faring if he were performing glamour right now.
“Since when, dear?” Sister Maria Agnes helped her up and into a chair that another nun brought over.
Jane rubbed her head, trying to get the spinning to stop. Was this what Vincent had felt like with his concussion? “Night before last, I think.”
Sister Aquinata snatched a warm loaf off the table and thrust it at her. “Then you must eat.”
“Thank you, but I could no—”
“Yes, you can, and you will.” The nun folded her arms across her ample chest and scowled at her. “I have seen more than my share of half-starved girls come seeking shelter. I know the look. So you will swallow your pride and my bread and you will te
ll us why you have not eaten for the past two days.”
Jane took the warm bread, her hands moving of their own volition. “Only a day and a half.” The crust of the fragrant loaf dimpled beneath her fingers, releasing a more intense perfume from its interior.
“And this man had something to do with it, I suppose.” The nun nodded toward the glamoured portrait of Sanuto, which Jane had somehow tied off before falling. She did not have a memory of that, but did feel a moment of absurd pride at the mark of her training.
She nodded in answer to the nun’s question about the portrait and tore off a small piece of bread, trying to be delicate in her movements. The interior was soft and warm. When Jane took a bite of the simple rye bread, it was the best thing she had ever tasted. Her entire body relaxed round the flavours of sweet sunshine, warm earth, and comfort. She closed her eyes in appreciation.
“Is he your husband?”
Jane’s eyes opened with alarm. “No! Oh, no. Not at all. Sister Maria Agnes met my husband.”
“I did! Charming man. Studied in Vienna.” The nun announced to no one, and everyone.
“This man—he—” And then Jane began to tell the story, in bursts and fragments at first, growing steadier as the gentle attention of the nuns surrounded her. They did not leave off their bread making, but she felt their concern nevertheless. As she spoke, Sister Aquinata pounded the bread she was kneading with a vehemence that was mighty to behold.
At one point she slammed the dough down on the table. “Do you mean to say that this man used us? Used our church to get even more money from you?”
“It does appear that way.” Jane had, by this point, eaten a good quarter of the loaf of bread.
“Humph.” Sister Aquinata spun away and then returned with a glass of milk, which she slammed down on the table. It sloshed over the sides, a puddle. “Drink that, and then continue.”
Jane felt rather like when she was younger and her governess would insist that she take a tonic, except that what Sister Aquinata was offering was delicious instead of vile. Still, she was not a woman to be refused. Taking a sip of the milk, Jane organized her thoughts and then continued the story. She told them everything, leaving out only the nature of the glass spheres that she and Vincent had been working on.
When she was done, an older nun, who had been among those listening and making bread, wiped her hands on her apron and came to stand in front of Jane. Her face was severe, covered by a canvas of wrinkles, and a thread of white hair had escaped from its habit. “You are English, am I correct?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Your Italian is very good.”
“The credit belongs to my music tutor, who was from Padua. He insisted upon perfect pronunciation.”
“You are a glamourist?” When Jane nodded, the nun asked an unexpected question. “Have you ever taught?”
“Only my sister. I have done some small glamour instruction with young girls in the neighbourhood, but have never engaged in a formal course of study.” Jane could not fathom where this line of questioning was going.
The nun turned to look across the kitchen. “Sister Maria Agnes?”
The German nun who had first helped them dipped a curtsy. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”
The nun who had questioned Jane about teaching seemed to be the Abbess of the order, and yet she was in the kitchen working with the rest of them. “Do you still need help with the choir?”
“Do I—?” The nun looked confused for a moment, and then glanced at Jane. “Oh—oh, yes. Yes, I do.”
Nodding, the Abbess turned back to Jane. “I can pay you fourteen shillings a week, plus a loaf of bread per day. You will assist Sister Maria Agnes with two classes daily, one with the younger girls and one with the older. Are the terms agreeable?”
Jane was not fooled for an instant about their need for a music teacher. Their generosity, simple and direct, made all of Sanuto’s duplicity obvious by contrast. “You do not have to do this. You have been more than kind enough already.”
“My dear … I am not certain if you have noticed this, but we are nuns. This is something that I feel absolutely certain we must do. Besides…” The Abbess winked at Jane, an expression that was totally unexpected beneath her severe habit, but which made it clear that the wrinkles she had acquired were from smiling. “Sister Aquinata has been shooting me such looks this past half hour that if I did not help you, then one of us would be doing penance for the next week.”
“Then, thank you. I accept your generous offer.”
A whoop went up from Sister Aquinata and no fewer than three other sisters.
“Good. Do you have any questions?”
She looked around the low, cosy kitchen and at the sisters who were so industriously at work. “Will you … will you teach me to make bread?”
Sister Aquinata broke into the first smile Jane had seen from her. “I knew I liked you. Come. Get an apron.”
* * *
Jane spent much of the day at Santa Maria degli Angeli helping with the baking and then with some mending. The sisters had offered much useful advice on how to face some of the obstacles that lay before Jane and Vincent, ranging from where to find used clothing in good repair to how to make a simple dinner of roasted squash. She had expected them to be so full of piety that laughter would be foreign to them, but it was quite the opposite.
The nuns had sent her home with a small bundle of bread and cheese as an “advance” against her salary. The loaf, wrapped in a piece of cotton sacking, was one she had shaped herself. She had a delicious pride about the warm round of bread. She climbed the stairs to their room, holding her skirt up with one hand and the bread with the other.
Letting herself into the room, she was struck again by the smallness of it. Without standing on her toes, Jane could touch the ceiling at its highest point. And as small as the room was, it seemed to echo when Vincent was not there. The sun was low in the sky, but it was to be expected that he might still be out. She hoped that it was because he had found a commission.
Jane set the bread on the little table, leaving it wrapped in the cloth to retain as much warmth as possible. She wished that Vincent were back so she could share it with him. It was absurd to be so pleased about it, but having a tangible object that she had made with her own hands made Jane feel somehow more at ease. The next weeks would be difficult, but she now had more confidence that they would survive than she had last night.
She paced to the window and looked out. Where was he?
Jane walked the four steps back to the table and felt the bread. Cooling, but still warm. She walked again to the window.
This would never do. She was pacing, and for no reason other than that she had nothing with which to occupy herself. No book, no newspaper, no needlework, and no music. Jane was not well suited for idleness.
Well … if nothing else, she could use glamour to mask the meanness of the room, and at least keep her skills in good order.
* * *
Vincent arrived long after dark. She heard the unmistakable sound of his tread as he climbed the creaking stairs. Even before he entered, she could tell that he was exhausted. Jane lit the candle stub from the night before—their landlord had said that candles were their own responsibility—and winced at the sudden flare of light.
Vincent paused outside the door. She heard the exhalation of his breath; then he opened the door briskly, with a smile. “Good evening, Muse.”
Jane stood and helped him off with his coat. “I have some bread and cheese, if you are hungry.”
“Thank you, that would be most welcome.” He lowered himself into their single chair, as though his joints ached. “How was your day?”
“Very good. I spent it with the nuns at Santa Maria degli Angeli.” She unwrapped the loaf of bread, now long cold, and slid it over to him. “You have to tear it, I am afraid.”
He gave a little grunt of understanding and tore a piece off the end. His broad hands somehow managed to make even such a seemingly
coarse act seem graceful. “Did they know Sanuto?”
Jane shook her head, sitting on the bed to face him. “But they were incensed at how he had used their name to—to swindle us.” It was still hard to admit, even among themselves, that they had been fooled so easily.
“I stopped in at the tailor’s. He was naturally surprised to see me and said he had never heard of Sanuto. I think he was telling the truth, but…”
“It is hard.”
“Yes.” He bit into a piece of the bread and closed his eyes with the same look of veneration that she had felt, which meant, Jane suspected, that he had not yet eaten anything. Vincent wiped the crumbs off his fingers and reached for the cheese. “This may be the best thing I have ever eaten.”
“I made it.”
He looked up, brows rising in surprise.
“Well, I mean, Sister Aquinata made the dough. I merely kneaded it and shaped the loaf. She says that she can teach me to cook while I am here. And…” Jane took a breath, suddenly nervous that he would mock her pitiful fourteen shillings a week. It was so little compared to the fees they commanded as glamourists. It would buy a few pairs of gloves in her old wardrobe. “And they have offered me a job teaching music. Fourteen shillings a week. It is not much, but I thought that it would help, and it is only for a few hours a week. Plus a loaf of bread every day.”
“That is—that is good news, Muse.” Vincent broke off a piece of cheese and another piece of bread. His brows had pulled a little closer together.
“And you? How was your search?”
His gaze remained fixed upon the bread and cheese, tearing the bread into smaller and smaller pieces. “Murano is a small town, and though there are some tourists, there are no grand families whose homes need embellishment.”
“Oh.”
“Tomorrow I shall approach businesses. For now, though, I am very grateful for your fourteen shillings.” He reached across the table for her hand and squeezed it. “And your bread.” Vincent had not, however, seemed to notice the glamour she had cast upon the room to make it somewhat more agreeable. He remained sunk in silent contemplation.
Valour and Vanity Page 14
