Of Noble Family (3 page)

I do not wish to drag you back into the tangled mess that our father left, but I am at a loss. Please. For the sake of our mother, if for no one else, will you go to Antigua? Will you help us?

Regardless, I have arranged for funds to be made ready for you in Vienna. Call at the office of Lord Flower-Horne, who will make any arrangements you desire, including telling me to go to Hell.

With deep regret,

Believe me at all times with sincerity and respect, your faithful and obliged brother,

 

Richard Hamilton

The Right Honourable, The Earl of Verbury

Jane had to read the letter again to fully comprehend it. She looked up, expecting night to have fallen outside, but the late afternoon sun still shone on the buildings across the street and caught on the mullioned windows. A gentle breeze shook the strands of bobbing ivy that twined around the frame.

Lord Verbury, dead.

She did not expect Vincent to regret that fact, but she had no idea how he might feel about the death of his eldest brother or the accident that had disabled his middle brother. She had only met the men once, and it had been an evening fraught with tension. She rubbed her brow, trying to order her thoughts. When she lowered her hand, Herr Scholes was watching her.

He pushed his chair away from the conversation, which seemed to be about the trials of teething, and drew it next to Jane. “Is Sir David well?”

Jane smoothed the folds of her dress. If her mother had asked the question, Jane would have given a polite fiction, but Herr Scholes had filled the void that Vincent's father had created long before his death. “He has received word that his father and eldest brother are dead.”

“Ah.” A wealth of unhappy knowledge rested in that simple exhalation. He rubbed his bare scalp. It was a gesture she had seen from Vincent many times, and Jane suddenly realised where he had learned it. Herr Scholes looked at the ceiling as if he could see through it to Vincent. “Forgive me for an impertinent question, but does he still have nightmares?”

“Not since we arrived here. They were particularly bad after the Trial.” Jane was aware that she spoke of it as if there could be no other trials, but when one stood accused of treason by one's father, as Lord Verbury had done to Vincent, there could be no other. The Trial was over a year behind them, yet Jane knew that Vincent's sleep would be disturbed tonight. “Have you any suggestions?”

“I am certain that you know him better than I by now, and you have heard the sum of my wisdom about using glamour to channel your emotions.”

“He does work himself to exhaustion when upset.”

“Hm. I am familiar with that…”

“Was he so often upset?”

“Angry, more than anything. Understand that, given our profession, I was accustomed to pupils who had been told that glamour was too feminine an art for them to pursue. Most of the young men who came to study with me bore the scars of their choice in some form or another. Your husband was marked by fury, made worse because he was so used to containing it that he often did not recognise his own anger.” He sighed and scrubbed again at his scalp.

“I think he was still struggling with that when we met. I thought he was angry at me, at the time.”

“You? You have done wonders for him. I saw him laugh more today than in the two years he studied with me. I think he—”

An abrupt sound from above, as of a body striking the floor, caused Herr Scholes to break off. Jane was at the door to the parlour without any memory of having stood. She glanced back at Herr Scholes, who met her eye with a knowing look. It was the sound of Vincent falling unconscious.

Fortunately, only family was present, and they were familiar enough with Vincent's history that Jane needed to make only a hasty apology for her exit. She hurried out of the parlour and up the stairs to their room.

Vincent had not been gone long enough to risk a seizure by working beyond his capacity. Even so, it was rare that he pushed himself to the point of fainting. His stamina was impressive and one of his great strengths as a glamourist. Still, Jane would not be easy until she saw him.

When she pushed open the door to their chamber, the remnants of glamour floated in the room. Unlike the detailed, precise illusions that they created for the houses of nobility, this consisted of raw strands of glamour pulled straight from the ether. Reds and blacks swirled around the room in a thundercloud of distress.

His voice came from behind the small sofa set in the middle of the room. “On the floor.”

Jane shut the door and hurried around the sofa. Vincent lay on his back in his shirtsleeves. Sweat had soaked the fabric, sticking it to his chest. It plastered his hair to his head and stood in great drops upon his forehead, but he was clearly not in any danger.

Jane knelt beside him. “You worry me.”

“I did not faint.”

“And yet, you are on the floor.”

“I was dizzy and caught my heel. It seemed simpler to lie here and wait for it to pass.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “You read the letter?”

“I did.” Jane still had it in her hand, in fact.

Vincent covered his face with his hands, letting out a long breath that approached a groan. With his fingers resting on his brow, he rubbed his temples.

“Does your head ache?”

“A little.”

She suspected it was more than a little. Since the concussion he had received when they were in Venice, he seemed to be more prone to headaches and dizziness, but he did not like to discuss it. Jane counted it a victory that he had admitted any discomfort at all. She set the letter on a side table and shifted to sit by him. “Would you like me to rub your forehead?”

“Thank you.” He moved so that his head was resting in her lap and sighed again as she began to rub his temples. His brow was fevered and still damp with sweat, but no worse than she had seen him at the end of a normal day of work. Where his collar lay open, the strong beat of his pulse counted the time passing. For some minutes, they remained together in this manner, as Jane waited for Vincent to order his thoughts.

The beat of his heart slowed under her touch and his brow cooled. Vincent lay with his eyes closed. She could almost hope that he had fallen asleep, were it not for the fluttering of his eyes beneath his lids and a crease between his brows.

Inhaling, Vincent opened his eyes. “Muse, I do not know what to do.”

“Must we do anything? Your brother is quite right that you have neither reason nor obligation to assist.”

“I am less confident in that.” Vincent lay still for a moment, the muscle in the corner of his jaw clenching. “My brother.… Both of them, really, but Richard, my middle brother—even were his injury not a consideration.… He was ill-used by my father.”

“I think that is a common condition for your family.”

“Ah yes, but—” He stopped and for a moment appeared to hold his breath. A small, thin stream of air escaped in an almost inaudible keen. Though she had pointed out that he made this noise when conflicted, he had yet to break the habit, and she did not encourage him to do so, as the sound proved a useful indication of his state of mind. He grimaced, looking up at her. “Not a word of this, Muse. If you meet Richard again, you must pretend not to know. I know I can trust to your discretion, but promise me nevertheless.”

“Of course. I shall say nothing.”

Vincent nodded, jaw still clenched. “Richard is six years my senior. When he was fifteen, my father found him and one of the stable-boys engaged in carnal acts. I ask you to make no judgements against him—I cannot blame him for seeking what comfort he might find in a comfortless household, and nothing merits what my father did as punishment. For reasons known only to him, my father seated the three of us on a bench in the stable.” Vincent sat up abruptly so his back was to her. He blew out air in a huff. “He tied the stable-boy to the wall and whipped him. If we looked away, he beat us, too.”

“My God.”

His laugh was ragged. “No God was involved in that. He saw my interest in glamour as a sign that Richard's propensities had transferred to me, so he included me as a warning. All of which is to say that when Richard says that he did not extend any aid to me, it is because he knew the consequences of doing so.”

“But you risked being beaten and still—”

“No. No, you do not quite see. It was not the bodily pain, though I am certain that my father beat Richard as well. But my brother saw someone he loved whipped bloody and turned out with no recommendations and no place. I was too young to think of such things at the time, but I doubt the stable-boy lived much past that night.” He turned to speak over his shoulder, the planes of his face dark against the evening sun. “It is that memory, in part, which causes me to be conflicted about what I ought to do. I now have the opportunity to mend a relationship that has been broken for years, and yet … and yet, is it something that I wish to entangle myself with again?”

“Did you have good relations aside from the pressure of your father?”

He shrugged. “By the standards of your family, no. I learned to guard my tongue at an early age and had few honest conversations until I came to study with Herr Scholes. But he was never cruel. Richard, I mean. Richard was never cruel to me.”

All of Jane's training was inadequate for this. She had been raised with an understanding of the proper forms and etiquette for mourning. With another family, the death of a father and an elder brother would be a signal to begin deep mourning. She knew to drape the mirrors and to undo the glamour. She knew to procure black cravats and gloves for Vincent. She knew to order the stationery bordered with black, and the black sealing wax. For a year and a day, they would carry out the mourning period … or, rather, that is what they would have done for a different father.

With Vincent's, she was at as much of a loss as he.

He looked forward again, shoulders slightly hunched. “The mourning period for Princess Charlotte means no glamour in England until November.… If we cannot work there, there is nothing that would prevent me from going to the West Indies.”

In the hall, the stairs creaked with a slow and steady tread. Jane turned to stare at the door, willing the person away. A gentle knock sounded, in spite of her efforts.

“Jane?” her father called softly.

“Yes, Papa?” She made an effort to keep her voice even.

“Your mother sent me to inquire if everything is all right.”

Jane ran her fingers down Vincent's back, feeling the old scars through his shirt. “Please tell Mama that my husband is not dead or even ill.”

“I already did, but she wants to know what the noise was.”

Vincent raised his voice. “I tripped. No broken bones or sprains. Only a bruised ego.” He turned his head to Jane. “You should probably tell him.”

Sighing, Jane clambered to her feet. She loved her family, but there were times when their concerns—or, more especially, her mother's concerns—overwhelmed the actual difficulties. Jane crossed to the door and opened it, slipping into the hall where her father waited.

Mr. Ellsworth's white hair stood out in a silver halo. He wore a rare furrow on his brow and compressed his lips as she shut the door. “I am sorry, Jane. I told your mother that if Vincent needed medical attention then you would call for us, but you know how she gets.”

“I do.” She bit the inside of her lip, imagining what would happen when her mother heard the news. “Papa … Vincent's father is dead. And his eldest brother.”

“What? Both?”

Nodding, Jane related the contents of the letter with as few words as possible, but she could still see her father's shock. His brows drew closer together with each word she spoke. “How is Vincent taking it?”

“Distressed. Uncertain.”

“And you?”

“Also uncertain. I think we will likely go to the West Indies, and I dread what the trip will do to him.”

“There, now…” Her father pulled her into an embrace, and Jane let some of the tension she was carrying transfer to him. “There, now. From what you have implied of his father, he has survived worse, and he has you with him to face this trial.”

“I wish I knew what to do for him.”

Her father set her back and tilted his head down to look at her. “Shall I tell you what I do for your mother?”

“You cannot seriously compare Vincent with Mama.”

“Well, he has more sense than she, I will grant that readily enough, but—” He held up a finger. “But. You must always remember that her fears are real to her. She wants to know that she is not alone.”

“She wants attention.”

“Yes. That is how I let her know that she is not alone.” He made a little wave of his fingers. “Granted, distracting her is easier. But, as a start, make certain that Vincent knows he is not facing this alone. Meanwhile, I shall give you both a great and noble gift.”

Jane could not help but smile at her father. “And what is that?”

“I shall be the one to tell your mother.” He pressed his hands to his bosom in a martyr's pose.

“Oh! That is a great and noble gift. You are too good to me.”

He winked at her, turning to go back down the stairs. Listening to her father's footsteps recede towards the distant murmur of conversation below, Jane quieted her breathing in the same way she might after working an especially challenging piece of glamour. She inhaled to her fullest extent, until her ribs pressed against her short stays, then let the breath out through her mouth. It did not help. She still felt as though she would be ill. There was no correct choice in this matter, only a lesser evil.

Jane put her hand on the latch and tried to assume an air of calm that she did not feel. When she opened the door, Vincent had moved to the window and was standing with his back to the room. He tossed what appeared to be a jet of fire from hand to hand, directing the glamour with little twists of his fingers. As the door shut, he turned his head and snipped the cords of the illusion. The flames winked out. “Is your mother palpitating?”