Of Noble Family

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Of Noble Family Page 5

by Mary Robinette Kowal


  Ibrahim stood at her side on the deck. They gazed at the bustle of the port while they waited for Vincent to finish the business of finding lodging, which Jane and Vincent would need until they could arrange transport to his father’s estate. She had their small case on deck, so she used it as a seat. Their larger trunk was still in the hold, and would be sent on to the estate when they were ready.

  Jane tilted her head back to look up at Ibrahim. “Have you been to Antigua often?”

  “We call here every two months or thereabouts, being a regular packet ship.”

  “That long between ships?”

  “Oh no. Packet ships arrive every two weeks, but it takes us a month to get here and another month to return to England.” He squinted against the sunlight. “I do not go ashore here. But the food is very good. You must particularly try the black pineapple.”

  Vincent strode towards them, his complexion marking him out from the crowd of labourers, even if his height did not. He was followed by a brown man in livery. The fawn-coloured knee breeches and coat seemed out of place among the rough linen shirts and rolled trousers surrounding them. The footman’s skin was nearly the same shade as the fawn cloth, and Jane wondered for a moment whether he had been chosen to go with the fabric or the fabric with him. The black mourning band on his arm and his close-cropped hair were the only points of contrast. When he boarded, she saw that he was quite young, probably no more than a year and twenty. For all that, he had a peculiar sense of familiarity.

  “Mrs. Hamilton.” Vincent addressed her formally now that they were in company. “Ibrahim. This is Zeus from my father’s estate, come to meet us.”

  “Zeus?” A curious name, though with a sister named Melody, Jane could not make a mock. Mothers chose odd names for their offspring. She ran a hand along the front of her dress to smooth it. “I am grateful for your assistance. How did you know we would arrive today?”

  He gave her a bow and, with eyes so low he might have been addressing the ground, answered, “Mr. Frank, the house steward, he sends the carriage on those days that a packet ship is expected. I am to convey you to the Greycroft estate and make arrangements for your trunks to be brought after.” Zeus’s voice had a slight softness to the consonants and a novel syncopation. He stepped smoothly to Jane’s side and took her parasol, holding it over her as if this were a dance whose steps they had already rehearsed. With equal ease, he picked up their small case and stood waiting to guide them.

  Ibrahim bowed over her hand. “It has been a pleasure to have you sail with us, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “Thank you, Ibrahim. I do not think I should have survived the crossing were it not for you.”

  He winked at her. “I wish you joy.” And he was away.

  Jane followed Zeus across the crowded dockyard. “How far is it to Greycroft?”

  “The great house is just above three hours, madam.” He turned from the dockyard and onto the street fronting it. “Here we are.”

  An enclosed chaise with a matched pair awaited them. It was in the older style, but still in good repair. Another liveried man stood with the horses, his skin a match for Zeus’s in tone, though his face was broader in the cheeks. Still, it was clear that they had been chosen to be a matched pair quite as much as the horses. The noble houses in England often chose their footmen along similar lines, selecting two of the same height, but here.… This man was not simply a servant, but a slave.

  She looked back towards the harbour. All of the men must be slaves. Now that she took notice, she saw there were scattered men with whips among them. Until she arrived, Jane had not truly comprehended what going to the West Indies would mean. Like most people in London, she had signed abolitionist petitions and rejoiced when the slave trade was ended in 1807. She even had an abolitionist engraving with the motto Am I not a man and a brother? in one of her commonplace books. In England, it had been easy to think that they had triumphed over the evil of slavery itself, rather than merely the sale of slaves.

  Vincent handed her into the carriage while Zeus folded her parasol and passed it in to her. A moment later, her husband climbed in, shutting the small door. The glass windows reduced some of the noise from the dockyard, but also the breeze. Jane produced her fan from her reticule and attempted to stir the air a bit. What she would have given in that moment to be able to weave a breeze from glamour, but that was restricted for some time yet.

  “Shall I open the window?” Vincent reached for the catch to let down the glass.

  “Thank you, yes.” She had half expected him to offer to weave a breeze, but of course that made no sense, as they would depart once their trunk was secured. “You seem concerned. Is something troubling you?”

  He compressed his lips and shook his head. The glass lowered easily, letting in a hint of a breeze. “Only anticipating the work ahead.”

  Jane settled back in her red velvet seat to watch the streets of St. John’s roll past. It was a tidy, modern town, with tall stucco houses and bright painted shutters. As they moved away from the dockyard, she saw more white people, but most of those they passed were some shade of brown. “Are they all slaves?”

  “No … I believe there is a healthy population of freedmen here and in Falmouth.” Vincent rubbed his forehead and stared out the window. “Muse, would you mind terribly if I closed my eyes for a bit?”

  “Not at all.” His nightmares had resumed as they had drawn closer to Antigua. She doubted he would sleep, but any sort of respite would be of use.

  He nodded in thanks and leaned back in the seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. Vincent rested his head against the corner, shutting his eyes with a sigh. She watched him settle, taking advantage of the time to appreciate her husband’s figure. With his buckskin breeches tucked into tall boots and black coat, he looked more a nobleman’s son and less an artist. If she could convince him to wear gloves, which he avoided, as most professional glamourists did, he would make quite the convincing young man of fashion. The tension slowly eased out of his frame, and his breathing slowed until she thought that he might actually be asleep.

  Beyond him, the nature of their surroundings had changed. As they left the centre of town, the houses became smaller and meaner in appearance. Single-story structures appeared, made of wattle and daub and topped with thatch woven of palm fronds. Through the open doors, the bare earth floors were clearly visible. The people here were chiefly coloured and in rough homespun, much patched and faded. Then even those houses dwindled, and they rode through a stand of tamarind and palmetto trees, which entirely guarded them from the intense heat.

  Jane had seen palmettos at Brighton, and had even included them in a glamural at her parents’ home. But those were poor scrubby specimens compared with these. These were from forty to sixty feet high before they put out a branch, and as straight as a line. The dense growth of leaves overhead created shade, as though the trees were topped with an umbrella made of ferns. When she returned home, she must make the trunks of the palm trees in their glamural smoother and lighter in hue, almost a silver satin.

  These trees quickly gave way, and they entered the first of the sugarcane fields. Save for that brief stand of trees, the fields seemed to reach nearly all the way to town. They were divided into plots by hedges of different kinds, but they bore no resemblance to the rolling green fields of England. The cane towered overhead in great waving stands. The wind kept the heavy reeds in constant motion. The whisper of fronds could be heard even over the steady beat of their horses’ hooves and the creak of the carriage’s springs.

  It was remarkably tranquil. The easy motion persuaded Jane to lean against Vincent and fall asleep.

  * * *

  A shout awakened her. Jane sat up, for a moment thinking she was still on board the ship. She rubbed confusion from her eyes as Vincent stirred awake beside her. Their carriage continued its way up a winding slope. Outside the window, the tall fronds had been cut away in a long stretch of churned dirt. Beside a wall of canes, a group of ens
laved Africans worked cutting down the thick stalks. Their machetes rose and fell with a double whick as they cut the top and bottom of the cane.

  Near the road, a light brown man held a whip. A darker man knelt, shirtless, in front of him. A line of red trickled from his mouth.

  Then they were past the scene and the heavy canes masked the view. Jane turned towards Vincent, but he was yawning and scrubbing his eyes. It was clear he had not seen anything.

  The view out his side of the carriage was entirely different. The side of the road opposite the canes dropped down towards the valley floor. More wattle and daub houses clung to the side of the road, smaller and even meaner than the ones in St. John’s. A gang of very young children played in the dirt in front of one of the houses without a stitch of clothing on. Jane blushed for them and turned her gaze away.

  Vincent pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and peered at it. “Getting on near six o’clock. I think we must be on my father’s land now.”

  “Do you see these—I hesitate to call them houses.”

  He frowned and sat forward. Rubbing his mouth, he stared out the window at the crude sheds. “I shall speak with the overseer about them. Surely we can do better. I would not keep a horse in such conditions, much less a person.”

  The carriage rounded a bend in the road and the final stretch of their journey lay clear before them. Atop a rounded hill, surrounded by a level plateau of cane fields, stood the Greycroft great house. It had a high, peaked roof of cedar shingles, with a broad veranda wrapping around the building to provide shade. Tall windows, with shutters thrown back, gave the whole an inviting prospect. Tidy gardens and groves of orange trees surrounded the house, which stood in marked contrast to the conditions they had just ridden through.

  As the road wound up the hill to the great house, the cane fields dropped away and the wattle houses almost began to look like thatched-roof cottages in the distance. An invigorating scent of jasmine and orange filled the air as they turned around the last bend to the great house’s front sweep. The sound of the carriage seemed to provoke activity in the house, for as they drew near, liveried servants came out to arrange themselves by the double staircase that led up to the veranda.

  The carriage stopped precisely in front of the entrance. Zeus jumped down as another servant—no, a slave; Jane must learn to remember that the circumstances were different here—a slave ran forward to hold the horses’ heads as another set a step by the carriage door. Vincent climbed out, stretching, then turned back to hand Jane down. In an instant, Zeus had her parasol open above her.

  One of the slaves, an older man of Vincent’s height, stepped forward to meet them. He gave a stiffly correct bow. “Mr. Hamilton, Mrs. Hamilton. I am Frank, the house steward for Greycroft.”

  As Frank straightened, Jane could not quite contain a gasp. He looked like Vincent. Though older and cast in a deeper hue, the unmistakable stamp of the Hamilton family was visible through his brow and strong jaw. Jane turned to where Zeus stood at her side and understood why he had looked familiar. He, too, had the Hamilton brow.

  “Thank you.” Vincent shifted his weight as if seeing the same thing that Jane had. “It was considerate of you to send the carriage to fetch us.”

  “I trust that Zeus and Jove took adequate care?” Frank stepped back, welcoming them to the house.

  “Indeed.” Vincent followed him up the stairs and into the welcome cool of the veranda. “Is the overseer present? I saw some things en route I should like to discuss.”

  A bare hesitation preceded Frank’s answer, which Jane might not have noticed were she not looking for additional similarities between him and Vincent. “Mr. Pridmore is indisposed. But you must be tired. Allow me to show you to your rooms.”

  “That is most kind.” Jane murmured, wondering what brand of indisposition the overseer was afflicted with.

  The entry of the great house opened onto a long gallery that spanned the width of the house, lit by tall windows overlooking the veranda. At either end of the gallery, broad doors opened onto parlours, through which yet more windows showed views of the valley below. The house had a fortune in glass alone, to say nothing of the furniture filling the rooms. They were led to the left into a charming blue parlour whose tall ceiling was open to the roof. A door at the back of the parlour opened to a short hall, where they found their rooms.

  The apartment was well appointed and had more elegance than Jane would have expected. The tall bed was hung with thin lawn curtains, drawn back presently. The mirrors were still hung with crape, and not a scrap of glamour appeared anywhere.

  Jane pulled off her bonnet and set it on a small table beside their bed. From the door, Frank said, “When you are settled, I will take you to your father.”

  Vincent grimaced. “I suppose it is best to have that over with.”

  Jane, too, would rather have waited to view the grave, but the forms of propriety must be obeyed. Putting off the task would make it no more pleasant. Then, too, she was hoping that seeing the grave would put Vincent somewhat more at ease and allow him to concentrate on the attendant tasks associated with the disposition of the estate. She picked up her bonnet and followed the men back to the front of the house. Frank led them across the long gallery to the other wing, a route that was much appreciated as it kept Jane out of the sun for a bit longer.

  The parlour at this end of the house was white and airy, with ferns on stands scattered around the room. Frank opened a door set in the back of the room. Vincent stepped through and stiffened. Jane could only stare past him.

  In the room was Lord Verbury, quite alive.

  Five

  Discreet Matters

  At the sight of Lord Verbury, Jane drew back involuntarily. Vincent’s father was much changed, wasted and bent, but unmistakable. His mouth was a little open and he wore an expression of clear shock. She could not understand why he should be shocked when he had sent the carriage for them. That brief unguarded glimpse lasted only a moment before he turned to pick up a cup of tea, as though there were nothing unusual in meeting them like this.

  Vincent had frozen upon entering the room. Not out of fear, but as though he had, on instinct, stepped into the role of a young man of fashion, full of cold disdain. His shoulders drew back and his posture stiffened into a frosty perfection. Tucking his hands behind his back, he clasped them together. When he spoke, his voice was so even that Jane could scarcely credit it. “I thought you were dead.”

  “You were meant to.” Lord Verbury sipped his tea.

  “The stroke?”

  “I was not expected to live, and am as you find me now.” He nodded towards his left side. Only then did Jane see that his arm was twisted into a claw next to his body. “It seemed expedient to allow the falsehood to stand, rather than return to face charges of treason.”

  “I see.” Vincent remained in the same precisely etched posture. “The conditions in your will make keeping that secret rather difficult.”

  “Not at all. Only Garland and a handful of the slaves know.” He tilted his head back and contrived to look down his nose at them, in spite of being seated. “Why are you here?”

  Jane inhaled sharply. He did not know about the carriage accident.

  Vincent tilted his head to the side, studying his father. “There was an accident. Garland is dead.”

  A spasm ran through Lord Verbury, slopping tea over the side of his cup. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged.

  “Richard is the earl now, but crippled in the same accident. Not knowing you were alive, he asked me to attend to business.” Vincent straightened his head, and pursed his lips slightly. “No doubt you have much to think about. We will speak later.”

  He backed out of the small room, shutting the door on his father. Frank still stood in the parlour, his expression as fixed and remote as Vincent’s. Looking out the window, Vincent wiped his mouth and took a slow breath. “Frank, would you attend my father? He has received a shock.”

  “Of c
ourse, sir.”

  Turning so that he almost looked at her, Vincent put a hand on Jane’s back and drew her away from the door. Without softening his posture, he strode through the parlour and down the long gallery. His free hand went to his mouth again and covered it. He dropped his hand from her back and sped his steps, almost to a run.

  He flew through the blue parlour and flung the door to their rooms open. Jane entered the bedchamber in time to see him step onto their veranda. He leaned against the rail and braced himself there, as if he were about to be sick.

  “Vincent?”

  “Shut the door.” His voice was a grating wheeze. “Please.”

  Jane did, her heart finally remembering to beat again when the door shut. Lord Verbury was alive. She shuddered. Of all the things she had expected to find here, that had not been a consideration.

  Behind her, Vincent retched forcibly.

  Turning from the door, Jane extracted her handkerchief from her reticule. The square of lawn and lace seemed inadequate, but she carried it to her husband.

  His hand shook as he took it from her. “My apologies.” The other gripped the rail, and he remained hunched over it. His breath grated in his throat. “It has been some time since I experienced this. I fear it will not be pleasant for you, Muse.”

 

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