“Is there room to put another building on the site?” Jane tilted her head to consider the plans. “On this small rise, for instance? That would not be in the way of the wagons or other work, I think.”
“It would take some effort to level the top of it for building, but you are correct that it is of no utility to the factory.”
“Jane … did you say that the doctor had not been here for months?” Vincent called, his finger on a line in the ledger.
She turned away from Frank. “Yes. Her visit to Amey was the first in months. I am not certain how many months, though.”
“But she certainly has not been here once a week.” Quite astonishingly, Vincent began to smile and then to chuckle. “Oh, the devil. The devil. She could not testify against him because she is coloured. Nor could Frank.”
Jane pushed away from the table at almost the same moment that Frank abandoned the map. He strode briskly to Vincent and leaned over his chair. “What have you found?”
“I found where the money is going.” He tapped the page. “I know how Mr. Pridmore is embezzling from my father.”
Twenty-one
Invitations
According to the books, Mr. Pridmore had been paying Dr. Jones a regular and healthy sum to call upon the estate weekly, in addition to any other emergencies—of which he had several listed. More money appeared as a transfer to Frank for supplying the sickroom in the great house. Based on those amounts, it should be handsomely equipped. That it was merely a room with some bandages could easily be reflected to make it appear that Frank was the one stealing funds. The laws of Antigua stipulated that no person of colour could testify against a white person. Therefore, neither of them could appear in court to say that the listed amounts had never been paid nor engaged.
Now that they knew the pattern to look for, Frank went through the books looking for other tradespeople that he knew to be people of colour. In one instance, Pridmore had recorded a repair to the number two boiler, which Vincent was certain had not been done by a professional. In another, he had paid top prices for bolts of fabric to make clothing for the slaves and had “ordered” the cloth from a mulatto haberdasher in St. John’s. They found dozens of cases hidden among the accounts, and Jane had little doubt that there were more.
While Vincent and Frank organised their arguments, Jane sent Zachary to Nkiruka with a basket of provisions. Consultation with Frank had suggested that that would be rather more appreciated than the letter of condolence she would have sent in England. Zachary returned with Nkiruka’s thanks and said that she seemed very low. Jane counted the days until the propriety of mourning would allow her to call.
At the end of the week, Jane’s new gown was delivered. It was black, avowedly because they were still in public mourning for Lord Verbury and Garland, but privately Jane wore it in honour of Amey, and for Nkiruka’s loss.
As they dressed for dinner, Vincent slowly stiffened. His movements became more precise and controlled. At times, he would halt with a cravat half lifted, or in the act of buttoning his waistcoat, and close his eyes tightly. A line would appear between his brows for a moment, then his eyes would open and he would carry on as though the pause had not occurred.
While Louisa did Jane’s hair, she used the mirror to watch Vincent. He scowled as he attempted to tie a second cravat. The first had not pleased him. He stopped in the middle of arranging the silk into a waterfall knot, closed his eyes, and that line reappeared, then deepened.
“Not again.” Eyes flying open, he covered his mouth and strode to the balcony door.
“Vincent?”
He shook his head when she rose to follow him, holding up a finger to indicate he needed a moment. On the balcony, that same hand dipped into the ether and he vanished. Even the sound of his footsteps cut off.
“Louisa, I think that will do.” He would almost certainly not want her to witness this and report it to his father. “Thank you.”
In the mirror, Louisa glanced at the balcony and then curtsied. “Yes, madam.”
When she had left, Jane picked up the black ostrich plumes, watching the balcony in the mirror. She had all three plumes pinned and trembling above her head before Vincent reappeared. His face was grey, with red splotches on his cheeks. Beads of sweat dotted his brow. He walked back in, carefully not looking at her, and went straight to the washbasin.
“Were you—?”
“Yes.” He splashed water on his face. “Better now than during dinner, I suppose.”
She stood and poured a glass of water for him, dropping in a slice of lime from the little crystal bowl on the side table. She offered it to him. “I have some ginger as well, if that would help.”
“No, thank you.” He took the glass of water, though, and carried it out to the balcony. He did not disappear, but rinsed his mouth and spat into the flowers. He turned the tumbler, staring at the water. Grimacing, he scrubbed his hand through his hair as though wiping a thought away. “Will you help me with my cravat? I cannot seem to tie it tonight.”
“Of course.” Jane went to the drawer where his cravats were kept and pulled out another silk one. “Come in when you are ready and I shall see if I can make you respectable.”
“That may require more than a cravat.” He took another sip of water.
“Shall I have Louisa follow you with a glamural of youthful vigour?”
He rewarded her with something that might have been a chuckle. “Perhaps she could paint a halo over me?”
“Nothing so explicit. Simply a ray of light emanating from heaven, as if you are favoured by God.”
“Ah, for that, I only need you seated at my right hand.” Vincent came back inside. His colour was a little better, if a trifle pale. Later, she might ask him how often he had been ill since their arrival, but now her goal was to help him steady himself.
“You flatterer.” She held up the cravat. “Will you accept this as a token of my favour?”
“My lady honours me.” He gave a deep, full court bow, with a very pretty leg. It was clear that he was pretending to be in good humour, and that the pretence helped him come closer to a state of calm.
She beckoned him. He stood in front of her and bent his head to let her wrap the silk around his neck. Beneath her hands, his pulse was wild, but he did not flinch as she had been afraid that he would. His composure was tolerably tranquil. She murmured, “I honour you, because you are a very handsome man with well-turned calves.”
“Not for my skill? My wit? My inscrutability?”
“Those are admirable, I grant—lift your chin, please—but you must not depreciate the power of well-fitted breeches upon a lady’s admiration.” She tucked the end through and adjusted the knot into a waterfall of silk. “Though I would argue again that you are insufferable, not inscrutable.”
“We return to this.” He gave a mock sigh. “I shall have to ask you to prove your case.”
“First.” She stepped back to admire the knot. “Lower your chin carefully to crease the silk.”
He did, and then examined the result in the mirror. Even without his coat on, Vincent cut a dashing figure. “Thank you, Muse.”
“Who knew that years of tying glamour would help me with the art of a valet?”
That coaxed a smile that was almost real. He picked up his coat and shrugged into it. “You have managed to avoid the issue of my inscrutability. Therefore, I must assume that you tacitly acknowledge that I am.”
Jane came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. She had to lean forward a little to reach past her own increasing waist. “To be inscrutable implies that you are a mystery beyond understanding, am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“And yet, I understand how to make you laugh.” With that, Jane tickled him.
The tension that Vincent had been carrying exploded out of him in a laugh from the belly as he bent forward and twisted away from Jane. “I yield! I yield!” He held up his hand, retreating from her. “Careful, or you shall make m
e wrinkle my cravat.”
“We would not want that.” Jane smiled. “Not until later.”
Vincent’s expression changed, softening, and he crossed the room in two quick strides. Pulling her into his arms, he bent his head to kiss her. His skin, fresh shaven for the evening, was soft against her and tasted of lavender. The kiss was chaste at first, and then deepened.
* * *
It would not be accurate to say that they left the room immediately. Jane’s ostrich plumes needed to be reseated and Vincent required a fourth cravat. Nor would it be correct to say that all their good humour survived the walk to the dining hall.
Zachary waited in his livery, ready to serve, but was the room’s only other occupant. The table was set with places for four. Jane’s brow contracted. Lord Verbury had invited them to dine with him but had not mentioned a guest, and yet one was clearly expected.
As they waited, the squeak of Lord Verbury’s chair caused Vincent’s shoulders to set. He pressed Jane’s hand where it rested against his arm. Vincent dipped his head to murmur, “If Sir Ronald is our fourth, we shall take our leave.”
She lay her free hand on top of his and murmured. “I love you very much. If you should have … difficulty, look at me and remember that.”
He gave a sad smile. “Ah … I am not inscrutable after all. You know me too well for that.” He inhaled, and his posture transformed into that young man of fashion who was so foreign to her. The elegant, erect carriage, the easy grace of his stride, the expression of good breeding—all of them belonged to some other man.
That man inclined his head as Lord Verbury appeared in the door, pushed by Miss Sarah. Vincent’s voice was modulated and civil, without being coldly formal. “Good evening. Thank you for inviting us.”
“Thank you for accepting.” With an awkward twist, Lord Verbury waved his bad hand. “We have few options for dining in company these days.”
With a smile, Jane released Vincent’s arm. “Then let us hope that this is the first of many agreeable evenings.” She clasped her hands under her stomach in a pose that she had learned made her increasing figure even more apparent.
As she had hoped, Lord Verbury’s gaze was drawn there for a moment, though not so long as to be improper. He allowed a small smile to answer hers. “Let me perform the introductions, then. You have not had the opportunity to meet Sarah, who has been my preserver during this ordeal.”
“It is lovely to meet you.” Jane covered her surprise at the introduction and stepped forward to meet his mistress as a peer. It seemed that she was to be their fourth, though Jane could not imagine Lord Verbury inviting a mulatto to the table in London, slave or no. Even here, Lord Verbury had not granted her a surname or title, as though to make her position clear. Still, Jane resolved to use at least the style that she had heard from Louisa and call her “Miss Sarah.”
Jane had taken the opportunity offered by the ledgers to gather some information about Miss Sarah. She had borne Lord Verbury four children in addition to Frank and Zachary. Only three had survived childhood. The remaining child was a daughter, Milly, who served as an upper maid in the house. Lord Verbury had sired other children by other women, but not so many as Jane had at first thought.
Regardless of Miss Sarah’s official station as a slave, it was clear that Lord Verbury regarded her as something more by the very fact that he ate dinner with her. She lowered her head and curtsied to welcome them. Her elegance would grace any ball in London, even at her advanced years. “My lady is very gracious. His lordship has spoken of you often.” It was the first opportunity Jane had to hear her speak. Her voice had the broad vowels and soft consonants of an Antiguan, without any traces of an affected British accent. It was beautifully modulated and even that short speech flowed like a stream.
“Shall we sit and become better acquainted?” Vincent gestured to the table, which sparkled under a profusion of silver and crystal.
Zachary stepped forward to take Lord Verbury’s chair from Miss Sarah. As he wheeled it to the empty space at the head of the table, Vincent pulled out the chair at the foot of the table for Miss Sarah. Jane went to stand next to the chair at Lord Verbury’s right and waited for Zachary to assist her. Vincent sat opposite, and, in very short order, they were assembled.
The soup course proceeded with cautious conversation. As a group, they all seemed to be committed to the most unobjectionable of topics and confined the discussion to the flavour of the soup and the preparation of turtles. Jane offered compliments to Lord Verbury for his selection of a chef, and he returned those to Miss Sarah, who had handled the interviews while he was in England. The conversation nearly faltered there, because they were obliged to discuss the difficulties of finding a good chef here and the comparisons to those who could be engaged in London. That seemed certain to bring to them to a discussion of why Lord Verbury was confined here, but Miss Sarah managed to divert them by making a comparison to the different climes, and then artfully shifted the topic entirely to one of the local weather in Antigua.
There are few topics safer than a discussion of the weather. All can agree that it is too hot or too cold, or that it should certainly be more agreeable if only it would rain or cease raining, depending on the circumstances.
As the first course was laid, Jane found herself saying, “I was surprised in Venice, to discover how grey and cold it was in the autumn. There were days in which I thought I should never be warm again, so to find myself here is quite lovely.”
“You must be careful of the heat, though.” Lord Verbury lifted his glass of claret. “I should not wish to see you overcome again.”
The atmosphere in the room changed almost imperceptibly. Jane paused as she sliced her lamb. “That was unfortunate. You may be certain that I have learned not to go out without a parasol.”
“Yes, the shade helps.” Miss Sarah took a delicate bite of turbot. “Hm … Cook has outdone herself with the turbot. Have you tried it yet? Zeus, please do take the plate down to his lordship.”
Vincent slid a piece of that same turbot across his plate. He had been artfully arranging his meal and lifting his fork at correct intervals, but Jane was not certain he had taken more than three mouthfuls all evening. “Everything really is quite wonderful. In general, I must say that I have been very impressed with how the great house has been run.”
“But not the rest of the estate?” Lord Verbury raised his brow.
“I can hardly compliment Miss Sarah on the rest of the estate, and I thought that some of the credit for the house belonged to her.” Vincent reached for his glass of claret. “Speaking of compliments … your cellar, sir, is everything I recalled it to be. Some excellent vintages. Truly.”
The side of Lord Verbury’s mouth twisted into a half smile, as if he was acknowledging the successful change in subject rather than the compliment. He lifted his own glass and offered a toast in return. “I have always believed in proper management of barrels. However, the credit for this vintage belongs in part to your grandfather, who had the foresight to lay down wine for me.” He swirled the glass, watching the deep, sanguine liquid legs drip back down the crystal. “I have endeavoured to do the same for the next generation. You should … you should feel free to add to it.”
“Thank you.” Vincent regarded his father before lifting the glass to him. “I shall.”
Jane let out a slow, careful breath. Though the conversation had, on the surface, appeared to be about wine, in a very real sense what they had been discussing was dynasty. It was a very small part of the negotiation that this dinner represented, but Jane nevertheless felt a great deal of relief to have any agreement between the two men.
The conversation continued on the topic of food and wine for some time, with Lord Verbury even sharing an amusing story of a dinner with an ambassador from the Ottoman Empire and a blunder his lordship had made when young, involving an embarrassing mistake in translation. That he was willing to share a story and invite them to laugh at him, Jane marked as a g
reat victory. She still did not trust him, but she acknowledged that he could be a charming conversationist when it suited.
Vincent’s countenance began to open, and he shared a story about his first experience with an Italian pasta dish called vermicelli, which was a flour paste drawn out in long threads. “You would think that, as a glamourist, I would be able to handle multiple strands, but no matter how I twisted my fork, it would all slip off and then splash in the sauce, which was a shocking red. My cravat looked as if I had been shot.”
Lord Verbury wiped his eyes, laughing. “Oh … my first encounter with it when I took my Grand Tour went much the same way. Except that it was a sauce made from squid ink. Delicious, but very black. You could have mistaken me for an apprentice clerk who was soon to be let go for wasting ink.” He turned to Jane. “Did you have the opportunity to try vermicelli in Venice?”
“No, the local cuisine largely favours a dish called polenta, which is a sort of porridge made from corn meal and cream. It is buttery, delightful, and eaten with a spoon.”
Miss Sarah sat back in her chair as Zachary cleared the first course and prepared to turn the table. “Oh, yes—tell us more about Venice. Mrs. Whitten lent me a copy of Lord Byron’s Childe Harold, and I was enchanted by his descriptions of the canals.”
“To be honest, we did not spend much time playing the tourist.” Partly because they had been there to work, and Jane did not wish to open a discussion with Lord Verbury of either glamour or of their business with the glassmakers in Murano.
As Zachary laid the clean cloth on the table, Vincent shifted in his seat and directed the conversation back to his father. “Did you make it to Venice on your tour? It must have been astonishing before the fall of the Republic.”
“Alas, no. I chose to go to Cyprus instead.” Lord Verbury cleared his throat. “Speaking of Venice, Pridmore tells me that you dissuaded his wife from a glamural of Venice for the charity ball.”
“I—yes.” Vincent’s shoulders tightened ever so slightly.
Of Noble Family Page 23