Vincent snorted. “Well, I can hardly fault you for that determination. And I am tired as the blazes of not trusting you. So—thank you for telling us.” He sat forward and lifted the sherry decanter, refilling Frank’s glass and his own. He raised his glass. “May I offer a toast to trust? Better to have it come late than to have none at all.”
Raising his glass, Frank tapped it against Vincent’s and then Jane’s. “To trust.”
Jane barely subdued a sob of relief, but could do nothing to stop the tears that flooded her eyes this time. She wiped them away, deeply annoyed to be crying once again.
“Muse?”
She half laughed, waving at her face and then her stomach. “It is just the … I seem to cry very easily these days.”
“My wife is the same whenever she is in a family way,” Frank said. She was grateful to him for making her feel less a ninny.
Jane was aware that they were all pretending, rather desperately, that their clothes were not stained with blood and smoke. Their laughter was louder than the humour warranted and the pauses too long, as they listened for cries from the sick rooms. But she encouraged the gentlemen to relax a little by making sure that their sherry glasses stayed filled.
As the night wore on, Frank’s speech shifted at times from the British pronunciations she was used to from him. The softening of consonants and lengthening of vowels happened mostly when he spoke of his children, with a look of relaxed fondness. Once he said, “The boy fu me—” And then caught himself, language stiffening into British starch again: “My son is doing quite well in mathematics. His mother and I are pleased.”
Strangely saddened to hear the veil of language in place again, Jane could not think of how to draw it back. “I should like to meet your wife. Might we have you for dinner?”
Frank’s brows drew together. “I honestly do not know. I will have to think about the ramifications of your entertaining us…” He looked at his glass. “But perhaps I will do so on an evening when I have consumed a little less of your sherry.”
“Allow me to join Jane in issuing the invitation, and to add that I care not a grain for the ‘ramifications.’”
“Be that as it may…” Frank pushed his chair back from the table. “I should bid you both a good night. We will all have a long day tomorrow.”
“Indeed.” Vincent began to rise and then dropped awkwardly back into his chair, grabbing the table with one hand. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “Well … this is embarrassing.”
Jane was at his side with no real memory of having moved. “Vincent?”
“I forgot how much glamour I worked this morning.” He reddened, eyes still closed. “And that I had not eaten since breakfast. I am afraid that I misjudged and will require some assistance.”
“Of course.” Frank moved to his side smoothly. “Forgive me for asking, but is the nature such that I should fetch a basin?”
With a breathless laugh, Vincent half shook his head. “No, nothing like that, thank God. Just deucedly dizzy. Glamour and strong drink … I am terribly sorry. ‘No Drinking’ was one of Herr Scholes’s three rules, for this very reason.”
Jane patted him on the shoulder and exchanged a look with Frank. “Well, I shall not fret, then. I have seen you too dizzy to stand before. At least you have not passed out.”
“No. Not yet.” Vincent sighed.
Frank crouched by him. “We will stand very slowly, then. Jane and I will assist you to the bed, and then I shall finally have the opportunity to show my skills as a valet.”
“Very kind.” Vincent transferred his grip from the table to Frank’s shoulder. “And again, you have my profound apologies.”
With Frank on one side and Jane on the other, Vincent rose slowly and did not lose consciousness. They were able to guide him to the bed, accompanied by a steady refrain of apologies and begging of pardons. Jane had seen Vincent inebriated exactly once before, though in that instance he had not combined it with an excess of glamour. In both cases, though, his speech became more precise and defined, as though he was trying to compensate for a muzziness of thoughts.
As he sat on the bed, Vincent gave a sigh of relief. “If you would not mind helping with my boots, Frank, that would be much appreciated. I can manage my shirt on my own, and Jane is familiar with my bree— God. I really am in a shocking state. So terribly sorry.”
Jane had to cover her mouth, torn between laughing and being completely embarrassed at the implications of her intimate knowledge of her husband’s breeches.
With a chuckle, Frank knelt to pull one of the boots free. “Please believe that I am glad of an opportunity to help.”
Still blushing, Vincent bent his head and fumbled with the buttons on his cuff. Jane stepped in and undid them both for him before he had the opportunity to protest that he retained some dexterity. In very little time, Frank had his boots off, and Jane had helped Vincent draw his shirt off over his head.
“I will take your boots with me to have them cleaned this evening.” Frank rounded the end of the bed, turning to look back at them. “Will there be— God.” He had stopped, staring openly at Vincent’s back.
Jane had become inured to the scars and accepted them as part of the landscape of her husband’s body. She had forgotten what it was like to see the knotted mass of wheals for the first time. They had faded over the years to a ruddy grey, though in some places, the skin was white and shiny and bloodless. It looked like a topographic map of some landscape with twisting fjords and unexpected ravines.
Vincent looked over his shoulder, countenance sobering in an instant as he realised what Frank was looking at. “Ah.”
“What happened?”
“I was flogged.”
“Forgive me, but I can see that. I’ve seen it often enough, but you’re…” Frank’s expression was confused, and it seemed clear that at least part of it was because Vincent was white. “Did your father—?”
“No. He was always careful not to leave marks.” Vincent shrugged, making the mass writhe with his motion. “Napoleon. I was a captive for a fortnight.”
Frank drew his hand down his face and shook his head. “Well … well. I suppose it makes a little more sense now why you are so opposed to having anyone whipped.”
With a bitter smile, Vincent said, “Quite apart from benevolent reasons, I can say with absolute certainty that a whipping will do nothing to make a man more cooperative.”
Frank drew breath and hesitated. “May I suggest … may I suggest that you find reason to take your shirt off the next time you are in the fields?”
“What happened to me was not the same. It was only a fortnight.”
Only a fortnight. He was correct that it was minor when compared with a lifetime of whippings, which made the slaves’ reality no less horrible.
“It will lend you credibility.” Frank studied the boots he held. “We are very used to Englishmen coming and wanting to make reforms, and then nothing changes. If you are serious that there will be no more whipping here … let them see the marks.”
“If I had any doubts that you were a Hamilton, that would answer them.” Vincent sighed and looked forward again. His face, in profile, was grave. “Let me think on it when I am sober.”
* * *
Two days after the accident, Jane was helping Dr. Jones with Julian, a young man who had been scalded along much of his right side. Those burns were atop fresher wheals from a whipping, and the wounds showed signs of becoming infected. Dr. Jones had given him a grain of opium, so he was not entirely conscious as they changed his bandage, for which Jane was grateful. She took the soiled bandage from the doctor and dropped it into a metal basin.
Opening a jar, Dr. Jones studied the young man’s back with a frown. “I have been asked about your husband’s scars.”
Startled, Jane paused before picking up a roll of fresh linen. She had not been certain that Vincent would follow Frank’s counsel. “What do people want to know?”
“If they are re
al. How it happened. If he is really white.”
“If he is really … I do not understand that last.”
Dr. Jones peered at her over the young man’s shoulder. “You know Mrs. Whitten.”
Thrown by the apparent change in subject, Jane could only nod.
“She is in a family way. Her husband is almost as fair as Mrs. Ransford, so their child will likely be lighter than the mother and, to someone who does not know the heritage, appear white.”
“Yes, but—”
“But if Mrs. Whitten were a slave, that child would also be a slave.” She took the cloth from Jane and dipped it into salt water. “So the fact that your husband has scars from being flogged raises the question for some people of how he could have them if he is truly white.”
As she applied the cloth to the wounds, Julian stiffened, even with the opium cutting the pain. Jane was hard pressed to steady him as Dr. Jones worked, and it was some moments before she could answer. Vincent had not been burnt on top of the whipping, but she remembered the saltwater treatment all too well. He would not let her be in the room with him while his wounds were being cleaned, but his exhaustion afterwards had been clear enough.
When Dr. Jones finished with the cloth, Jane said, “My husband was caught by Napoleon’s soldiers. He had certain information that they wanted, and he would not give it to them. They had him for two weeks.”
“That explains why the scars sound so impressive.” She turned to her satchel and searched through it. “Out of appalling curiosity, I would like to see them. I have only seen raised scars on dark flesh. The pigmentation differences intrigue me.”
“I will … I will see what I can do.” Privately, Jane could not imagine Vincent willingly removing his shirt in front of a lady.
Dr. Jones laughed, clearly perceiving Jane’s doubt on the subject. She pulled out a jar and, removing the top, turned back to their patient. “When are you going back to work on the glamural for the charity ball?”
“I had not thought to, under the circumstances.”
“May I counsel against that?” She smeared a liniment with a sweet, almost honeyed character across the seeping wounds. “Having some activity will help those who lost family.”
The number of dead had risen to nine, when they lost Bodelia, Smart Martin, and Jos. Sukey still hung in the balance, but her mother tended her diligently. Having something to do had seemed to help Nkiruka, and Jane knew the value of activity in staving off melancholy. “I suppose … I suppose I am simply too Anglican to feel entirely comfortable with the idea. At home, we strip the glamour from houses during the mourning period. But … but this is not England.” She sighed, a bit annoyed with herself for being even a little surprised that there were differences in customs. “Do you really think it would help?”
Dr. Jones wiped her hands off on a cloth, still looking at the young man’s wounds. “All I can tell you is that several of the women have asked when they could go back. So … yes. I think it will help.” She took the roll of linen from Jane. “And how is your own situation? Seven months now, yes?”
“Well, he or she kicks with astonishing vehemence at times. Is there … is there a way to tell the sex?”
“Ha! I can tell you a hundred different ways, and none of them reliable. Lift his arm for me? Like that … good.”
For a few moments, they were occupied with wrapping the bandage around his chest and shoulder. Doing so, it was difficult to avoid noticing how many times Julian had been whipped. Jane ground her teeth together as they worked. This was not England, but England was still responsible. “I will speak to Nkiruka about setting a new plan for the glamural.”
* * *
Three days later, with only nine days remaining to finish the glamural, Jane and Nkiruka needed to alter their plans significantly. Vincent could no longer devote his time to working on it, and the last of the ceiling panels remained to be woven. After staring at it for a while, Jane decided to call the opening in the ceiling “intentional” and move on.
Without Louisa to run errands for her, Jane felt every month of her expectant state. She sat at the table going over lists and pressed the fingers of her left hand to her temple. She rubbed a small circle, trying to ease the dull ache. Sometimes it seemed that when she was seated, all of the discomforts of her condition made themselves known with renewed clamour.
Beside her, Nkiruka sighed with sympathy. “Where that Louisa girl?”
“Working on other things, I am afraid.” Frank had seen Louisa and Zachary safely on board the ship, so they should be five days at sea by now. “Frank needed her, and after the accident at the distillery, his needs took precedence.” That was true, if one omitted what those needs were.
“Mm. Need someone fu care of you.” Nkiruka tapped the sheet of paper with a wrinkled finger. “After dis done, you want—you ask me once. Stay in de great house. You still want that?”
Jane lifted her head from the paper and regarded Nkiruka. If she were to interview lady’s maids in England, the elderly woman would hardly have merited a single meeting. Here, what Jane wanted—no, what Jane needed—was not someone who could do her hair to match the latest fashion plate from Ackermann’s Repository but someone that she could trust. In a just world, Nkiruka would spend her declining years spoiling grandchildren and being coddled with possets, not chasing after slippers for Jane. “You could simply stay in the house, you know. You would be welcome. We could just work on the book.” Jane had set it aside to work on the glamural, but a return to the project would not be unwelcome.
“Not all day. It get dull.” She shook her finger towards Jane’s middle. “Besides. You go start get big soon.”
“That is alarming, that this is not yet considered large.”
Nkiruka laughed. “No! You shoulda min see…” Her voice trailed away and she frowned down at the paper. “Let me know. All right?”
On an impulse, Jane reached over and took her hand. “Yes. I would like you at the great house, very much.”
Twenty-seven
Shades of Charity
The evening of the charity ball had arrived, and all of the sparkling members of Antiguan society were present. Jane was surprised by how disproportionately white men were represented. While there were white women, there were not so many as Jane had expected, and many of the gentlemen had brought elegant young women of colour with them instead. If she had met them in London, Jane might have mistaken some of them for Italian.
As the lines of dancers formed down the centre of the ballroom, surrounded by pillars of ice, Jane and Vincent stood to the side and watched. She had offered to loan Nkiruka a dress for the occasion, but the older woman had declined, preferring to stay at the great house. Vincent looked very much as if he wished he could have stayed with her. The early part of the evening had been spent with different benefactors praising the glamural. Vincent, never easy in a crowd, had retreated into his usual taciturn self and let Jane speak to most of the patrons. The presentation of a new glamural was always difficult for him. He so hated being at the centre of attention under any circumstances, and he preferred that people be transported by the work and not think of the effort that went into it.
An elderly Scottish couple had been complimenting them for some minutes now. Even Jane had been reduced to merely nodding and smiling in response to the barrage of flattery. She came back to attention when the gentleman said, “… of course, now that I see the glamural, I cannot resent your having Imogene for the past month.”
“She is very accomplished.” Saying that Imogene had been with them the entire month was a bit much, as she had only been able to attend for two hours a week. “I only wish we could have had more of her time.”
He laughed, slapping his belly. “More of her time! That is rich. I tell you, I wish we could have a second just like her, too. We missed her for the weeks she was with you. Missed her indeed. More of her time! Ha!”
As he chuckled, Jane shifted to glance at Vincent. He had a small line between
his brows. This was the most conspicuous, but not the only, conversation of this nature. She wanted to question the man further but did not want to get Imogene in trouble if she had been using the glamural as an excuse to have a day of leisure. “Well, it was very kind of you.”
The orchestra played the opening refrain for “Lord Nelson’s Hornpipe” and offered a welcome reprieve from the string of awkward conversations. It was an easy thing to encourage the gentleman and his lady to join the couples standing up to dance.
When they had stepped away, Jane turned to Vincent. “Does it seem to you as if several of our glamourists may have misrepresented how often they were with us?”
“Given the conditions I have seen, I cannot hold a grudge against them.”
“Nor I.” She gave a little laugh. “I suppose that explains why I did not know who Tamar was. Likely she never worked for us.”
“I find myself not terribly disturbed by this.” With his hands tucked behind his back and with his dark coat and elegantly fitted breeches, Vincent cut a fine figure.
Jane sighed. He did have such well-formed calves. If only she could convince him to wear formal attire more often.
“You disagree?” he asked.
“No, I was only thinking how well you looked this evening.”
He snorted. “By ‘well,’ I presume you mean sunburnt?”
“It does not harm your appearance. But, I was rather thinking of—”
“Mr. Hamilton, sir!” Mr. Ransford approached with Mrs. Ransford close by his side. He wore a kilt beneath his formal coat and rolled a bit as he walked. “I must congratulate you, sir, on a triumph. My wife tells me that you are the Prince Regent’s glamourist! I had no idea when we met. None. I would expect a namby-pamby man, not a pugilist such as yourself. Eh? Eh?” He held up his hands and mimed boxing. “And you did all this, to boot?”
“Very little, in truth, and none at all this last week. Your wife was in charge of the snow curtain, for instance.” Vincent put his hand behind Jane’s back. “My wife, who is also the Prince Regent’s glamourist, had charge of the project, but given her condition, the bulk of the work was actually done by a group of accomplished local glamourists.”
Of Noble Family Page 30