Jane sighed and scowled at the page, wishing once again that she could see the weaves. She thought, but was not certain, that krasodae ka was, in fact, a breeze that was woven with more precision than she was used to granting it. It was similar to other glamours in that it was largely an illusion, but Dolly could make it feel as though someone had tapped Jane lightly upon the shoulder. When Vincent was home next, she would have to put the question to him.
Dolly nodded. “That right.”
Jane gnawed on her lower lip. “Can you show the weaves in the visible spectrum, just so I might see? I should like to sketch them.”
“Sure.” Her nut-brown face wrinkled in concentration. “But a lot of it have to do with what part of the akoma so dae you take hold of.”
“Pardon? The akoma so dae? What is that?”
Dolly frowned, drumming her fingers on her knee. “Is … is the ether.”
Jane sat up, then reminded herself to lie against the pillows again. She sank back against the bed’s headboard. This was new, the idea that there was more than one part to the ether. “How many parts does the ether have?”
“T’ree.” Dolly held up her fingers and ticked off three different words. “Akoma so dae, adwene so dae, and asaase so dae.”
“Nkiruka. Does Igbo do this as well?”
Nkiruka looked frankly baffled. “No. Only one: mkpụrụ obi ikuku—ether. How come you nuh say before?”
“Arwe nuh talk. Arwe jus’ do.” Dolly shrugged and sucked her teeth in amusement. “How you nuh say ah only one ether?”
She had a fair point. Jane paused before answering, and, in that pause, heard several horses coming up the drive. They were not expecting visitors today. Feeling very much like her mother, Jane asked, “Can you see who that is?”
Nkiruka stood and went out to the veranda, leaning on the rail to look towards the front of the house. She straightened quickly. “Ah de soldier an’ dem.”
Jane tightened her hands into fists. The unexpected arrival of soldiers never led to anything good. “Will one of you be so kind as to find Sir David at once? And Frank, as well.”
Brushing her hands off on her apron, Nkiruka headed for the door. “Mr. Frank done know. Mi sure smadee done tell he. Where Sir David?”
Jane reached for the itinerary Vincent had left for her. He had written one out every day for the past week so that if anything occurred, she could send for him quickly. “Two o’clock. He should be at the distillery.”
“I’ll tell Jove. He’ll go.” As Nkiruka opened the door, Jane could hear masculine voices from the front of the house. She could make out nothing of what was being said, save that the tone was demanding.
Heart pounding, Jane wiped her quill off again, though it was quite dry. She folded the papers into a neat bundle, but the pages betrayed her by rattling with her nerves. Tightening her grip to stop the shaking, Jane reached over to put the paper on the side table. She would have given almost anything to be allowed out of bed. Without being asked, Dolly came and lifted the writing board from what passed for her lap.
Jane wiped her hands on the counterpane and tried to think of something to say to fill the awkward silence. She could not even offer Dolly a drink without pressing her into service to get it. She swallowed and took a breath to calm herself. “So … we were speaking of the ether, I believe. What distinguishes the various ethers for you?”
Compressing her lips, Dolly settled into the chair by the bed that Vincent habitually occupied when he was in the room. She clearly knew that Jane wanted distraction. “The akoma so dae closest to … to mi heart. Is for—” Dolly sighed, frowning with aggravation. With her fingers curled a little inward, she waved her hand in front of her face. “It here. Is seeing. Is feeling.”
“Illusions? Emotions?”
“No.” She grimaced. “Next time I bring mi daughter. She tell. She—”
The sound of rapid footsteps stopped her voice. Jane clutched the counterpane and faced the door, trying to at least appear calm. Nkiruka shoved the door open with her hip, looking back down the hall. “Is Pridmore. Mad. Searching for the master.”
“For…” Jane’s voice died away. He had found someone to arrest Lord Verbury. “For Sir David, you mean?”
“No, no. He father. The old master. Say he still alive.”
“Really? My husband will be interested to hear that.” Jane bit her lower lip. Their reasons for keeping Vincent’s father hidden were twofold, both based on their fear of his retaliation. Vincent was certain that, were he exposed as being alive, he would immediately sell Frank’s family in a show of sheer malice. The other fear—that he would somehow implicate Vincent in his crimes—was of less concern to Jane. She felt confident that, though Verbury would do everything in his power to make their lives miserable, he could not do any lasting harm to them. Frank had no such assurance.
“What you wan’ to do?”
“I cannot do anything, beyond what you have already done for me. I am afraid that we must simply wait to hear what happens after he speaks with Sir David.”
“I mean, when he come here.” Nkiruka jerked her thumb in the direction of the front of the house. “They searching whole house.”
“I—I see. Well, it is vexing, but we have nothing to hide.” She wiped her hands on the counterpane again. “Shall we pick up where we left off?”
* * *
They spoke for only another twenty minutes—though Jane attended very little of it—before the sound of a horse at full gallop sounded on the front sweep. Nkiruka went to look without being asked and came back as quickly. “Your husband. Whew! He look angry.”
“I am certain he is.” The helplessness of being confined to this room without any notion of what was happening increased Jane’s disquiet more than simply having Pridmore in the house. Louisa, at least, was beyond his reach and should, with luck, be landing in England with Zachary soon.
Her stomach tightened painfully, as if to remind her that she was not to be agitated. Jane closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. She rested a hand on her middle, willing the tension away. Slow and steady breaths might help.
Nkiruka shifted from one foot to the other, dress whispering with the movement. “Mebbe you lie down?”
The urge to scream was very strong—not from pain, but because Jane was so constrained in her choices that lying down was her most useful course. She clenched her jaw and drew in another slow breath. “Likely you are correct.”
She began to understand why her mother was so often vexed. Jane eased down into the bed and rolled onto her left side. For reasons she did not understand, that seemed to be the most comfortable. The baby thumped against the wall of her stomach. She pressed back against the spot, relieved that some of the tension had faded already. Not a long bearing pain, then, and the last had been several hours ago.
Vincent’s unmistakable footsteps pounded down the hall. Jane lifted herself on her elbow to look over her shoulder as her husband burst into the room. His gaze went to her immediately. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. But the message was about—”
“I know.” He still held the door with one hand, already halfway back into the hall. “I just needed to be certain that Pridmore had not come anywhere near you.” He turned to Nkiruka. “Lock the door behind me. I put nothing past him.”
And he was gone again, footsteps retreating down the hall in haste. Nkiruka locked the door, then went and locked the door to the veranda for good measure. Jane was left with nothing to do but lie in bed and try to be calm.
The tension in her chest had nothing to do with labour pains.
* * *
Another three-quarters of an hour passed, during which the ladies abandoned all pretence of discussing glamour. Their conversation consisted entirely of speculation about what was happening outside their locked room. That conversation stopped with another set of footsteps. Jane raised her head from the pillow, counting. It sounded as if Vincent were accompanied by at least four men, possibly
five.
Though somewhat deadened by the wall, she could hear their conversation clearly enough for concern. Stopping outside their door, a gruff British man said, “And this room?”
“That is our bedchamber. My wife is within and not well.” Vincent’s cold, aristocratic tones were barely recognisable as her husband, save for the timbre of his voice.
“Bet you anything that’s where they are keeping him,” Mr. Pridmore said.
“We have been over the whole of the estate. I have been patient, because I believe that Admiral Cunningham is here in good faith. About you, sir, I have no such belief.”
“For diligence, Mr. Hamilton. My apologies, but I must insist.”
“And I regret the necessity of declining. She is in a fragile condition and must not be agitated.”
It was too late for that. Jane was already agitated beyond what she could stand. She waved to Nkiruka. “Open the door. Please.”
The older woman narrowed her eyes at Jane, which seemed best to ignore. Jane pushed herself up in bed. She would not be foolish, but neither was she going to be discovered curled on her side like an invalid. It was bad enough to be in bed in a morning dress that imperfectly covered the great hill of her stomach.
Jane pulled the counterpane up more firmly as Nkiruka opened the door.
Vincent stood framed in the door, arms folded across his chest. He spun, clearly startled, and gave Jane a glimpse of a white man in his later years, with a hoary grey moustache. He wore the uniform of a navy officer. Mr. Pridmore stood just behind him, face mottled red with sun or drink.
Pridmore pushed past Admiral Cunningham.
Vincent stopped him with a hand on his chest. “No.” That single word, spoken in a low tone, was imbued with more threat than a dozen syllables.
Pridmore shrugged his hand away, fist clenching at his side. “Never touch me.”
“Then do not anger me.”
“Vincent?” Jane called from the bed. “I do not mind if the admiral comes in.”
At the sound of her voice, the tableau broke and she was able to breathe a little better. With a bow, Vincent faced the admiral, taking Jane’s lead. “May I ask that only you enter?”
“What are you hiding, Hamilton?”
Vincent neglected Pridmore and kept his gaze on the admiral. “Please. She is in danger of coming to term early.”
With a grunt, the admiral turned to address what Jane presumed was the rest of his attendants. “I will be but a moment.” He stepped inside. “The door remains open, of course.”
“Of course.” Vincent’s chin was tucked deep into his cravat. He followed the admiral into the room with his hands clenched behind his back. His voice was coldly formal as he made the introductions.
Dolly and Nkiruka took up stations by the wall, heads bent as if they were only servants, but Jane could see their fingers fidgeting and had a strong suspicion they were using glamour to talk to each other. Jane tried to smile at the admiral, but she felt her chin tremble. There were many things that vexed her about being with child, but the ease with which she cried was one of the more irksome. She was agitated and a little angry, not sad, so the threat of tears perplexed her.
“My apologies, madam, for disturbing you.” The admiral gave a superficial glance around the room, taking in the bed and the rest of the furniture. He slowed a little at the glamural Vincent had cast about the bed, but his examination of the room took no more than half a minute in total. He offered Jane a bow. “I thank you for your time, and wish you joy.”
“Is that it? What about under the bed?” Mr. Pridmore charged into the room.
Vincent spun and took him by the collar. He shoved him back so hard that Mr. Pridmore came off his feet, slamming into the doorframe. He staggered into the hall, and a uniformed arm caught him before he fell. Another white man stepped into view, holding Mr. Pridmore up.
Vincent, who was not a small man, seemed to have grown even taller and broader. His hands were no longer behind his back, but held ready at his sides. “Do not. Come into. This room.”
“You saw what he did, Admiral? You saw that? Verbury must be in there.” He waved at the glamural. “Probably hidden in all that whigmaleery.”
Jane was fairly certain that Vincent was a paper width away from punching Pridmore again. No matter how justified, it would almost certainly complicate matters. “Admiral, if you would like the glamural to be taken down, I can arrange that.”
“And why do they even have a glamural? If Lord Verbury is really dead, should they not be in mourning?”
“We have it because I am confined to bed, and my husband has made every effort to amuse me. Mr. Pridmore, truly, I understand that you are angry because you and Sir David did not agree about how the estate should be managed, but this is unbecoming.”
“I was doing my job! I was doing what his lordship explicitly asked me to do. And if you had not hidden him, he would confirm that.”
Admiral Cunningham shook his head. “Thank you, Sir David, for your time. I think we have seen more than enough.”
“But they are lying!”
The rub of it was that Jane and Vincent were lying, but the accusation still would not rest easy on her husband. She cleared her throat. “Your reasoning is inscrutable.”
Vincent pulled his gaze from Mr. Pridmore. Even the residue of his fury was daunting. “Yes. And curious, too. I think that you are claiming that my father is alive, when for that to be the case, you would have had to shelter him for the year prior to my arrival. Do I need to remind you again that he was accused of being a traitor to the crown?”
Admiral Cunningham spread his hands in apology. “Truly, that was the only reason I came. Rear-Admiral Hume had delayed Lord Verbury’s arrest due to his health, and then he passed away. But Mr. Pridmore claimed he was alive and … well. It seemed best to be certain.”
“I quite understand.” Vincent maintained a remarkably even tone.
“My thanks for behaving like a true gentleman about all this bother.” The admiral shot a glance at Pridmore to suggest that he was not a gentleman. “Good day, sir. Madam.”
Mr. Pridmore gaped in the hall. “You can’t—he’s here. He’s got to be here somewhere.” He stepped forward again, but this time the officer in the hall stopped him. He tried to shake the man off but, at a gesture from Admiral Cunningham, was dragged backwards out of Jane’s view. “I’ll find him! I don’t know where you’ve hidden him, but I’ll turn over every stone and smoke him out!”
Admiral Cunningham shook his head as Vincent began to follow him into the hall. “Best to stay here, eh? I would have lost my temper long ago.” He pulled the door shut after him, leaving Vincent in the room with Jane.
They all stood, in frozen silence, listening to Mr. Pridmore’s rants fade into the distance as he was marched down the passage and out of the building. Without turning, Vincent said, “Nkiruka, Dolly. May I ask you to leave us?”
Though his tone was painfully calm, it brooked no discussion. They broke from their positions by the wall. In moments, the two women were out of the room, and Jane was alone with her husband. Still, he remained staring at the door.
Jane waited, giving him time to collect himself. She looked to the basin, to see if there were clean towels. There were. The side table had a fresh decanter of lime juice. She could not rise to offer him either, but they were there if he needed them.
Vincent drew a sudden breath. “I have just lied to an honourable man.” His hands tightened into fists. “I just lied to protect a man I detest, because if I did not, I know precisely what he would do to Frank’s family. So I lied, knowing that my father was depending upon my nature, knowing that he was using me, knowing that even when he is not present, he can still twist and shape me to his purpose. Knowing that the lie would be another weapon he could use against us. And still I lied for him.”
“Not directly.”
“As you have reminded me, lies of omission are still lies. I still did exactly what my father
wanted. I protected him.” Only the edge of his face was visible from Jane’s position, but she thought his eyes were closed. “I keep thinking how much easier it would be if he were actually dead.”
“I have entertained the same thoughts.”
“But you would not act upon it.”
“Nor would—”
“I am so angry that I do not trust myself.” He spoke rapidly, as if the words escaped against his will. “Will it alarm you more if I hide or am visibly disturbed?”
“I would rather know. Always.”
He grunted in reply and, for two moments longer, remained still. When Vincent moved, he shoved his hands into the ether, tearing great masses of red into the room. With an inarticulate growl, he flung them away, reaching for more glamour as the red rippled and frayed out of sight. Stretching forward with his full body, he dragged folds of black and vermillion into the room. Vincent wrapped them around his body and reached for more glamour till the air around him was heavy with rage.
Jane watched him until she realised that the illusion had made her press back into the pillows in fear. She had told him to stay, and she had meant it. She could not comfort him, but she could at least keep him from feeling that he had troubled her.
Jane shut her eyes and curled onto her side as if she were sleeping. But she could still hear him gasping as he worked.
A rustle of cloth suggested that his cravat had been discarded. The hiss and thump was probably his jacket. The ragged panting might be nothing more than an extremely large fold. If she did not look at the glamour, Jane could almost pretend that those were the normal sounds of Vincent working.
Thirty
A Question of Nature
Jane had not intended to fall asleep, but she did so too easily of late. When she awakened, the sun had shifted towards evening but was still well above the horizon. Vincent lay on the bed beside her in shirt and breeches, utterly limp. Sliding closer, Jane carefully curled up against him. With her head resting on Vincent’s chest, she could hear his heart and the hushing of his breath. His shirt was dry to the touch and his breathing calm and regular, so he must have been asleep for some time.
Of Noble Family Page 33