Without a Summer

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Jane and Vincent’s new partners were not known to them, and Jane was only too glad to allow anonymity to protect them from conversation. Without being forced to speak, Vincent glided through the steps with a grace that nearly stopped Jane’s breath. She felt as though she danced with a stranger, which might almost be true. Here was Mr. Vincent Hamilton, third son of the Earl of Verbury. She did not want him. She wanted her husband.

  When that dance was finished, Jane put her hand to her chest and affected to be too winded to continue. Vincent guided her off the floor to a chair by the wall. “Shall I get you some lemonade?”

  “No.” Jane took his hand and ran her thumb over the back of it. “I am sorry. I will not ask you to do that again.”

  “It is not as bad as I make it out to be. It is only that I feel I am lying.” He looked across the floor with his head tilted to the side. “Major Curry appears to be introducing Melody to some others.”

  “I should not leave her alone.” Jane started to rise, but Vincent put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Curry will not lead her astray. We can watch from here.” He raised a hand in a wave. “There, she knows where we are now.”

  “You are very good, you know.”

  “That is because I have a lot of wickedness to atone for.”

  “Vincent—”

  “I shall get some lemonade for us.” He squeezed her shoulder and stepped away.

  Jane caught his hand, and pulled him to a stop. “Wait. Please. I am not thirsty, and you seem to be avoiding me too often.”

  His brows rose in confusion. “Avoiding? Oh, no, Muse…” He paused and studied the floor. “No. I suppose that is fair. I will endeavour not to do so again.”

  She tried to tease the disquiet out of him. “Am I so alarming?”

  “Losing you is.” Vincent’s voice was so hushed that, had she been any farther from him, she would not have heard it. He continued to stare at the floor as though counting the scratches there.

  Engrossed as they were, the next voice caught both Vincents unaware. “What a surprise!”

  Vincent visibly started. A fine lady stood next to them dressed in a white crape frock over a satin slip; French Lama work in silver ornamented the hem, and delicate satin slippers peeked out from beneath the dress.

  At her wrists and long, white throat, she wore a matched set of rubies, which brought out the warm tones in her cheeks. The shape of her brow beneath her abundance of brunette curls was like Vincent’s, refined into a feminine ideal.

  “Are you not going to say good evening?” She patted him on the arm with her fan. “I told Papa that he was approaching you all wrong.”

  Clearing his throat, Vincent straightened and slipped that mask of civility over his features, but his eyes had no sparkle to them. “This is Lady Penelope Essex. May I present my wife, Lady Vincent?”

  “Oh, you are not still using that name, are you?” Lady Penelope wrinkled her nose at him. “I suppose I cannot blame him, but I do wish that he would stop pretending that he is not my brother. I should wish you to be Lady Hamilton so that you and I might be properly sisters. Still, I do understand. Papa was always hardest on him.”

  This charming lady was the one who had caused Vincent so much dread? Recalling Vincent pulling the mask over his features, Jane wondered if she could trust the lady’s seemingly open manner. “Vincent has spoken of you. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “Spoken of me, only? Dear boy … not ‘with fondness’?” Leaning her head back, Lady Essex laughed as though it were a great joke. “No. I suppose not. Though that is not my fault. You were always the wicked one. Oh, Lady Vincent, you would not believe the troubles he got my sister and myself into. Always undoing glamours, and making it appear as though it were our fault.”

  “He has told me this story.”

  “Has he! Oh, I am so glad. I was afraid that he would say nothing about us at all.”

  During this conversation, Vincent had been staring fixedly at Jane. Wetting his lips, he took a half-step forward. “The music is about to recommence. Will you excuse us? I promised Lady Vincent that we would dance this evening.”

  Jane kept her surprise hidden behind a mask of smooth pleasure. If he needed to beat a retreat, she would do all she could to help him. “And a waltz! It is still something of a scandal in my parents’ neighbourhood, so I have not had the opportunity.”

  Lady Penelope flirted her fan open, not at all deceived, though she answered with graciousness. “Of course. Only say that you will come to dinner on Monday and bring your sister. I do so want you to meet my husband and my little boy. A small family affair, I promise.” Leaning toward Jane, she said, “Vincent does so despise crowds.”

  “I have had ample opportunity to observe that myself.”

  Again, Lady Penelope favoured her with a laugh. “I am certain you have, my dear. To come here must be a sign that he loves you very much.”

  Vincent took Jane’s hand. “I do. And so I would like to fulfil my promise to her.”

  “Go. By all means, go.” She laid a hand on Vincent’s arm, and for a moment dropped her air of playfulness. “Only say you will come to dinner. Please?”

  The simplicity of her request was deeply becoming. Vincent’s chest set for a moment, then he exhaled. “Yes. Thank you.”

  With an exclamation of delight, Lady Penelope stood on her toes to kiss her brother on the cheek. “I am so glad. Now, go and lead your good lady to dance.”

  Taking their leave, Jane and Vincent walked to the floor. Jane waited until they were a good twenty paces from Lady Penelope. “Are you all right?”

  He chuckled. “You were saying something about me avoiding people?”

  “As long as you escape with me, I shall not object.”

  Vincent raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “As long as you will have me.”

  Melody was still in the set preparing to dance, which pleased Jane, but she had exchanged partners for the new song. Standing at her side, ready to begin the shockingly wanton waltz, was Mr. O’Brien. The couple chatted with great animation.

  “Is his hand on her torso?” Beyond the intimacy of the dance, it was clear from the blush on his cheeks and the gentleness of his manner that Mr. O’Brien had joined the ranks of young men smitten with her sister. More disturbingly, Melody appeared to be equally taken with the young Irishman.

  “It appears so, yes.”

  Since the waltz was not danced in a line, Jane led Vincent to where her sister stood. “Are you going to waltz?”

  “Oh!” Melody put her hand familiarly on her partner’s arm. “Yes. Mr. O’Brien has offered to teach me how.”

  “Has he, indeed?” Jane raised her eyebrows.

  The young man flushed further and cleared his throat. “I had occasion to learn while I was in Vienna. With my parents.”

  Beside Jane, Vincent made a small humph of discovery. “I have not, but I promised Ja—Lady Vincent a dance.”

  “It is excessively simple. I can show you before we begin, if you like. There is a basic step, like so.” He sketched out a simple figure on the floor. “Then one turns while dancing. Miss Ellsworth—would you assist?”

  He held out his left hand and she placed her right in it. Melody’s left went on his shoulder, but his left … Jane cleared her throat. “It appears to involve being held rather close.”

  If possible, Mr. O’Brien became even redder. “Ah—yes. I enjoy the dance because it allows one more opportunity for conversation, since one is not moving away from one’s partner throughout the dance.”

  “I see … for conversation.”

  Melody laughed at her sister and patted Mr. O’Brien’s shoulder. “Do not mind her. She is taking her part as my chaperon with over-seriousness.”

  “Yes.” Vincent put his own hand on Jane’s shoulder. “And, for the moment, she has promised this dance to me. Now … this appears to be the dance position. Do I have this right?”

  Mr. O’Brien clear
ed his throat again and studied them. “Yes. Only. Your hand should be … well. Here.”

  “On her back?”

  “Yes?” His voice cracked. “At least, that is how they dance it in Vienna.”

  “Ah.” Vincent slid his hand under Jane’s arm to rest upon her upper back. She was aware of the warmth of his arm along her bosom, even through the layers of muslin.

  The music began, then, and other couples moved into motion around them. Vincent stepped into the pattern of the dance, moving Jane away from her sister before she could object.

  “What are you—”

  “I am trying to enjoy dancing with my wife,” he murmured. “I have just realized that this dance does not require me to talk to anyone besides you. I might find it tolerable.”

  Tolerable was high praise indeed, for Vincent. If Jane were not so worried about her sister, she might look forward to the prospect of future waltzes.

  Thirteen

  A Congregation of Glamour

  The faint silver light of dawn trickled through the curtains of the Vincents’ bedchamber. Across the room, the shadowy shape of a maid knelt by the hearth to light the fire. Wood smoke teased Jane’s nose, promising future warmth. She snuggled deeper under the counterpane, waiting for the fire to heat the room sufficiently to exit the bed. Quiet as a mouse, the housemaid crept out of the room with her basket of kindling and matches.

  The door shut behind her with a click.

  Vincent sat upright, throwing aside the counterpane and letting in a blast of cold air. Jane made a moue of protest and snatched the cover back over her as he sprang out of bed.

  “Sorry, Muse.” He tucked the counterpane carefully around her shoulders. “Idea.”

  “About?”

  “Glamural.” Dressed only in his nightshirt, he rooted around on the desk for a piece of paper and a quill.

  Jane sat up, clutching the covers to her chest. “My drawing book is in the top right drawer.”

  He grunted his thanks and pulled the drawer open. Sitting at the desk, he started to write in the half light of the fire and the little bit of dawn visible through the curtains. Jane crept out of bed, wincing as her legs were exposed to the air, and pulled on her dressing gown. It should not be this cold in June, even in the morning.

  She threw back the curtains, letting in the grey light from another day of rain. It was no wonder that illiterate members of the populace thought that the weather was so unnatural that some agent, such as coldmongers, must be to blame. She lit the candle on the desk and put it near Vincent’s elbow to light his paper.

  Standing at his back, she kneaded his shoulders absently. Not until he lifted his head and half-turned did she understand that their intimacy had become something to be noted and remarked on of late. Vincent wet his lips and returned to his work.

  Jane did not allow her movements to falter, though she silently cursed Vincent’s father. The whole of the fault lay in his quarter. To introduce so young a boy to a lady of easy virtue could only give the understanding that such things were acceptable. Small wonder that while he had remained in that house, Vincent had felt free to avail himself of her services. He had ceased going when he came of an age to understand—though another might suggest that Vincent had also left his father’s house to go to university, and therefore it was not to be expected that he would continue to seek Miss de Clare out over so great a distance.

  Jane could only reflect on what her husband had said about feeling safe. University had been a safe time for him in other ways, as was their life together now. His father sought to destroy that by saddling Vincent with old, painful recollections. Jane would have none of it.

  She bent down to kiss Vincent’s neck. “I love you.”

  His quill caught on the paper and ink spattered across his words. Lifting the quill from the page, he laid it aside and turned in his seat. He took her hands, cradling them. His deep brown eyes were clear and expressive. “If you do not know by now, you own me, heart, mind, body, and soul.”

  Jane felt a rush of heat from her toes to her middle. Words fled her capability. She bent to reassure him of the sincerity and conviction of her love.

  Vincent wrapped his arms around her. “Muse, you are trembling.”

  “I am cold…” She found the tie at the neck of his nightshirt and pulled it open.

  Without a word, Vincent stood and lifted her in his arms. He carried her to the fire, and together they lay before it.

  * * *

  After a period of delightful intimacy, made all the more precious because they had seen how easily it could be lost, the Vincents dozed by the fire with the counterpane pulled over them. The day had barely brightened as the sun fought through the clouds. Jane’s head was cradled on Vincent’s shoulder, and he smoothed her hair with his other hand as they watched the flames.

  Jane ran her hand down his cheek. “What was the idea you had?”

  “The one you mercilessly distracted me from?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  “It occurred to me that it would be nice to give the glamural some birds’ song.”

  “But it would clash with the musicians when they play.”

  “I thought to use the area of silence, which Mr. O’Brien asked for, as a counter to that.” Vincent rolled onto his side, displacing her. Propping himself on his elbow, he sketched his idea in the air with quickly rendered glamour. “I was trying to make notes so I would not forget, but … If I create another area here, which contains birds’ song, and then create a sort of bouclé torsadée that can be changed from one to the other … you see?”

  Jane narrowed her eyes and considered. Vincent had created a rough rendering of the ballroom, complete with musicians’ gallery. Overlaid on that were glowing lines representing the glamour he was proposing. At one end of the musicians’ gallery, a ball represented the birds’ song. Next to the ball was the musicians’ retreat that Mr. O’Brien had requested. A twisted thread of glamour represented the bouclé torsadée and stretched from the ball to the closest bird cage. Rather than travelling in a tube through a house to carry orders, this would carry the sound across the ballroom, creating the illusion that the birds were singing.

  If Jane understood what Vincent was proposing, all that would be required to silence the birds would be to move the bouclé torsadée from the area of birds’ song to the area of silence. The chief advantage was that the two areas were close enough to each other that it would require only limited abilities with glamour to be able to move the thread between them. Many musicians had enough ability to manage that. Even if that were not the case, in all likelihood, the Strattons already employed someone conversant enough in folk glamour to manage it.

  “You are surpassingly clever.” She traced a finger through the fine hair on his chest. “What gave you the idea?”

  “Last night’s dancing, of all things.” He fell back on the carpet. “As we were going up through the centre, I was thinking that it was much easier to bear than standing on the sides without you. It made me think of the speaking tube passing through the middle of the house. The jump from that to this … is more difficult to explain, I grant.”

  “It is still ingenious, and I look forward to attempting it.”

  Vincent stretched, pushing his arms over his head and arching his back with a moan of pleasure. He tilted his head to look at the window. “Speaking of which, I suppose we had better go to work.”

  Jane groaned. “But it is so warm here.”

  “You will be warm enough once you start managing glamour.” He sat up, again exposing her to the air, though this time she was wearing considerably less clothing.

  With a small shriek, Jane snatched the counterpane back and huddled under it. “This is most unfair.”

  Vincent tugged the bottom of the blanket with a playful smile. “I can make it more unfair.”

  “Rogue.”

  “Certainly.”

  Rather than risk being exposed once again, Jane clambered to her feet. While o
ne of the things she loved about Vincent was his devotion to his art, at times she wished that he would allow for distraction.

  Still, she had to admit that she was excited about his idea. It was a variation on a few existing techniques, but the combination of them was particularly clever. Where Vincent’s differed was …

  Another thought struck Jane. “If we do this, is there a reason not to offer multiple choices of sound?”

  Vincent paused with his buckskin breeches in his hand. He stared at the fire, working his jaw in thought. “Possibly…” He perched on the chair and pulled his breeches on. “That might require devoting more area to the effect than is warranted. I thought of this because we already have the silenced area.”

  “Hm…” Jane pulled her chemise on over her head.

  They happily discussed the theory and practice of glamour as they dressed. By the time each was fully clothed, it was all Jane could do to convince Vincent to go down to breakfast rather than up to the studio to make a trial of the glamour. They could try it at the Strattons’ house when they got there.

  When they arrived in the breakfast room, Melody greeted them with such radiant spirits that Jane silently blessed her husband for thinking of dancing. Her sister had not wanted for partners the previous night, and though Jane might not approve of them all, there could be no denying that the attention had fully restored her bloom.

  She had dressed carefully for breakfast, with her hair already in an artful arrangement. From the glow of her cheeks, no one would have guessed that she had spent half the night dancing. Rather than her usual linen morning dress, Melody wore one of her muslin frocks with a full ruche of lace around the hem. Around her neck, she had tucked the Brussels lace fichu that Jane had brought her from the Continent.

  “You look lovely this morning.” Jane put some potatoes on her plate, glancing over at Melody. “Are you going out?”

  With a slight frown, Melody shook her head. “No, today is an At Home day.”

  The sausages looked nicely browned this morning. “Ah. I had not realised that you had set up a routine. I am sorry that I have been out so much.”