Without a Summer

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  She understood why Vincent had not objected to her spending time with Melody. Perhaps she should suggest that they stagger the hours they worked so that each of them might have some time alone on future projects.

  Vincent had once explained to her that he thought art without passion was lifeless. He found it a way to channel strong emotions so that they might have an expression that was acceptable to modern society. Jane used that channel now, putting all the frenzy of the past weeks into the birds she sketched. She made a small flock of wrens that hopped from branch to branch, fluttering their wings. She stepped farther into the illusory stand of trees, wanting to place some birds even deeper so that the motion came from back to front.

  The sound of a door opening made her tie off the glamour and turn toward the ballroom doors to welcome Vincent, but the main doors were still shut. She realized that the sound had come from above.

  A gentleman had entered the musicians’ gallery. She caught the tail end of his speech. “… sees more clearly after our appointment.”

  Another voice, with a pronounced Irish accent, spoke. “Are you quite sure this is safe?”

  “Yes. The Vincents are not here today, so the quiet area is disengaged.” The voice belonged to Mr. O’Brien. “You are certain that she marked you?”

  “I turned that white when I saw her, and she almost fell on her—” The Irishman’s voice cut off as he moved farther into the gallery.

  Jane could have no doubt as to who the gentleman with Mr. O’Brien had been. The mysterious footman had come, undoubtedly to tell him that Jane had recognised him. It was as clear a mark of guilt as any she could think of. What she wanted to know now was what they were discussing that required that quiet zone in the musicians’ gallery.

  Jane bit the inside of her lip. She could not see them due to the glamural across the front of the gallery. If Vincent were here, he could weave a lointaine vision and record the conversation. The distance was greater than Jane thought she could manage, particularly since a lointaine vision had to be constantly spun by hand to work. Or … could she creep up the stairs and shorten the distance?

  But then they might come down the stairs instead of going back the way they had come. Perhaps a boucle torsadée? It was still a greater distance than she thought she could bridge, but at least she could tie off the glamour after it was spun. Grimacing, Jane sank to her haunches on the floor; she did not want to chance fainting and having her fall disclose her to the men upstairs. She took great breaths of air, trying to prepare herself for the weave she was about to attempt.

  Jane grasped a fold of glamour and began pushing it out and up, toward the gallery. The weave itself demanded not only feeding glamour out in a long, slender ring but also winding it the entire time in even spirals. The glamour tried to sink to the floor, and Jane adjusted her grasp, aiming it more toward the ceiling. Her breath came quickly now. She had it almost to the gallery rail. Her pulse beat in her veins so loudly that she was surprised the sound did not carry through the bouclé torsadée to the men above. Sweat poured down the back of her neck and burned her eyes. Jane kept spinning the ring out.

  Why had they put the quiet area on the far side of the musicians’ gallery? Only a few more feet remained until she reached where they sat.

  “… the preparations for the march proceed,” Mr. O’Brien said, and it was as if he were sitting next to her.

  Jane held her mouth shut, trying to breathe quietly. She tied the glamour to itself and set it to spinning. Their conversation carried down to where she sat.

  “What we need are some good banners to carry,” the Irish footman said. “I can have the lads make some for us.”

  “Good, good … what else do you think we ought to do?”

  “Well … it seems to me that what the Luddites do to get attention is to burn the frames. Now, we don’t have frames to burn, but some torches would not go amiss.”

  A dark noise of pencil on paper. Mr. O’Brien said, “That might look fine. What else would you like me to take care of?”

  She frowned. Did she have the voices backwards? It sounded as if Mr. O’Brien were deferring to the footman. That made no sense, though. And yet, when the footman spoke again, the Irish brogue made it very clear who was who. “I think you ought to be on your horse out front. It gives the lads heart to have someone like you leading them.”

  “My friend, I wish you had more faith in your abilities. They would look up to you if you would let them.”

  “Nay. Begging your lordship’s pardon, but you don’t sound Irish, and I do. You know how little trust I can get from them.”

  “All too well.” Mr. O’Brien’s voice was dark. Another note marked on the paper. “It shall be done, and we can discuss this afterwards. Now, I am afraid that I must be off, or I will be late for my appointment. I should not like to keep the lady waiting.”

  The sound shifted as they stepped out of the zone and moved along the gallery to the servants’ door. When she heard it close securely behind them, Jane stayed in the little woods, too stunned by what she had heard to think of what to do.

  For some time, Jane sat among the illusory trees waiting for her heart to slow down. As her senses returned to her, she also felt it might be prudent to continue to hide for a time. Because Mr. O’Brien appeared unaware that she was in the house, Jane wanted to be certain she gave him time to depart the property himself.

  She waited a half hour, turning everything over again and fitting the pieces into what she already knew. Jane finally dragged herself to her feet and stepped out of the glamour she was hidden in. Her chemise clung to her back with sweat and left her chilled. Jane hurried to where she had set her pelisse, thankful that it had not been visible from the musicians’ gallery.

  The door to the ballroom opened. Jane jumped with a shriek.

  Vincent scowled at her, with a hand to his head. “Was that really necessary?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He had dark circles under his reddened eyes and squinted as he looked at her. “We have work to do. And yes, my head does ache abominably. Yes, I am irritable. And no. You may not talk me into going home.”

  “My love, I assure you that is the farthest thing from my mind.”

  “Good. I am in no condition for an argument.” He began to pull his greatcoat off.

  “I am, in fact, very glad to see you.”

  Vincent paused, one arm still in his coat sleeve. “Why?”

  “While I was working, Mr. O’Brien came in.” She quickly explained what she had overheard, and her concerns.

  Vincent stared at her, then his eyes went vague as he looked past the visible world at the glamour hanging in the room. He let out a low whistle. “I did not know you could span such a distance.”

  “Nor did I.” Jane paced in a small circle. “What are we to do?”

  He rubbed his head, frowning. “I am thinking very slowly today. Bear with me.” Closing his eyes, he continued rubbing his temples. “Where is Melody?”

  “At home. She was not feeling well.”

  “No…” He opened his eyes again. “No, I am quite certain she is out, because Mrs. Brackett asked after her as I was leaving. I thought she had gone with you.”

  Jane covered her mouth. “His appointment! He did not want to ‘keep the lady waiting.’ You do not think—?”

  Vincent pulled his greatcoat back on. “Get your pelisse. I shall call a carriage.”

  * * *

  Barely had the carriage come to a stop, when Jane was out of it. Vincent followed more slowly, stopping to pay the hack’s driver. Running through the front passage, she lifted her petticoat and ran past the startled footman, up the stairs to Melody’s bedroom.

  Jane burst through the door of her sister’s room, praying that she would find her at home. The room was at the front of the house, with a good prospect of the street below. The clear light through the windows left no doubt that the room was unoccupied. A maid had already been in to make up the bed and ha
ng Melody’s clothes. Jane snatched the wardrobe door open.

  Melody’s sky-blue pelisse was gone, along with the bonnet that they had purchased together. Jane was not certain, but it seemed as if some of her other clothes were missing as well.

  “Mrs. Brackett says that no one saw her this morning after breakfast.” Vincent appeared in the door. A deep crease bent his brows together. “Any sign?”

  Jane shook her head and turned to her sister’s dressing table. Her brush and comb were still there, as were her perfume bottle, the little china dog she was fond of, and her work-basket. Jane crossed the room and snatched up the basket, digging through the half-finished crochet work until she found her sister’s appointment book. Dropping the work-basket on the table, Jane turned through the pages to the current date. Her breath caught.

  “Jane?” Vincent put a hand on her waist to steady her.

  She showed him the entry and sank to the dressing table’s low bench. “This is my fault.”

  Alastar—No. 3 Bond Street—2:00

  Around the words, Melody had drawn hearts with arrows through them. In the lowest corner of the page, Melody had erased two words, but they were still partially visible. Mrs. O’Brien. Her sister was eloping.

  Eighteen

  Vision Restored

  Jane leaned forward again to look out of the carriage window. They were still on Piccadilly, and the traffic had slowed to a crawl. “Perhaps we should get out and walk.”

  Vincent took her by the shoulders and pulled her back. “We will not get there any faster.”

  She shrugged his hands away. How could she have been so foolish? Knowing Melody’s history, she had no reason to think that her sister would listen to reason with regard to her heart. “What am I going to tell my parents?”

  “They cannot have gone far. It is only a quarter past two, and there is no business they could contract—”

  “They could be married by now.”

  “Not in London.” Vincent leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and knotted his hands together. “Jane, if they were to elope, it would be more sensible for Mr. O’Brien to collect her in his carriage.”

  “Not if he thought we would see him. Recall that he thought we were at home.”

  “Yes. But not until today.”

  “Are you defending him?”

  “No.” Vincent loosened his hands and put one on her knee. “I am trying to keep you from working yourself into a frenzy.”

  “Much luck with that.” She would not be in a frenzy when she had Melody safely at home. The carriage turned onto Bond Street and Jane sat forward again, looking at the shop numbers. “There!”

  The driver pulled to a halt before Vincent could bang on the roof to stop him. Jane flung the door open and climbed out. Vincent followed, asking the driver to wait for them.

  The address they had stopped in front of had large plate glass windows, through which optical instruments were visible. Above the shop’s door was a large pair of spectacles with the note WILLIAM FRASER, OCULIST. Jane frowned, looking up and down the street. She had expected a church, or an inn, or a gambling den—but an oculist? “We wrote the address down wrong.”

  Vincent produced Melody’s appointment diary from his coat pocket. “No. This is correct.”

  “You brought it with you?”

  “It seemed prudent. Perhaps the establishment is a counterfeit and hides something else.” He went up the two short steps to the door, with Jane close behind him, and pushed it open. The doorbell rang merrily overhead.

  Inside the shop, Melody sat in a chair with her back to the door facing a man in his middle years with ruffled black hair. Mr. O’Brien stood at her side with his hand on the back of her chair. He glanced over his shoulder at the bell, then jerked around. “Sir David! Lady—”

  “Jane?” Melody spun in her chair. She wore a pair of spectacles.

  For a moment, Jane could only gape at her sister. She had so expected them to be eloping that to find them in an oculist’s trying on spectacles seemed beyond comprehension. “What in heaven’s name is happening here?”

  “I am—Dr. McCrimmon is just finishing fitting me.” Melody held her hand up in front of her and turned it over. “It is … it is remarkable.”

  “Mr. O’Brien. It is most irregular to find you here, with my sister, unattended. I require an explanation.”

  “They are not entirely unattended, Lady Vincent.” From a chair hidden by the door, Lady Stratton rose. “My son asked me to accompany him to avoid any improprieties.”

  Mr. O’Brien cleared his throat. “Miss Ellsworth—when we were looking at music, you see. She had so many headaches after, and then—well, her symptoms were so similar to mine that I was quite sure she had a vision impairment, so I made her an appointment with my oculist.”

  The doctor took Melody’s chin and turned her back to face him. “The young lady is presbyopic.”

  “Pardon?” Jane tilted her head, trying to understand.

  “Far-sighted. It means that she can see things at a distance quite well, but has trouble with anything close to her.” Dr. McCrimmon straightened the spectacles on Melody’s face. “The eye strain should not be a concern with these.”

  “Far-sighted…” Jane looked to Vincent for support, but he looked as stunned as she was. “Melody, why did you not simply ask me to take you to an oculist?” At times, Jane had wondered if Melody’s trouble with detailed work was related to vision, but she had never pursued the idea, since her sister had never complained.

  Melody bent her head and sighed. When she turned to face Jane, the light reflected off her new spectacles, hiding her eyes. “Because I have said my whole life that I could not see music, or glamour, and that my eyes got tired when I read and … and you always told me to apply myself more.”

  “I—I did not understand.”

  “And when I asked for a lorgnette? To see better?”

  Jane felt ill. “You were ten. I thought … I thought you only wanted to be fashionable.”

  “And last month, when I said I thought about getting spectacles? You laughed at me.”

  Jane could find no response.

  Melody looked down, cheeks quite red. “When you said that you did not approve of Mr. O’Brien, I felt that I could not tell you I was meeting with his oculist.”

  Mr. O’Brien stepped forward, his hands held a little out from his sides in supplication. “Miss Ellsworth did not know I would be at this appointment. We had planned to go together, but then … I will grant that I should not have come after the situation was made clear.”

  “Which is why he invited me.” Lady Stratton crossed the floor to stand in front of her son and glared at him. “Though he did not tell me that you were unaware.”

  “I only wanted to see how she got on.”

  Melody spoke to the floor. “I am glad you came, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “I am grateful for the service you have rendered my sister.” Jane kept her back straight and managed to look Mr. O’Brien in the eye. “However, you ought to have come to me, as her chaperon, to discuss this.”

  “So you could send my card back out with the footman and say you were not at home?” He took a step closer to her.

  Lady Stratton caught his arm. “Alastar!”

  He shrugged her off. “You did not even know she had headaches, did you?”

  “Of course I did.” Jane’s voice faltered.

  Melody said, “But you thought I was feigning. Like Mama.”

  She had, in fact, thought just that. Her mother had such a catalogue of injuries that Jane had become used to taking none of them seriously. Why should her sister, whose spirits were so like their mother’s, be any different? “Be that as it may, it was entirely improper for you to come here with this man.”

  “I came by myself!” Melody stood, trembling visibly.

  “Even worse, as you did not know Lady Stratton would be here.” Jane remembered herself, but only barely. “For which I am grateful, madam.”


  The doctor stood and cleared his throat. “I have some things to attend to in the back, if you will pardon me.” No one paid him any mind as he slipped behind the curtain leading to the back of the shop, which appeared to be bigger on the inside than Jane would have suspected.

  Mr. O’Brien crossed his arms. “Why do you disapprove of me? You are comfortable enough accepting my father’s money.”

  Jane pulled her head back, appalled. “Your father is not trifling with my sister’s affections.”

  “Trifling? I assure you, madam, that I have never said anything to your sister with less than perfect sincerity.”

  Vincent cleared his throat, but Jane continued. “If that is true, then it is far worse. To engage her affections to no end but your own satisfaction is reprehensible. What would you have done with her? As a Catholic, you cannot offer marriage—so, yes, I call that trifling with her affections.”

  Mr. O’Brien lifted his chin, spectacles flashing. “What can you mean by that?”

  “It is a well-known fact that Catholics cannot marry outside their faith. Therefore—”

  “Your fact is decidedly false.” Mr. O’Brien’s face had turned an alarming shade of red. He clenched his arms across his chest so hard that his knuckles had turned quite white. He spoke in a low, harsh voice. “The report that we cannot marry outside our faith is spread by the Church of England, by your church, as part of a long effort against us. There is no truth in it. Does that change your feelings with regard to my eligibility as a suitor?”

  Jane could only shake her head in denial. It was not possible that he was free to marry her sister. It was not possible that Jane could have been so in error. But had she ever studied the question? No. She had accepted the facts as she had been taught, without question.

  Lady Stratton had lost any expression of sympathy. “Pope Pius’s Benedictine dispensation explicitly allows mixed marriages.”

  The spectacles that Melody wore could not hide the fact that she was weeping.

  “Jane, we should go.” Vincent went to Melody and offered her his handkerchief. “Thank you, Lady Stratton, for your time and attention.”