“My wife is coming over in the next month and … we are but newly wed, you see. I do not want her to be homesick, and she has a favourite window at her parents’ home. In Yorkshire, with lambs gambolling.”
Vincent turned entire, his spine straightening. “In Yorkshire? With lambs gambolling. How many lambs will you have, sir?”
“Three at this time, I believe.” He glanced back at Jane, and offered a brief smile. “She likes lambs.”
“I see.” Jane walked the room, considering where they might place an additional window. “Did you have a spot in mind?”
“I had thought perhaps the front windows, so that she might have one room in which there was no reminder of Brussels.”
Jane almost answered that this was not a possibility, given that those outside the house would see the same glamour as those within, which would make it appear that lambs gambolled upon the lawn of the house. Strangely rendered lambs at that, as they would be foreshortened to provide perspective for those viewing from within the house. Fortunately she remembered M. Chastain’s new technique. “Vincent, do you think we could combine the Chastain Damask with the Sphère Obscurcie to create that? It might be possible for the illusion to be clear on the exterior and present from within.”
“Hm?” He studied the window and rubbed the back of his head. “Interesting. Possible. Mr. Gilman, have you a picture of the view?”
“I do. My wife, you see, she often paints it.” He directed their gaze to a watercolour hanging over the mantel. While not lacking in talent, it had that stiffness which so often characterizes the amateur artist. The lack of spontaneity and life betrayed a mind too cautious and a reserve too great to pass from technical skill into art. Still, it was a better rendering that Jane had hoped for when Mr. Gilman said his wife painted.
A hill swept up to a copse of trees. Cutting from left to right, a small stream meandered across the hill, lending a natural composition to the painting that brought the eye back in to the centre. On the slopes, a flock of lambs and their mothers dotted the grass. “Perhaps we should consider a small flock?”
“No. Three alone.” Mr. Gilman hesitated. “I might ask for the number to change later, if circumstances warrant.”
Jane studied the painting, wondering what circumstances those would be. They discussed the terms, which Jane left to Vincent, as she still had no sense of what one should charge for projects such as this. With things settled, Jane and Vincent returned to the carriage, and thence back to Binché, promising to come again the next day to begin work in earnest.
After they had been an hour on the journey, Vincent shifted in his seat. “Jane, I was thinking. This project will require no under-painting, and the design is done for us. I can see no real reason for you to make the trip tomorrow, aside from keeping me company.”
“I do not mind. There is little for me to do at the Chastains’.”
“But the rigours of travel.” He gestured in the general direction of her middle. “I do not wish to fatigue you unnecessarily.”
“Two hours in a carriage hardly seems fatiguing.”
“You are so often ill, though. Why add to that?”
“The illness will happen whether I am at home or in motion.” She took his arm and nestled against him. “Besides which, we are supposed to be on honeymoon. This way I am at least assured of four hours without the distraction of others.”
Vincent kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek against her. “Which raises another point. If you do not come, then I can take a horse, which is faster, or stay overnight. Either way, the project will proceed more quickly.”
Jane traced her finger around his hands, feeling the strength that lay there. “Vincent.” She slid her hand into his and squeezed. “If you do not want me to come, it might be easier to simply say so.”
He was silent, and held very still. The creak of the carriage filled the space between them. Jane closed her eyes, regretting the impulse that had led her to speak. She had expected him to protest and proclaim that he needed her there, only feared for her, which would have let her tell him that he was being silly. Instead, there was only silence. Then he spoke. “I do not want you to come. Not every day. It seems senseless on such a simple project, especially when there is nothing which you can do. I would worry about you.”
“Of course. I do not want to be a source of distraction while you are working.”
“Jane, it is not that. You are not a distraction. It is only that this is a nothing job, and it would be a waste of effort for you.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “You said it would be easier to simply say so.”
She felt the chastisement immediately. It was unjust of her to demand his honesty and then punish him for it. And if she were honest with herself, there was sense in what he was saying. “I am sorry. You are correct. But I should like to come sometimes. I do like to watch you work.”
“Of course.” Vincent rested his hand over hers. “You are my muse, and I would be lost without you. Even if I am only painting sheep.”
* * *
The next day, sitting on a chair to the side of Mr. Gilman’s window, Jane watched Vincent sketch a tree into being. He had already laid the ground for the slope and the stream using M. Chastain’s technique, but rather than a transparency, he was endeavouring to have the exterior of the window show the drawing room. Very sensibly, they had both realized that it would be unpleasant to have someone viewing you if you could not see them.
Since Jane could not extend her senses into the ether, the tree Vincent worked on seemed to coalesce out of nothing, first as a rough shape, then with more detail as her husband refined the form. The bark seemed unpleasantly uniform to Jane, and she cleared her throat. “This might be a nice place to use an ombré. It is very easy to thin the—”
“In fact, I am.” He did not break his attention from his work.
Jane shifted in her seat and opened her drawing-book to sketch him working. He stood in front of the window, hands dipping in and out of the ether as he stitched the threads he wanted into place. Legs spread wide, he had doffed his coat and had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The line of his hands captivated her, the grace of his movements combined with the play of muscle in his forearms creating a quiet strength. She had begun to recognise the glamours he was working by the movement of his hands, even though she could see only their effect, not the folds he was managing.
He inhaled in a deep steady breath designed to pull as much air into his body as possible. Even so, beads of sweat stood out on his brow from the exertion of the morning. If she could do glamour, she would make a cooling breeze for him, but that was an impossibility.
Still, there were other ways of making a breeze. Jane tore a page out of her sketchbook, wincing at the noise the paper made as it ripped free. Folding it in even pleats, she made a crude fan and abandoned her chair. Standing by Vincent, she fanned the air, trying to cool him some. Beyond stirring his hair, it seemed to have little effect, and he scarcely seemed to notice her presence, so deep into the glamour was he.
Sweeping his hand back as he worked a Chastain Damask pattern, he caught her raised arm with his elbow. Startled, Jane dropped her makeshift fan and he dropped the glamour. Part of the tree disappeared.
He wheeled on her. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
“I—You looked hot.”
“Yes. That happens. I am working glamour. Or rather, I am trying to work glamour.” His face was far redder than it had been moments before.
“I am sorry. I only wanted to help.”
“You cannot.” He gave her his shoulder and focused again on the window. “Now excuse me while I rebuild this tree.”
In agony, Jane took a step back to keep out of his way. “You could use your Petite Répétition technique to build it faster.”
“If Mrs. Gilman did not, undoubtedly, know every tree in that painting better than her husband’s face, that might be an option. But as it is, I must build each one individually.
” He tied off the thread of glamour he was stitching and faced her, gaze fully in the physical world, and burning her with the anger under his skin. “I am sorry you find this tedious, but I did warn you not to come.”
“I thought that was because you were concerned for my health, not because I would be in the way.”
“Well, had I anticipated it, I might have expressed that as a reason, too.”
Jane stared aghast at her husband, trying to understand what had provoked him to this undeserved harshness. Often he could be brusque when he was distracted, but never cruel.
Mr. Gilman chose this inopportune moment to step into the room. Jane hardly knew whether to be thankful for his interruption or to wish him away. “Ah. Mr. Vincent. Might I impose on you for a small change to our plan?”
With an obvious struggle, Vincent calmed his features. “Yes?”
“There is to be only one lamb.”
The colour faded from Vincent’s face and the muscle in his jaw tightened. “Only one?”
“I am afraid so.”
Jane tried to distract Mr. Gilman before he could notice Vincent’s anger. “Of course, you know your wife better than I. But it does seem as though the effect of a single lamb gambolling is much different from the flocks which Mrs. Gilman has painted.”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “Nevertheless. I find that one will suit my needs.”
Not wishing to broach the subject of funds, Jane could not help but wonder if he thought that removing two lambs would reduce the cost. “Truly, it is barely more trouble to make three lambs than one.”
“The difficulty hardly signifies, if Mr. Gilman only wishes one lamb.” Vincent offered him a brief bow. “Of course we can do that. May I ask in what area you wish the lamb?”
Mr. Gilman strode to the window and waved his hand at the lower right portion. “About here, and moving along this line.” He sketched a line across and up the hill in a direction that seemed designed to least serve the composition.
Rather than offering an alternative, as Jane expected, Vincent nodded his head again and made a sketch in the glamour to mark the intent. His communication ended, Mr. Gilman took his leave, although not before passing an inquiring glance at the two of them.
When the door had closed and his footfalls faded, Jane shook her head. “How are you going to get around that?”
“Around what?” Vincent had already begun pulling folds into place to create the lamb, abandoning his work on the trees.
“His suggestion about the placement of the lamb. I can think of few places he could have asked for it to be which would be worse.”
“I am going to place it where he requested it.”
Astonished, Jane could only stare at her husband. He had long professed that his art was more important than his life, and she could not understand how he could now show so little care about accepting such an obviously poor suggestion. She had seen him lead the Prince Regent to a different understanding of what a composition required rather than refusing an unreasonable request outright. And yet here Vincent had made no such effort, despite his clear dislike for the prospect. “I confess I do not understand you.”
Vincent lowered his head, hands still wrapped in glamour. When he spoke, it was to the floor. “What is there to understand? I am trying to complete this commission and satisfy my client.” He put perhaps too great an emphasis on the word “my” and Jane had to bite back an angry retort. Spiteful though his words were, there was truth in them. She had nothing to do with this project, and it had been a mistake for her to come. Taking her seat again, Jane pulled out Signor Defendini’s book, The Essentials of Glassblowing in Murano and read until it was time for them to depart. Neither Vincent nor she had much to say to the other on the carriage ride back to Binché.
Twelve
Repeating the Coda
Jane tried to fill the days while Vincent was away in Brussels by focusing on those activities that she still had at her disposal. She went with Mme Chastain on her rounds, visiting the local ladies and learning enough about the village to engage in the common hobby of gossip. Mme Meynard’s home in the centre of Binché was a frequent destination for their excursions. Fond of conviviality and more than twenty years younger than her husband, Mme Meynard had regular card parties to which she seemed to delight in inviting guests of different beliefs merely to watch the conflicts that ensued.
Having borne silent witness to several of these conversations which, while interesting to watch, must cause a strain upon the participants, Jane was understandably apprehensive when Mme Meynard greeted her with enthusiasm at the door. “Mme Vincent! I am so glad to see you. There is someone here that you must particularly meet.” Before Jane could utter a word, Mme Meynard took her by the arm and led her into the drawing room and across to a small knot of people. “Lieutenant Segal, a moment of your time.”
Willingly, the young man turned from his conversation. His countenance was comely, with that openness of expression and lively gaze indicative of a strong understanding. Had Mme Meynard not named him a lieutenant, Jane would have known him for a French officer from the blue and white coat and the shako which lay on the side table, with a tricolour cockade rakishly pinned to the side of the hat. The pale blue of the coat set off his blond hair to advantage. Jane quickly realized that his audience consisted almost entirely of young women, all of whom gazed upon him, almost cooing their pleasure at being in his company.
Lieutenant Segal stood immediately and his eyes widened in surprise. “Madame, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
Jane furrowed her brow, trying to place him. “I am afraid you have the better of me.”
“Ah. Of course. You were unwell, and I? I was masked.” He took Jane’s hand and bowed very low, while raising her hand to his lips. He kissed it, never removing his gaze from her face. Even through the leather of her gloves, his lips were warm.
Jane felt the colour mount in her cheeks and she hardly knew where to look. This then, was the mysterious Gilles who had carried her from the parade?
Mme Meynard threw back her head and laughed. She tapped Lieutenant Segal on the shoulder with her fan. “You must excuse Mme Vincent. She is English.”
Though he did not drop her hand, Lieutenant Segal lowered it with remarkable speed. “Pardon, madame. I would never have trifled with you had I known.”
“Is it trifling with a woman’s affections to kiss her hand, in England?” Mme Meynard flirted her fan open. “I had always thought it was a mark of respect.”
“No, no! Mme Meynard, the English are so chaste and pure that one cannot touch them without marring their virtue.”
Jane would not allow herself to be baited by Lieutenant Segal, so she addressed herself to her hostess instead. “You misunderstand. To kiss a woman’s hand is a sign of esteem, certainly, but you must acknowledge that it is impossible to esteem someone who is but newly met. Therefore, to do so upon meeting seems insincere at best.”
Mme Meynard raised her eyebrows and gazed coquettishly over her fan at Lieutenant Segal. “I would say that the charge of insincerity is not far off the mark.”
“I am wounded. I have been in your bedchamber, Mme Vincent, so you can hardly say that we have only met.”
Outraged at his insinuation that their acquaintance was more intimate than it was, Jane tried to set the record straight. “While I thank you for your rescue when I fainted at the parade, this hardly counts as meeting.”
Lieutenant Segal pressed his hand to his breast and widened his stance slightly to include his audience in his reply. “Perhaps, but I have kissed the hands of all of these ladies, and you must believe me sincere in the admiration of them all.”
Several of the younger ladies giggled at that, lending credence to his protestation that his behaviour was within the bounds of delicacy.
“If you say you are sincere, then I must believe you and yet … you cannot base your admiration on the mind, for our first meeting did not have the pleasure of conversat
ion. Indeed, I was entirely insensible.” Jane fingered her own overlong nose. “I doubt that it is on the basis of physical appearance. May I inquire what forms your admiration?”
“Why, that the focus of my admiration is a lady. What can be more admirable than that?” Lieutenant Segal gestured at the small crowd surrounding them. “To a Frenchman, there is nothing so worthy of admiration than women in all their forms. The source of Napoleon’s genius, some say, was his Joséphine.”
“And not Queen Marie Louise?”
“I did say ‘in all their forms.’ Queen Marie Louise is the source of his happiness. Genius and happiness are both admirable.” He bowed shortly. “But I am prepared to concede that perhaps it is only French women who are thus.”
As she had seen at other of Mme Meynard’s parties, a small group now surrounded them, listening to their conversation. Though Jane resented being made a spectacle and would rather excuse herself at once, she lingered. In part, because she was certain that Mme Meynard would derive great amusement from her departure, and though her conduct was reprehensible, she was a particular friend of Mme Chastain and Jane would not willingly slight her. Rather than acceding the field, Jane resolutely maintained her composure. “I see. I will not ask for your opinion of the women in Britain, but what of the women in Belgium?”
“Madame. They are French.” Coming from a military man who had undoubtedly fought under Napoleon, his disregard of borders should not have surprised Jane, particularly in a nation that had so recently belonged to France. “Have you no defence to offer for your countrywomen?”
Jane opened her mouth to provide a list of arguments and then closed it again, remembering the dinner at the Prince Regent’s which marked the last occasion on which she had spent any time with ladies of society. Save for Lady Hertford, none of the ladies had shown much in the way of sense, and she could not imagine putting forward the Prince Regent’s mistress as model of English virtue. Turning her mind to her own family, she again faltered. Her mother was unlikely to provoke admiration, save for her sense of fashion and her concern for her daughters. In Binché, despite the impertinence with which Mme Meynard arranged these conversations, Jane had seen more sense displayed than in most of her companions at home. “No. They are, by and large, insipid and concerned only with fashion. This is, perhaps, why I suspected insincerity from you, though I owe you my gratitude.”
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