“Oh.”
“He was contrite while I was confined. I do remember that, though the rest is patchwork.” He gave a shallow laugh. “I suppose it was unusual enough to remain fixed in memory.”
This revelation was why Jane so seldom asked about his life as The Honourable Vincent Hamilton, third son of the Earl of Verbury. She hated the silence that followed as he burrowed into old wounds and explored the pain over again. She did not like to be the cause of reminding him how he had lived before he had remade himself as David Vincent.
Vincent straightened his head as they reached the foot of the bridge. Surveying the street, he said, “I believe we turn left here for the Nenci Glass Factory. My notes are, sadly, aboard a pirate ship.”
“That is what I recall as well.” She let him change the subject and accompanied him down the side of the canal. The houses were pressed one against the next without space for gardens, but the island felt alive even so. Bird-cages frequently hung out of windows, filling the air with the twitter of canaries or the cooing of doves. Window boxes dripped a profusion of blossoms in purples and golds.
But the true life was in the glass. Animals, chalices, and candlesticks gleamed in the shop windows, the sunlight seemingly on the verge of bringing them to life. A little girl stood pressed with her nose against a shop window, looking at a glass terrier within. She put Jane in mind of Melody as a child. Shaking her head, Jane pulled her gaze away and looked to the next shop.
Strands of beads in chalcedony, aventurine, and gold-flecked glass hung like unformed glamour in the window. One shop seemed to have nothing but ranks of mirrors. In the midst of this sparkling profusion, the haberdasher stood out.
The soft wools and linens in the window welcomed her attention. A copper basin displayed a selection of fine canes. Jane paused. “Vincent…?”
He looked around and sighed. “Oh. Might we not visit the glassmakers first?”
“I was thinking of the canes, honestly. As a gift for Signor Sanuto.”
At that, he brightened. “That is an excellent suggestion.” He turned his path toward the door.
“But as long as we are here…”
“I continually forget that you are wicked.” His show of affliction was made less convincing by the twinkling of his eye.
Within the store, they were greeted by a smart man of middle years with a tailor’s apron over his coat. His gaze took in Vincent’s jacket and Jane could imagine the tally he was making. Three years out of date, fine work when new. Recently mended. Buckskin trousers, much worn. Excellent Hessian boots. A gentleman of means, but not in the fashionable set. Aloud he only said, “How may I be of service?”
“I need to order some clothes.” Vincent scowled at the nearest bolt of cloth.
Though he had been raised as a young man of fashion, Vincent so hated what he saw as pretence that Jane took pity upon him and spoke to the tailor. “We were recently robbed while travelling, and my husband needs to replace his wardrobe. If we could arrange for three fine cambric shirts without frills, a blue coat appropriate for day wear, and one for evening. He will also require a new pair of buckskin trousers and breeches for evening.”
The tailor produced a small tablet and the stub of a pencil from his apron. He jotted notes, nodding.
Vincent had wandered deeper into the shop and was rolling a fold of fabric between his fingers as though it were glamour. “Also a greatcoat. Black, preferred.” He held up a bolt of a soft sorrel. “And I should like a waistcoat of this.”
“Very good. And the other inexpressibles? Should the gentleman require those?”
Vincent compressed his lips. “I am wearing all the clothes I possess, so, yes.”
“That is unfortunate. Should you require gloves, then, as well?”
“No, thank you.” Though it was possible to work glamour with gloves, it was difficult to control the fine details, so most professional glamourists eschewed gloves. This was something that Jane had yet to accustom herself to.
The tailor seemed perturbed at this, so Jane said, “We are glamourists.”
“Ah.” He nodded, discomposure clearing with the explanation. “Then may I suggest a light linen coat, such as one might wear on a summer excursion? It would be more comfortable with the exertion of glamour.”
“Excellent suggestion.” Vincent moved to the next bolt of fabric. “Where is your cloth for cravats?”
“Here, sir.” The tailor lead Vincent to a selection of fine muslin, linen, and silk.
Having now committed himself, Jane’s husband proceeded to examine the fabric with all the attention to detail that he brought to his work. He considered the weight of the fabric, the way the textures worked together, and their utility. Jane settled into a chair to one side to enjoy the spectacle of her husband shopping for clothes.
At times, the varnish of the Right Honourable Vincent Hamilton smoothed the edges of her husband’s taciturn nature as his early training reasserted itself. Unlike the times when he had been forced to assume the role of a young gentleman of means, here his natural love of art seemed to express itself in appreciation for the art of tailoring. As he relaxed in discussion with the tailor, his headache seemed quite forgotten. One might almost think he was enjoying himself, though not enough for her to try him with shopping for her own wardrobe.
When he had done, the tailor asked him to remove his coat for the purpose of taking his measurements. Jane appreciated this quite as much as the rest of the day. The tailor slid his hands over Vincent’s back to smooth the fabric. Jane saw the moment of hesitation when he brushed the scars there. The tailor was a consummate professional, though, and only that momentary pause and the slight widening of his eyes told of his surprise. She knew all too well how apparent the bumps and welts of flogging must be, even through fabric.
Even so, her husband was a tall man with the broad chest of a professional glamourist. With his arms spread wide for the tailor to take his measure, the power of his figure was all the more apparent. If she thought she could dissuade him from visiting the glassmakers this afternoon, Jane would have suggested they return to the palazzo straight away.
That he had not forgotten their purpose was apparent when he shrugged his coat back on. “Thank you, sir. My wife and I have some other errands, but I can stop by this evening for the first of the shirts.”
“No need, Sir David. I will have my shop boy run it to you if you give me your direction.”
“Thank you.” Vincent wrote down the details for Signor Sanuto’s house for him.
As he was occupied with writing, Jane stood and addressed the tailor. “I was wondering if you happened to have a sword cane in the shop.”
“Nothing suitable for your husband’s height, I am afraid.” He led the way to the display of canes. “A nice ebony, perhaps?”
“This is for a friend of ours. About your height, I think.”
“Ah. In that case…” He pulled out a cane that bore a striking resemblance to the one that Signor Sanuto had lost. Twisting the handle, he drew the sword that was held within. “Would this suffice?”
“That is the very thing.” Indeed, Signor Sanuto may have acquired his at this shop.
“Shall I send it with the other items?” The tailor took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the steel clean of smudges before returning it to the shaft of the cane.
Vincent said, “Should we take it with us, Muse?”
“I think so.”
Nodding, the tailor wrapped it in brown paper, tied with a bit of twine. “Is there anything else?”
Jane cleared her throat and looked to the window so that her bonnet would prevent her from seeing the tailor’s judgement. “Yes. It is rather irregular, but I shall also require a pair of buckskin trousers.”
“Ah—planning ahead for Carnevale.”
Jane turned her head with astonishment. Even Vincent made a sound of surprise. She had been prepared to tell a story about a fancy dress party, when the truth was that she would not be able t
o wear muslin so close to a glassmaker’s furnace. To have the notion of a woman in trousers accepted so easily was beyond her expectations.
The tailor pulled a piece of paper from his tablet and scribbled a name upon it. “The usual course is to have your measurements taken at the modista of your choice and then I make them to fit. Signora Bartalotti does lovely work, and we have cooperated before.”
Jane dropped a curtsy in thanks. This would also solve the problem of how to replenish her own wardrobe without taking further advantage of Signor Sanuto’s kindness.
With the formalities completed, the Vincents returned to the street, cane and a small package of stockings and other inexpressibles in hand.
Sighing, Vincent shook his head. “You understand that I am committed now to two more visits.”
“It did not seem such a hardship as you made it out.”
“The man knows his craft, so that makes it easier.”
“Hm.” Jane arched her eyebrow at his evasion. “Was there any trouble with our letter of credit?”
“None at all.” He rubbed his hair. “It was deuced uncomfortable to be without resources.”
“Do you think we will have any trouble without our letters of introduction?”
“I hope not.” They turned off the main street and went in search of a glassmaker.
Five
Interview with a Glassmaker
Without their notes, which had been lost with the ship, it took the Vincents some time to find one of the glass factories. Working from memory and directions from a street performer, they eventually made their way to a narrow street, little more than an alley. It led towards a little courtyard formed where two of the buildings were set back from the street. A pair of stable doors led out of the building to their left. The small sign over the doors said PIETRO NENCI: VETRI D’ARTE ALL’INSEGNA DI S. GIOVANNI—PIETRO NENCI: ART GLASS UNDER THE BANNER OF SAINT GIOVANNI.
Vincent tried the door, which was locked. He knocked on it. Some moments later it opened, and a slender young man with a heavy leather apron stepped out. Jane caught a glimpse of the glowing yellow maw of a glass furnace through the door before the man pulled it shut behind him. He addressed them in Italian, clearly recognising that they were not local.
Vincent replied in the same language, “Could Signor Nenci spare a moment? We have a commission we wish to discuss with him.”
The young man seemed entirely indifferent. “Who is calling?”
“My name is Sir David Vincent.” He hesitated as though considering adding more of his credentials, but checked himself. Though they had originally carried letters of introduction from His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Vincent had a natural modesty that would prevent him from claiming the acquaintance without proof.
Shrugging, the young man left them and slipped through the door again, opening it only wide enough to enter himself. He left them standing in the street.
Nearly a quarter hour passed before a stout man in the rough linen of a labourer opened the door and stepped out into the street. He, too, pulled the door shut behind him. “Yes?”
“I am Sir David Vincent. This is my wife, Lady Vincent.” He paused, waiting for the man to introduce himself as well, but the glassmaker simply scratched the stubble on his chin. “We want to commission you for a project that is somewhat unusual in nature.”
“Leave a drawing with my assistant, and we’ll get back to you about price.”
“The unusual aspect requires us to be present while it is being made.”
Nenci squinted at them and scratched his chin again. “Happy to make any design you want, but you can’t watch.”
“It is crucial that we—”
Nenci barked in laughter. “Bold, aren’t you. No.” He turned to go.
“Pardon?”
Barely turning his head, he replied, “I don’t take kindly to spies trying to steal my trade secrets.”
Vincent inhaled sharply. “You have mistaken our intent.”
“Have I? You are English. We’ve already lost enough trade to you and those cursed hacks in Bohemia who think they can drop in and ‘observe’ without us understanding what they’re after.”
“We are glamourists. We are here to conduct an experiment that—”
Nenci stopped and wheeled on the spot. “You think a story like that will fool me?”
Jane stepped forward to give Vincent a moment to govern himself. “I assure you that it is true. If you would like, I can exhibit my abilities.” She reached for the ether and sketched a rose in the air.
The glassmaker snorted. “Is that supposed to convince me? Any young lady can do as much. My own daughter covers half the house with her glamours.”
Vincent seemed to expand as he drew an angry breath. His hand moved as he reached for the ether, but no glamour followed. He let the breath out as if the glassmaker had punched him. Jane laid a hand on Vincent’s arm to soothe him. Even if he were in best health, no exhibition could possibly sway this man.
Face pale, Vincent took a step back, spun on his heel and walked away.
Jane turned to follow him, calling back to the glassmaker. “Thank you, sir. It seems clear that our funds are best spent elsewhere.”
“Good luck with that. There are only three other glassmakers in Murano who work in blown glass. They’ll all give you the same answer.”
Jane hesitated in astonishment. “Only three others? But the guidebook—”
“Was written before the Fall. Do you know why there are only four of us? Because of lying thieves like you.” He wheeled around and stomped back into his shop. The door shut, and this time there came the unmistakable sound of a lock being engaged.
Jane hurried after Vincent. The tails of his coat flapped behind him as he strode down the narrow street. “Vincent, wait.”
He checked his stride and stood in the middle of the street, head down. As soon as she gained his side, he began walking again. Spots of red burned high in his cheeks.
“What happened? When you—”
“When I could not catch hold of the glamour? Just that.” Vincent’s mouth twisted.
“But you could see it?”
“Yes. Yes, I could see it. I could touch it. I failed to have the requisite control to manage it.”
Jane sighed with some relief. If he could still see and touch it, then the blow had done no permanent damage. “It will just be a matter of time.”
“It is worse than it was.”
“Only because you are more tired, I think. The boat ride across … You must give yourself time.”
Scowling, he turned on to the main street. A flurry of nuns in black and white passed them. Vincent stepped to the side to allow them to pass, and then continued on.
Jane took his hand. “Where are you going?”
Watching the canal, he pulled free of her grasp to rub the back of his neck. “To try another shop.”
“Shall we return to Ca’ Sanuto, instead? It will not hurt us to wait another day or so.”
“And give Nenci time to talk to the other glassmakers? Even if I am useless—”
“Stop. Was I useless when I was”—Jane forced herself past the words and the memories attached to them—“when I was with child and unable to do glamour, was I useless? No. As you so often reminded me.”
Vincent found her hand and squeezed it. “I am sorry.”
Shaking her head, Jane returned the pressure of his fingers. Some activity would do him good. Part of what had driven Jane mad when she was increasing was the forced inactivity. Vincent was prone to brood as it was, and so defined himself as a glamourist that an afternoon spent at home would likely make him more miserable than not. “No need for apology. Still, you are correct that we should not give Signor Nenci an opportunity to prejudice the other glassmakers against us.”
Vincent agreed, and they continued on by the canal. Yet each glassmaker they visited gave variations on the same refusal to allow them to watch the glass being made. Their manner was not so
blunt as Signor Nenci, but the denial was just as steadfast.
Footsore, Jane and Vincent made their way through the streets to Signor Sanuto’s, rather than chancing Vincent’s equilibrium in a gondola.
“Muse, I am at a loss.”
“We could … we could return to Binché.” It was a location with painful memories for both of them, but nothing else there was harmful. “We had success at the La Pierres’ glass factory. And the Chastains would be happy to see us.”
He nodded, walking on in silence past Venetians who went about their shopping, carrying baskets of fish or produce. The occasional tourist blocked the walk, gawking at a display of glass. Vincent sighed, and then again, with resignation. “We had discussed that, but the quality of the crystal is better here.”
“I do not think it will be good enough to get a glass that works without full sunlight.”
“But it might.” Vincent scrubbed his hand through his hair. “That is the rub of it. Not knowing. Wanting to try the better glass.”
“What of Bohemia? It is where the fashionable glass is coming from these days.”
“In some ways that worries me more. It seems more likely that the technique would slip out there. I want to keep this close, until we have a better understanding of how it works, what it can be used for…” He rubbed the base of his neck again, grimacing. “Perhaps we should return to the house.”
It was not like Vincent to give up, but after the trouble they had experienced getting here, she felt that a certain sense of dismay was entirely appropriate.
* * *
The walk through the streets of Murano, with its graceful courtyards and the grand palazzos overlooking the canals, should have delighted Jane, but her thoughts could not keep away from the flat refusal of any of the glassmakers to listen to their proposal. Then, too, there was the unlooked-for expense of the pirate attack. Though she would have spent any amount to keep Vincent safe, the fact was that removing themselves to Bohemia, in the hope that the glassmakers there would be more receptive, was more than they could afford at present. As it was, when they finished here, they would have to return to England and begin accepting commissions again at once. They had possessed the necessary funds for this trip, but the trouble with travelling so far from home was that one needed to bring along all of the money one might require. Planning for an extended stay in Murano, as they had been, had called for the proverbial “deep pockets.” Were it not for the kindness of Signor Sanuto, they would have been in sore straits indeed.
Valour and Vanity Page 6