He rubbed his face, before lifting his head. “Thank you for your patience, Muse. I am…” He clenched his fists and stared at a flower box in the closest window, as though it demanded all of his attention. “I am distressed. Being in debt reminds me too much of the days after I first cast off my family name. My father predicted that I would wind up in penury, performing on a street somewhere.” He forced a laugh that fooled Jane not at all.
Thought of in those terms, though, it was not at all surprising that Vincent was struggling with his sensibilities. Jane was distressed as well but did not have Vincent’s history with his father to add to the burden of feeling. Yet she had allowed her emotion to carry her tongue as much as his had.
Jane reclaimed his hand. “I am anxious, too. My only hope now is that we do not discover that I have inherited my mother’s nerves.”
“That seems unlikely.” He tucked her hand under his arm and resumed their walk. Most of the day had vanished to answering questions and then raising others.
Indeed, the remaining questions focused her attention on the parts of Murano that she habitually let her gaze glide past.
The beggar sitting at the base of a bridge. Children in much-patched clothing playing in a doorway. A juggler tossing balls for a few coins. And the pastry shop. Every time they passed a shop redolent with the smell of baked goods, her gaze would drift to the sticky rolls, her stomach would clench in hunger, and she would remember that they had no money at all. The officer who had turned Vincent’s pockets out had left them with nothing.
How had the capo thought they would make their way in this state? It was not his concern, so she supposed that he did not trouble himself with such questions. Jane tried to think of what they should do to attend to their immediate needs. She had never been on the receiving end of charity, though her family had always made certain to take care of the poor on her father’s estate. But she could hardly expect a gentleman’s daughter to suddenly appear on her threshold with a basket of produce and eggs. They wanted even a threshold.
Lady Stratton, the mother of Melody’s husband, often went on charitable errands, but Jane had no notion at all where the lists of those in need came from. In her own household, her father had assembled the list from … somewhere. There must be, then, a way to apply for aid. The vicar in their neighbourhood did much charitable work. There were poorhouses enough, though her only knowledge of them was through fiction. They could not be as awful as Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels made them appear, but she found herself reluctant to seek one. Even if they were not full of bugs and squalor, she and Vincent would be separated, and that could not be borne at the present moment. “I think … I think we need to find a church.”
“Eh? Why?”
“Because they are used to dealing with the poor and will know where we can sleep tonight.”
He seemed to hold his breath for a moment. “Of course. That makes good sense.”
“And yet you hesitate.”
“Only because I find myself unprepared to trust anyone who is kind.”
* * *
Murano had churches in abundance. The structures seemed part of the fabric of the island, though they varied widely in style from a fifteenth-century convent to a modern structure built no more than fifty years prior. None of them were Anglican. Jane’s feelings with regard to Catholics had changed considerably over the course of the last year, so it was not a question of if they would seek aid at a Catholic church but of which one. The Vincents needed only to turn another corner to encounter additional choices.
Though neither would admit it, there was a certain amount of fear involved in begging for the first time. And there was nothing else that Jane could name their task. The first church she felt comfortable approaching was a humble structure save for its glorious stained glass, which seemed essential in the Murano churches. Of all the churches they had seen, this one reminded her somewhat of home, with a vine clinging to the stucco walls of the church’s clock tower.
After the brilliant afternoon light, which had reflected off the displays of glass on the street, the dim interior gave a soothing welcome. Jane felt her shoulders soften a little. Vincent, too, seemed to walk easier in the interior of the church. Along the walls, candles burned under small altars to Mary and saints that Jane did not recognise. The crucifix that hung at the front of the church had a gentle glamour about it so it shone as if with its own light.
Scattered on the pews, a few old women and one man with the curved spine of the very elderly sat with their heads bowed in prayer. Jane looked around for any sign of the vic—no, of the priest, or for someone who could tell them where he might be found.
Fortunately, the priest was instantly distinguishable by his long black cassock. He appeared to be in his middle years, with a slight belly and very red cheeks. His hair had once been brown, but had faded to the colour of nothing. At the sound of Vincent’s boot upon the stone floor, the priest turned round. His eyebrows raised in a slight question, as if wondering why these two people, who were not part of his congregation, had arrived.
Vincent dipped his head in lieu of touching his hat. In Italian, he said, “Good afternoon, Padre. We are … we are in need of advice and possibly aid. If you have a moment?”
“Of course.” The priest tucked his hands over his little belly and waited.
Gesturing to Jane, Vincent hesitated. She could see him trying and disposing of several sentences before he said bluntly, “My wife and I have been robbed and have no money for lodgings. Do you know of a place where we might stay the night?”
The priest frowned and shook his head. He looked to Jane with some sympathy. “Lost it all gambling, has he?”
Vincent flushed a deep red. Jane put her hand on his arm to still his chagrin. “No sir. He has over-simplified, perhaps. We were victims of a swindler, but I assure you that this was not my husband’s fault.”
The priest shook his head again, clearly not believing her. His gaze darted to Vincent and then back to her. “I have heard many such tales as yours, from gentlemen who found the pleasures of Venice to be more expensive than—”
“I do not lay wagers, sir.” Vincent’s voice was low and sharp.
The priest raised his eyebrows and turned his attention again to Jane. “How long have you been in Murano, madam?”
Jane took a breath to calm herself. They had few places to turn, and they needed this man’s help. “We have been in Murano these three weeks.”
“And you have made no acquaintances in that time?”
His scrutiny of their situation angered Jane, and yet made her feel unaccountably embarrassed, as though they were at fault for having been robbed. “We were, the entire time, with the gentleman who misled us. The English consul is not in residence at the moment, or we would apply to him for assistance.”
“And the capo di polizia? Did you report this to him?”
It would be more accurate to say that he had reported it to them, but Jane inclined her head.
“And what did he say?”
Vincent flecked a piece of lint off his sleeve. “He blamed us for being fools, quite as much as you do. Were I left to my own devices, I would sleep outside tonight, but my wife—” His breath sounded suddenly unsteady. “Are you able to help us, sir? Please.”
Stomach knotting at his distress, Jane reached for Vincent’s hand. His palm was slick with sweat, but cold.
“Of course.” The priest pulled a small scrap of paper and a lead pencil out of his pocket. He scribbled on it for a moment. “If you will take this to Signora Celsi, we can arrange a bed for your wife. It will be a roof over her head, if not what she is accustomed to.”
“And my husband?” Jane twisted her wedding ring, an idea slowly coming to her for if there were no lodging for Vincent.
“He is able-bodied and male. Venice’s charities are intended to provide means for those who cannot fend for themselves. Women, children, and the lame or ill.”
“Then I thank you for your time and c
harity.” Jane curtsied, without taking the paper.
“Jane. Truly. I can sleep outside one night.”
“No.”
Vincent took the paper from the priest. “Thank you, sir. If you will excuse us—”
But the priest had already turned back to attending the small altar. Stepping out into the courtyard again, Jane was surprised to see that the sun had not yet set. It seemed that the interview with the priest had taken a lifetime. Vincent exhaled heavily.
“I feel much the same.” The energy that they had given to banter on the way to the church had dissipated, and left Jane feeling flat and painfully aware that they had been taken from the palazzo before breaking their fast. The tightness of her stomach contributed to her general anxiety.
“I have slept out of doors before. It will do me no harm.”
Jane linked her arm through his and encouraged him to step away from the church. “But it will harm me. I have read too many novels and cannot shake the idea that if we are separated, we shall not see each other again.”
“Ah, but true love will always triumph. Is that not what the novels say?”
“Yes, but we are in the land of Romeo and Juliet.”
“What a happy thought that is.” He tilted his head back to study the sky. “Jane, stay in the church lodgings. It looks to be a dry night so do not worry. It is only one night.”
“Are you certain of that? Because I am not. Even if we find work tomorrow, do you have reasonable expectation of receiving payment on the same day?”
“I—No. So then it is more than one night. Still, that is not so—”
“No.” Jane stopped them in front of a shop. “I read the newspapers. People who sleep on the streets are killed, and I will not—you cannot ask me to—I cannot abide the thought of you doing so, not when we have another choice.”
“All right. What do you propose?”
“We sell my wedding ring—” Jane raised her hand to check the objection that rose instantly to his lips. “I spent two weeks without it and was no less married to you. When our funds are restored, we can repurchase it. Meanwhile, it will offer us the opportunity to find some lodgings and keep us from being so desperate that you are actually contemplating sleeping on the street.”
Vincent’s face undertook a clear struggle to restrain strong emotions. He turned—first his face, then his body—away from Jane as though to hide the effort of retaining his composure, until his turn brought him to face the store she had stopped them in front of. A pawnshop. He stood as one transfixed. “I—I cannot.”
“And I cannot take shelter knowing that you are outside. So we are at an impasse.”
“Jane, I made a vow to provide for you. Your father trusted me with you. To sell your—” His voice broke as if he were incapable of completing the thought.
“We made vows to care for each other. And as for my father, he will understand fully.”
“I do not know that I do.”
She hated adding to the distress of the day, but she was also quite certain that she was right. The ring was a symbol—and an important one, yes—but it was not their marriage. That needed nothing outward to cement it. “Do you love me?”
“You know I do.”
“And did you love me when I did not wear your ring?”
“Why must you use logic?”
She ignored his weak protest and pressed her advantage. “Further, you gave me this ring. Considering your theory that a husband’s role is to provide for his wife, it can be argued that selling this ring is, in fact, an extension of the care that you provide for me. Also, it gives me an opportunity to fulfil my own wedding vows to love you for richer, or for poorer.”
“I had thought we already lived through the ‘for worse’ portion of our vows.” Vincent gave a sigh that was closer to a groan. “It is difficult not to feel that I have failed as your husband.”
“You have not. Sanuto took many things, but not my faith in you. Do not let him take your faith in our marriage.”
“Ah, Muse…”
He let her steer him to the pawnshop and only hung back a little as they entered. When it came time to negotiate with the pawnbroker, Vincent proved to be a shrewd haggler. While the sum they arrived at was nowhere near the worth of the ring, it still managed to be respectable enough to allow them to secure a furnished room above a grocer. The remaining coins were tucked away for the day when they would repurchase the ring.
The room was up two narrow flights of stairs, nestled under the eaves of a roof. The plaster of the walls was largely intact, and the linens on the bed, though worn, were clean. A single table stood crammed between the bed and the wall, with a chair tucked under it. Across from it, a small hearth provided a draught for the room. Their wardrobe consisted of five wooden pegs on the wall. That comprised their furniture.
When they were at last in the room, with the door shut and the single candle lit, Vincent stood in the gable at the window. He stared out across Murano. “Well … at least we do not have to tell your mother that we were attacked by pirates.”
Eleven
An Accomplished Lady
Jane startled awake.
Beside her Vincent gave a strangled cry, as if a scream were escaping from his dreams. It had been months since his sleep had been disordered, but not so long that she did not immediately recognise his state. Jane half sat, and pressed a hand against his chest. A fine film of sweat covered him, and his heart beat against his rib cage. Moonlight through the window showed a hard line between his brows.
“Vincent?” She rubbed his chest, trying to wake him gently. “Vincent. It is a dream.”
He tensed; then his eyes dragged open and the tightness eased out of him. Vincent sagged under her hands. He wet his lips. “Thank you.”
Jane curled against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and he shifted to wrap his arm around her and pull her closer. She put one hand on his forehead to try to smooth the creases that remained there. “The old nightmares?”
“A variation, I think.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “That feels pleasant.”
“What was it?”
She felt his shrug under her cheek. “I could not find you. And … a ship? No. Perhaps a warehouse … It is fading already. It does not matter.”
“Can I do anything?”
He shook his head, rustling the pillowcase. “You do enough already.” Vincent took her hand and kissed it. He rolled onto his side with his back to her and pulled her arm around him, cradling her hand against his chest.
With her other hand, Jane traced the visible scars on his back, left from his encounter with Napoleon’s men. The scars left by Sanuto were not visible, but were no less deep for it.
* * *
Neither of them slept well. Even apart from Vincent’s nightmare, every time Jane rolled over, it seemed that a different piece of straw in the mattress found its way through the ticking. The bed, too, was not quite wide enough for both of them to lie prone: one of them must always be on their side or tucked under the other. When the sun rose, so did she, and so did Vincent.
Her stomach growled to announce that it was awake as well. They had been so tired upon reaching their room that seeking food had seemed an overwhelming task. Today, though, she would have to find something for them. Jane stared at the small grate in the hearth and rubbed her hair in consternation. She had never cooked anything more than toast and water for tea.
Well … as they had neither bread nor a kettle, she would not be making either of those enormously complicated dishes. She turned to the chemise that she had worn the day before and began to dress. As she slipped it over her head, she wrinkled her nose at the sour smell. Jane realized that she had no notion of how to launder it. Frowning, she said, “I am beginning to wish that I had somewhat more practical accomplishments.”
“Hm?” Vincent stood by the window, buttoning his trousers. “You are very accomplished.”
“Music, glamour, painting … but I do not know how to cook or
to do the washing, which, you must admit, would be more useful in our present circumstances.”
“Glamour has proved useful thus far in our marriage.”
“True, and probably will be so again.” Today, they could begin to try to find work. Jane had no notion of how to go about that, since all of their commissions in England had come from referrals or people already familiar with Vincent’s work. It had never occurred to her to wonder about what his early career was like. She had only known him after he established himself. “When you first started as a glamourist, how did you find work?”
“Hm? Oh. I had recommendations from Herr Scholes and J. M. W. Turner of the Royal Academy. Prinny, too, once he heard what I was about, though that came later.”
“And today … without letters of recommendation, how should we proceed?”
He pulled his waistcoat on. “We? I thought to do this alone—not because I think I am more able, but because for small jobs it is unlikely that anyone would require two glamourists.”
“And you are a man.”
“This is not a matter of masculine pride.”
“I meant that they will take you more seriously. For all that glamour is considered a womanly art, the only professionals are gentlemen, as with dancing and painting.”
Vincent opened his mouth and then closed it again. He snorted. “Do you know, I had not realized that. But of course it makes sense, because women are not required to have a profession in the way that men are.”
“I think that may be true for women of gentle birth, but certainly we have seen maids enough. To say nothing of cooks, dressmakers, and milliners.”
“True…” he said slowly, as if considering her words. “But, our partnership aside, it is still more natural for a woman to remain at home.”
Jane sighed, rubbing her forehead. Under other circumstances, she would be very tempted to give him a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s The Rights of Women. In the moment, though, she felt unequal to the task of explaining the thesis. “When we are back in England, I have a book I should like you to read. For the moment … you have a valid point that you are more likely to find work as a glamourist than I am.”
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