“Jane, please. Please.” His voice was rough, as though it took all his power to force words out. “I am sorry.”
She tucked her skirts around her and sat beside him. Jane stared across the room, trying to find her way through all the possible words to the ones that would make a difference. Everything she thought to say seemed as though it would hurt him more.
Jane slid her hand around Vincent’s upper arm and leaned against him. His breath caught in a sound that might have been a laugh, or a cough, or a sob. Then he held utterly still again, not even breathing. Jane waited with her head against his shoulder as Vincent wrestled with himself.
She felt him let his breath out and then draw it raggedly in again. She waited as successive breaths passed, each a little steadier, until he lowered his hands. Vincent sniffed and gave a small laugh. “I have left my handkerchief in my coat.”
“I have found that sleeves work well, in a pinch.”
He chuckled—if Jane were being charitable—and wiped his sleeve across his face. “Muse, you are a wonder.”
“I love you.”
His exhalation sounded almost as if she had punched him, but Vincent wrapped his arms around her and rested his head atop hers. “I am so sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“You know that is not true.”
“But I do not.”
“We would be on the street if not for you. I have been a self-indulgent ass.”
“You have been trying. It is not your fault that there is no work.”
“No? I keep wondering if my success in England was due to who my friends were, rather than any innate talent. That is the problem.” He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned his head back against the wall. “I can tell myself that there is nothing shameful about our circumstances. I did not make wagers. We are safe. We are reasonably comfortable—if cold.”
“But?”
“But … it seems that my father was right. If he … I was raised to believe that perfection was the only acceptable choice, and I … I have been failing—” His voice roughened again, and she could feel him fighting the emotion. When he spoke next, his voice was steady. “I have been failing for months. At glamour. At being a husband. At everything I set my hands to.”
Jane slid her hand down his arm until she could intertwine her fingers with his. “Is your father more important than I am?”
“What? No.”
“Then why do you persist in holding his opinion higher than mine?”
“I am—” His voice cracked into nothing. Vincent looked away, closing his eyes, and cleared his throat. “I will do better.”
Jane rolled to her knees. Taking his face between her hands, Jane turned him toward her. “Vincent. You do not have to do better. You are already everything that I want. Whether we are living in a garret or Carlton House, I will love you. Stop letting that man punish you when you have done nothing wrong.”
He looked utterly unmoored. “But what have I done right?”
“Married me?”
The corner of his mouth curved upwards. “Yes.” He flexed his hands, and then clenched them again.
“And your father is wrong. Glamour is a noble art, and this will pass.”
He nodded, as though he were trying to believe her.
Jane leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. “My governess was forever saying, ‘You will feel better if you wash your face.’” She paused, and then took a chance. “I have some soap.”
Vincent laughed. The laughter grew beyond what her joke merited, and he leaned forward to rest his head on her shoulder. Jane folded her arms around him and held him while each ragged breath shook him. She had never thought that laughter could break her heart.
* * *
Jane had difficulty focusing on her charges at the convent the next day. She was tutoring Lucia in the use of glamour at the pianoforte. Though the girl had an admirable grasp of glamour, she could not hold Jane’s attention. At every gap in instruction, her gaze turned to the stained windows and the rain that trickled down their exteriors. Vincent would be unable to busk again today. He had seemed somewhat easier in spirit after the soap conversation, and he had slept deeply that night, seemingly without a nightmare, but Jane did not feel confident that his spirits would remain lifted.
When she finished at the convent, she hurried home, pausing only long enough to pick up a loaf of bread from the convent kitchen. On the way up to the apartment, she slowed and tried to keep the stairs from creaking. At the top, she listened for sounds from the apartment that might betray Vincent’s state. She heard a single, low curse.
Biting her lip, Jane pushed the door to the apartment open and stopped in surprise.
Glamour wreathed the room, creating the illusion of an orangery with glass walls opening on to a rolling English landscape. The orange trees arched overhead beneath a vaulted glass ceiling in the Gothic style. Their bed still stood in one corner, and though Vincent had done nothing to the furniture itself, its setting made it appear charmingly rustic. An inviting aroma of oranges, earth, and herbs drifted through the room.
Vincent stood over their small table with an onion in one hand. He had shaved. “You are early.”
The earthy aroma, which mingled with the illusory oranges, was not the work of glamour—but came from the hearth. Their small pot bubbled with rice and beans. “Are you cooking dinner?”
He blushed and scratched the back of his head. “Trying, at any rate.”
Jane set her basket down by the door. Even the floor had been worked over, so it appeared to be made of broad grey flagstones. She turned, slowly, to look at the whole glamural. It was still unfinished, but she could see the illusion it would be when he completed it. “Vincent, this is beautiful.”
“You were right.”
“About what?”
“When you said that I would feel better with some occupation. You were right.”
Language fled from Jane’s grasp. She could only cross the room and embrace him. His cheeks were smooth, and he smelled of lavender.
Their conversation after that was not in words, but was no less sincere for it.
When they parted from the embrace, Jane found her words. “Thank you.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “I thought you would be out longer.” He gestured to a shrub outside the glass wall. “I am not quite happy with the perspective.”
Jane looked at her husband, holding the onion, then over to the cooking pot. She smiled at him. “From my perspective, everything is beautiful.”
Fifteen
A Flight of Doves
Jane stood at the front of the choir as they finished rehearsals for the next service. She had grouped the girls in sets of three so they could handle the longer threads between them without strain. Sister Maria Agnes had been unfamiliar with the yoked technique that she and Vincent sometimes used to work at distances. It was similar to the Y-shaped stand that a glassmaker might use to steady a blowpipe but was composed of glamour. With it, a glamourist could treble the distance she could ordinarily reach. Using this technique from the choir loft meant that the girls could cause their flight of doves to pass over the congregation’s head, instead of being confined to the space close to the choir.
Sister Maria Agnes had charge of the singers and now stood beaming at the group. “Ladies, you have done very well today. I am very proud of you. Due to the rain, we shall take our recess in the warehouse before lunch.” She looked to Jane, and nodded giving her space to speak.
“Thank you for your work today. Your coordination was admirable.” She looked the glamourists over. The girls were all flushed, and more than one still breathed quickly. “Make sure to be careful on the stairs, and if you need to sit for a few minutes before going out, please do. It is better to be cautious than vain.”
Laughing, they clattered down the stairs, but Jane noticed that some of the older girls stayed close to the younger ones and kept an eye on them. That consideratio
n made her even more proud than the glamour they had created.
“It is a good group,” she commented as she gathered up her sheet music.
Sister Maria Agnes nodded. “The Abbess reminds them that we are all equal in the sight of God, and, eventually, they start to believe her. Oh, but you would not want to be here at the start of a school year, when the wealthy girls first get mingled in with the ‘pickpockets and thieves.’ Poor Lucia … But, the girls from the street are often easier to mould than the finest lady.”
“They know what they have gained, coming here.” Jane tapped the edges of her music to straighten them.
“Oh, my dear, I did not mean to remind you … That is … I mean, your situation is not at all the … Except it is the same, I suppose.” She sighed. “I should really blame this on my poor Italian, but even in German I can say the stupidest things. Einen ziemlichen Bockmist verzapfen—Lucia? What do you need?”
Her sentences ran so much together that it took Jane a moment to see that Lucia had returned to the choir loft. The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Pardon, ma’am, but Lady Vincent’s husband is here.”
Jane almost dropped the pages she was holding. Another letter must have come. Or Lord Byron was back. Or Vincent was injured. Or the apartment had caught on fire. Or, more likely, he just wanted to walk her home. She set the score down carefully. “Thank you, Lucia.”
Sister Maria Agnes beamed and followed Jane and Lucia to the stairs. The long, winding stone staircase echoed with the sound of their footsteps in a peculiar syncopated rhythm. Jane was hard-pressed not to slip past Lucia and run. It was so hard to set a good example sometimes.
She rounded the last turn in the stairs and stepped out into the sanctuary. Vincent was standing by the front entrance of the small church, and his face lit when he saw Jane. Her knees weakened with relief. Nothing bad had happened.
Vincent carried her shopping basket over one arm and fairly vibrated with energy. “Can you come with me?”
“What is it?”
He hesitated, glancing at Sister Maria Agnes and Lucia, then gave a little nod of decision. “I saw the pirate captain.”
“What!” Jane’s surprise was so great that the idea of governing her tone did not even occur to her. The word burst forth like a flock of doves and echoed around the sanctuary.
The nun’s exclamation was just as loud as Jane’s, but in German—and, she was fairly certain, not entirely proper. She said something very fast to Vincent.
He replied, then spoke Italian for Jane’s benefit. “Yes. He was disguised, but I am quite certain it was him.”
“Dear Lord in Heaven—” Sister Maria Agnes appeared to suddenly remember Lucia, who stared at Vincent as if she were quite smitten with him. “If you will excuse us, dear. I think it is time for you to rejoin your sisters.”
The girl clearly wanted to stay, caught by the romance of the words “pirate captain,” but she gave another little curtsy and hurried out of the church. Jane waited for her to leave before voicing her next thought.
It seemed impossible that the pirate captain should have returned to Murano. Vincent had been distressed for so long that she was half afraid that he was imagining things. Jane studied him, looking for any sign of disordered senses. “You were—forgive me for pointing this out, but you were not fully conscious on the ship and saw the captain only once. Is there a chance you are mistaken?”
“I watched him as he searched your person. You may be certain that I marked his face very thoroughly. It was absolutely him, though he has trimmed his moustache and adopted to the clothing of a Venetian gentleman. But I doubted myself as well, so I followed him. Would you care to guess where he went?”
“Ca’ Sanuto?”
Vincent shook his head. “He went to Signor Querini, who appeared to greet him most cordially.”
* * *
They left their shopping basket with Sister Maria Agnes. She was nearly as excited as they were by what the appearance of the pirate captain might mean and, with their full approval, went to tell the Abbess.
As Jane and Vincent hurried through the rain, they speculated on the possibilities. It seemed likeliest that he had returned to Murano to ask Querini to make more Verres Obscurcis. Vincent explained that before coming to fetch Jane, he had followed the pirate captain back to a large private residence not far from the square where he busked. Unwilling to let him get away, Vincent had hired the Pulcinella puppet player to watch the palazzo and let him know if the man left the island, and then ran to find Jane. He said that he knew she would be vexed if he did not.
At the police station, Vincent held the door for Jane as they stepped into the vestibule. From there they entered the main office hall, and Vincent stepped up to the desk where Gendarme Gallo sat.
The polizia looked up, smiling, and set his quill aside. “Sir David, good to see you.”
“Good afternoon. Is the capo di polizia in?” Vincent nodded to the office door, although it stood open and the office was clearly empty.
“Afraid not, but I’ll tell him you came.” He took up his quill again and drew the tally sheet toward him on which he recorded the Vincents’ continued presence in Murano.
“Perhaps you might help, then.”
Gallo raised an eyebrow at this break in routine. “Of course I would be happy to, if I can. What is the trouble?”
“I have seen one of the men who swindled us.”
“What? In Murano?”
Vincent could hardly have seen the man elsewhere, as they were not allowed to leave the island, but Jane held her tongue.
“Yes, sir.”
The polizia frowned and wrote this down. “I will tell the capo.”
“I—ah—thought that you might want to arrest him now.”
“Is he disturbing the peace?”
Vincent narrowed his eyes. “Beyond swindling us, you mean?”
Gallo spread his hands as if helpless. “I have only your word on that.”
Jane’s nostrils flared at the insinuation. “Are you suggesting that we are lying?”
“Not at all. Merely that you might be mistaken, and I must leave all such decisions in the hands of the capo di polizia.”
Vincent’s teeth ground audibly, but he retained his visible composure. “And if the man should leave before the capo’s return?”
“Then that would be unfortunate.” The polizia replied in an equally placid tone. “But I shall tell the capo as soon as he returns.” He slid the paper aside and tapped it, as if in promise of his actions.
Jane stared at the paper. “Then … would it not be advisable to write down where and when my husband saw the man?”
The polizia’s complexion changed some at that, becoming paler, not redder with embarrassment, as one might expect. His countenance made it clear that he knew he had made an error. Jane knew with a sudden certainty that he would say nothing to the capo di polizia. Gallo recovered quickly, though, and pulled the tally sheet toward himself again. “Of course. Where did you say you saw the pirate?”
Vincent stared at him for a moment, no doubt struck by the same thing that Jane was. “I think it would be best if we waited for the Chief’s return. When did you say he would be back?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.” Gallo set his quill back down. “I would hope that you are not considering any actions for which I might need to arrest you. It would be a shame if you were to lose the freedom that the capo di polizia has so unexpectedly allowed you.”
With a chill, Jane remembered that this was the officer who had found the promissory note in Vincent’s pocket. It seemed to her that he had known, that he must have known it would be there. His current threats were very clearly those of someone who was in the employ of Sanuto.
And he had also known that the man who Vincent had seen was one of the pirates, without Vincent ever telling him. The same thought must have occurred to Vincent because he gave the polizia a short bow. “Of course. I will not take up any more of your time.”
“I
t is no trouble at all.” The polizia picked up the paper he had written the note to the capo on and put it in the drawer. He slid the drawer shut. “I am glad that we understand each other.”
Vincent led Jane to the door. She could feel the restrained tension in his arm. When they were on the threshold, the polizia said, “I will expect to see you tomorrow with your usual report.”
“Of course.” Vincent opened the door, and they left as quickly as possible without actually running out of the station.
A few streets away, Vincent directed them under a gallery and stopped. “Are we agreed that Gallo is in their employment?” He did not need to say who “they” were.
Jane nodded. “The question for me is whether the capo is as well.”
“Either way, the polizia is going to alert them to the fact that we know they are here.”
Jane straightened the cuffs of her coat. “Then we should see what we can find out before they do.”
Vincent smiled and offered Jane his arm. “I love you. Very much.”
* * *
Jane and Vincent hurried through the streets to the square. As they entered it, the Pulcinella puppet player stepped out of his booth, which he had set up under a colonnade. In spite of having a dry area around him, passers-by hurried past without so much as slowing.
The puppet player was a youngish man who was so exceedingly slender that he could have played Juliet in the days when Shakespeare’s plays had been performed entirely by men. He was introduced as Signor Zancani. He nodded toward the building. “Two more men have arrived, but I’ve not seen anyone leave. ’Course, I can’t see the canal entrance from here, but everyone who arrived on foot is still in the building.”
“Thank you.” Staring at the building, Vincent handed the young man a few coins.
Waving them away, Zancani said, “No, no. I didn’t protest when you said ‘hire’ because you were in a hurry. If you want to do me a good turn, put a banner over my booth the next time the weather is nice.”
“Why not today?”
He shrugged. “Because no one will stop today. I’m just here because I had some repairs to do to a puppet.”
Valour and Vanity Page 18