Glamour in Glass Read online

  Even with her deep admiration for her husband’s skills, Jane could scarcely imagine the sheer strength it would take to work glamour from such a distance. As with a small stone, in the hand it might seem to weigh nothing, but if one held it at the end of a pole, it became increasingly difficult to manage. Though glamour borrowed the language of textiles to describe it, there were ways in which the manipulation of glamour also resembled water. One might direct a jet across a fountain, but it always wanted to return to the ground, widening into a mist as it curved downward. So too, with glamour: a glamourist could hold a strand of light pulled from the ether and direct it across a room, only to see it bend and lose its resolution. A skilled glamourist learned to adjust the ways in which the strand left his hands to compensate for its propensity to return to the ether, but it took much greater effort than producing a glamour at close range. To create a glamour from the base of a clock tower would have required great strength and steadiness of hand.

  “Oh, it is quite true.” Skiffy leaned in again, so that she could see the powder on his cheeks. “They all thought that something had gone wrong with the mechanism, and were after the clock-keeper’s head. The poor fellow was up to his arms in the gears when Hami—when Vincent relented and withdrew the glamour. It happened right as the fellow pulled out a gear that truly broke the clock. Do you know what your husband did then? The great curmudgeon proved that it was all an act, for he stood beneath the clock tower and retied his glamour so that it showed the clock running the correct direction. He saved the clock-keeper’s job by that, and I think it very handsome of him.”

  Jane could not be surprised by the generosity her husband had shown, but her attention was drawn again to that detail of distance in Skiffy’s telling. If Vincent were able to create a clock illusion from so great a distance, perhaps he could retie the knot in the fish without drawing unwelcome attention to himself. Jane would have to stand and walk over to the section of the wall, which, besides the attention it would draw to her, would be rude to his royal highness … Prinny, that is.

  At the foot of the table, Vincent was now engaged in conversation with Lady Hertford. He did not spare a glance in her direction. Her attempt to reassure him had, it seemed, been too successful.

  Perhaps her fears were amplified by the company she kept, and yet Jane could not help thinking of the courses yet to come and estimating the time which remained for the dinner. Would the knot continue to slip, or might it hold through the meal? She pushed the asparagus on her plate, unable to think of anything else. While the question of a few fish might seem but a trifle, to Jane, placed as she was in a position above her rank merely on the merits of the work around them, the thought of having the glamour fail at this moment was a thing of horror. To be sure, knots did sometimes come undone, but the Prince Regent, for all that he styled himself Prinny, had not paid them for inferior work. Left to its own, it would come undone before the end of dinner, and it would likely damage the coral with it. The work they would have before them to have it repaired in time for the official opening of the ballroom tomorrow would be immense.

  Jane bit the inside of her mouth. No. No matter how honoured they were by this small dinner, the simple fact was that her role in life had shifted from guest to artisan, and, as such, her duties were clear. She set her knife and fork on the table and lifted the serviette out of her lap.

  The Prince stopped in mid-sentence, and Jane realized that she had again lost track of his conversation. “Are you unwell, Mrs. Vincent?”

  “I am quite well, thank you.” She could not bring herself to call him Prinny. “Only I have noticed a spot in the glamour to which I must attend.”

  “Now? During dinner? Surely you have worked hard enough to have some rest.” The Prince shook his head in wonder. “I see why Mr. Vincent finds you so appealing. You have the same focus on work that he does.”

  “And yet, not his skills. I am afraid that if the knot I have noticed comes undone it will require more effort to fix later. It will be but a moment, and then I shall be better able to focus on enjoying the evening.”

  Pushing his chair back, the Prince Regent said, “I know the artist’s temperament too well to attempt to dissuade you again.”

  For that, at least, Jane was grateful. But when he arose to pull out her chair, conversation in the room stopped and all the guests attempted to rise themselves, unable to remain seated while their prince stood. Vincent rose as well, his face filled with alarm. The Prince Regent waved them back to their seats before resuming his own seat.

  Jane smiled with as little concern as she could muster, though her heart raced as if she had already begun to work the glamour. “Please ignore me. I do not wish to disturb.”

  Keeping her head down, Jane walked across the ballroom floor as quickly as she could.

  In moments, Vincent was by her side. “Jane, are you well?” His low voice grumbled in his chest, but the hand he pressed against her elbow spoke of deep concern.

  “Embarrassed, rather. This school of fish is coming untied.” She stopped in front of the window in the coral and reached out to grasp the line of glamour that the fish twined around. “Please sit down. There is no sense in both of us standing here. It will be some moments before it comes round again, and as this is one of my illusions, the error is entirely my fault.” Letting the thread trail loosely in her fingers, she waited for the knot to reappear.

  Vincent did not move from her side, and she could feel the warmth of him even through the heavy material of his coat. It was Bath coating, not the superfine which “Skiffy” so abhorred. Jane took a strange and momentary pleasure in that before she chided herself. They were not fashionable members of society who had to worry about these things, and being in such people’s company would seduce her into wanting pretty clothes which she did not need. Still, she thought that her husband cut a fine picture, and that there was no harm in thinking so.

  “Will you not sit?” She turned to find him staring at her with an endearing smile.

  “Because you ask, I shall. Muse.” He leaned forward as if to kiss her, and then gave a side-glance at the company, who had all turned in their seats to watch them. Straightening, he offered her the most correct of courtesies from husband to wife, and returned to his seat.

  Jane set her back to the rest of the ballroom, grateful for that pretence of privacy. When the knot came under her fingers, she tightened her grasp to stop the fish. Carefully, she inched the two schools toward the proper relation to one another and then tied the knot with a triple hitch. It was less elegant than the nœud marin she had used before, but was unlikely to come undone.

  Letting her attention return to the room, she stepped back from her work and was pleased to note that the diners had stopped paying her any heed. In truth, even the most astute observer would have noted only a woman standing with her back to the room, because the adjustments she had to make to the glamour were too subtle to be noticed. Only Vincent watched her, and offered her one of his rare and radiant smiles. Flushed more than the small amount of glamour merited, Jane returned to her seat, managing to slip into it with the aid of a footman before the Prince Regent noticed that she had rejoined the table.

  She was thus prepared to enjoy the rest of the meal … until the table turned, and “Skiffy” claimed her attention.

  Two

  Art and Talent

  Jane’s perturbation was not due to any unkindness on the part of Sir Lumley. He was everything that is agreeable in a dinner conversationist: witty without being cruel, well-informed without being showy, and a gracious listener. But this very solicitude was what caused her some discomfort, for what Skiffy was most interested in hearing about was her impending trip to Europe, a trip of which Jane had no knowledge.

  Indeed, the war had so recently ended that Jane was not yet accustomed to thinking of the Continent as a place to which one might go. In her mother’s day, a tour abroad was quite the thing, but they had been at war with France since Jane was a child.


  Concerns of unrest seemed trivial to Skiffy’s view of the Continent. “I am so excited that you are going abroad. Travel is so improving to one’s character, do you not agree? I find that the most interesting people come from the Continent. Of course, one might be biased in that it is possible all the interesting people come here and leave only the dull ones there, but it is very much to be hoped that is not the case. In any case, I have so many friends who have gone to Brussels, some of them on the ‘economical plan,’ if you take my meaning. Financial difficulties would not be your reason for going, of course, and I am certain that with Prinny’s patronage you can gain entrée into all the best houses there.”

  “That would be most generous of him.”

  “When do you set out? I must know so I can write to my friends and tell them to look for you.”

  Jane looked again to the end of the table where Vincent sat, wishing she knew whence this belief in their going to the Continent had sprung, but her husband’s attention was occupied by the lady on his left, who was speaking with some animation. “We have hardly set our plans. I would hesitate to venture a guess which might cause you to lead your friends astray.”

  “Well then, I shall tell them they must look for you whenever you arrive.”

  “But indeed, we might not go to Brussels at all.”

  “Surely not Paris? Oh, that would be heaven. M. Lecomte aside, the French have quite the head for fashion. Everything is in the best taste there. I am so glad you are going to Paris.”

  Across the table, Lord Chesterford snorted, saving her a reply. “All this sallying forth to the Continent is in bad taste, if you ask my opinion. We defeated those cursed frenchies, and it was deuced hard to do—begging your pardon, ladies. Why the devil—pardon—anyone would go fawn at their feet in the name of Fashion now is beyond me.”

  “Oh, Fordy, you really must control yourself. The war is over. What more is there to say?”

  “Over?” His moustache fairly quivered with indignation. “My brother left an arm there, and you speak to me of ‘over’? Mark me: those frogs will be no end of trouble. Giving the Corsican Ogre leave to continue to rule is a travesty, after what we went through.”

  From farther down the table, Lord Fairchild abandoned his dinner partner to say, “Napoleon is ‘ruling’—if you can call it that—the tiniest of islands. I scarcely think he can mount an invasion from there.”

  “But his followers might.” Lord Chesterford huffed through his moustache. “Mark me: those cursed Bonapartists will use the youth of the Ogre’s son as an excuse to place a regent on the throne.”

  The gentlemen conversed across the table in increasingly heated tones until the Prince cleared his throat. “This is hardly a topic of conversation suitable for the ladies. I think it is time for us to allow them to withdraw.”

  With that, the party broke up, and the ladies retreated to the Blue Room.

  The moment they set foot outside the grand ballroom, the men began their conversation anew. Jane could not help but feel sorry to be shooed out, because the topic had been of some interest to her.

  After the overt glamour of the ballroom, the Blue Room seemed positively staid, though it was appointed in the best manner. The walls were covered in blue damask which matched the upholstery. Gilt frames bordered the walls, with cleverly rendered oysters on the half shell in each corner. By the very absence of glamour, the Prince Regent displayed his taste and means here as much as in the ballroom, because everything from the elaborate carpet to the massive crystal chandelier was real.

  Real gold gilded the arms of the chairs. Real candles stood in the sconces instead of fairy lights, so rather than the faint glow of glamoured light, the room truly was bright and airy.

  The only glamour in the room adorned the ceiling, which had a glamural of sky and clouds drifting in a simple repeating pattern. The clouds circled the chandelier so that the crystals would not catch and diffract their glamoured folds. The effect seemed one part dance, one part storm—very like life at court itself.

  The ladies echoed the movements of the clouds, drifting together in small knots. Jane found herself in a circle of five women who were comparing the merits of the gentlemen who had attended dinner. The topics ranged from the cut of their coats to their hairdressers to what subjects the ladies had been forced to endure during dinner. More than one had learned countless details about the pointer that her dinner companion favoured. Then the conversation drifted—as it tended to in these circumstances—to those who were not present, with shockingly cutting comments directed at Lady so-and-so’s gown or Miss someone’s latest conquest.

  Jane had been introduced to these ladies before dinner, but otherwise had no acquaintance with them, so she tried to find it perfectly natural that they should speak so of their supposed friends. And yet they drew closer to each other as they chattered, gradually leaving her standing outside their group. Ill at ease, she wandered to the walls of the drawing room to study the portraits there.

  As she worked her way slowly around the room, one portrait in an older style quite took her. It depicted a young boy mounted on a pony. He held a sabre over his head and looked as if he would charge into battle at any moment, for all the roundness of his cheeks and the becoming smile on his lips. His face possessed such an open friendliness that she felt herself steadier, even if her company were only a painting.

  After a few moments, Jane sensed that someone had joined her. At her side now stood the inimitable Lady Hertford, who also gazed at the painting. This celebrated beauty’s very presence lent the room an additional elegance. Her claret velvet dress might have been chosen as a deliberate complement to the blue walls. The line of her neck would have been a welcome subject for any artist. Without breaking her attention to the painting they both looked at, Lady Hertford said, “I think that Prinny still has the same smile, on his good days.”

  “Is it his highness?”

  “Painted by Ramsey, when Prinny was seven. He has told me how he hated sitting still for it, but he was promised he could keep the sword if he did. He still has it, you know.”

  “I did not. Have you known his highness long?”

  “We have been in the same set since our parents were children, but only became familiar these last few years.” Lady Hertford took Jane’s arm and steered her down the long gallery of the Blue Room. With a contemptuous glance over her shoulder, she said, “Please do not let them bother you. They cannot cause any true harm, but most of them are too silly to know how to deal with anything of substance. Faced with a woman who can actually do things, such as yourself, they simply do not know what to talk about.”

  At once relieved that she had not imagined being cut out of the conversation and disheartened that it had not been her imagination, Jane tried to brush off their rudeness. “But it is only natural that they should talk of acquaintances that they know. I shall be gone tomorrow.”

  “Ah, but I sought you out because you will be gone tomorrow. A pleasure that is fleeting must be seized when it is present. I am such an admirer of your work. I wish I could do glamour as you can.”

  “I am certain you could. It is only a matter of practice, as with any of the arts.”

  Lady Hertford laughed, a silver, gay laugh that tinkled like bells and put Jane in mind of her sister, Melody. “That is lovely of you to say, my dear, but I rather suspect that glamour comes so easily for you that you do not recognise how difficult it is for others.”

  “I do not deny that it is difficult, only put forth the argument that with perseverance anyone can overcome those difficulties. You saw this evening how I had to correct an error.” Jane faltered, wondering if she should perhaps return to the ballroom to ascertain if her repair to the fish were holding. “It is an art that I am still learning, and it takes a great deal of effort.”

  “You see how you prove my point in an instant? I could not even see what it was you were doing, though your husband explained it to me when he returned to his seat. I watched you fixed
ly and try as I might, I could not see a flaw, nor what you were changing. I only knew that you had done something when Mr. Vincent grunted.”

  “I had not intended for him to abandon you. I should apologize on Vincent’s account.”

  “Now see, that is something else I find perfectly charming about you: the way you use his surname like a man. It is très moderne. I think I might adopt it with my own husband, should I ever see him again.”

  Jane stifled the impulse to explain that Vincent was his given name but everyone in this group, save apparently Skiffy and Prinny, knew him as Mr. David Vincent, the glamourist, and not as Vincent Hamilton, third son of the Earl of Verbury. She wondered if she would rise in the other women’s estimation if they knew, then dismissed the thought as unworthy. Vincent had offered to retake his given name and his place as his father’s son when he married her, but she had refused, since it would mean giving up his art.

  His art was his life, and hers as well.

  “It is easier to refer to him by the same name our employer uses when working on a commission, lest they wonder who ‘David’ is, and eventually I fell into the habit of it.” Jane stopped and turned to her companion. “I can teach you the basic principles of glamour, if you would like.”

  “That is too kind of you, but I cannot do glamour.”

  “Truly, you do yourself a disservice by believing so without making the attempt.”

  “Ah, I am unclear. My doctor advises me not to perform glamour.” She let her hand rest on her stomach so briefly that Jane might have imagined it, but Lady Hertford’s meaning was clear: she was increasing. Of course she could not work glamour in such a state, without risk to her unborn child.

  “Perhaps after your confinement, then.”

  “I would delight in that.”

  “I congratulate you and your husband.”