Of Noble Family Read online

  It was such a desolate tradition. When Christ had risen after the third day, he had let the disciples stick their fingers in his wounds, saying, “Let there be no illusions here.” So, while in mourning, a house stood bare to the eye to remind the inhabitants of the one who was lost. Even here in Vienna, Jane and Vincent had pulled the glamour from the house as a gesture of respect for the death of the Prince Regent’s heir and her son. As bare as a house in mourning … which meant that there would be little work for glamourists in Britain in general and none at all for the Prince Regent’s glamourist.

  Herr Scholes cleared his throat. “Well, I had a letter from one of my pupils, who is starting a school for girls in London and has asked me to help her find glamourist teachers. She is one of Sir David’s former pupils, so I naturally thought to ask if you and he might be interested.”

  “Possibly.” It would be very agreeable to remain in one place for a while. Their tour of the continent had been extended rather longer than they had originally planned. Jane turned to get Vincent’s opinion, more than a little surprised that he had not expressed some curiosity about the project.

  He sat in the window in a state of shock, though not at Herr Scholes’s news. His face was a blank mask, breath held, as he stared at one of the letters that Mr. O’Brien had brought in. From Jane’s seat, she could make out a black border on the edge of the paper. That, with his rigid expression, could only mean that he had received word of a death.

  “Vincent?”

  “Hm?” He shook himself and looked up. “Forgive me. I was not quite listening. What were you saying?”

  Melody, who was less acquainted with his moods, said, “Herr Scholes has a possible situation for you.”

  “That is very kind.” He looked down at the letter again, folding it so the border no longer showed.

  “It is a school for glamourists. In London! Is that not grand?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Speaking of learning glamour … Herr Scholes, would you tell my sister about your grandson’s first use of the art?” Jane tried to draw the group’s attention away from Vincent. He was clearly discomfited—or, rather, it was clear to Jane that he was distressed. To another, he might appear merely distant or unconcerned. His agitation was marked by a layer of excessive calm spoilt only by a faint tremor in his hand as he turned the folded letter over and over.

  He made a show of listening to Melody and Herr Scholes compare notes about infant glamour, but his gaze stared through them as if he were watching the ether. Jane tried to think of some errand that could offer her an excuse to take Vincent out of the room and find out what news he had received. She now rather wished they had not invited Herr Scholes to stay for dinner.

  Before she could think of a ruse, Vincent stood and crossed the room to Jane. He leaned down, handing her the letter, and whispered, “My father is dead.”

  Two

  A Letter of Note

  At his words, Jane looked up sharply from the letter he had handed her. “Are you all right?”

  “I hardly know. Will you forgive me if I…?” He flexed his hands in an unconscious gesture, as if he was already reaching for glamour to calm himself. Or, if not to calm himself, at least to work himself to exhaustion in an effort to clear his head.

  “Of course.” Louder, she said, “Would you mind fetching that book we were discussing?”

  Vincent nodded in thanks. “It is upstairs.” With apologies to the small gathering, all of whom were so occupied with Tom they paid him little mind, Vincent slipped out of the room.

  It had taken Jane a long time to understand his need for privacy while he contended with his feelings. He had spent too long trying to be the model of manliness that his father expected, to be at all comfortable freely expressing any troubles. Still, she planned to look in on him later.

  The ceiling creaked overhead as Vincent paced in their apartments upstairs. She could picture him with his chin tucked deep into his collar in thought, hands clenched behind his back, as though he were a lecturer. When his strides overhead stopped, the picture changed to him standing in the middle of their bedchamber working one of his vast abstract glamours.

  Even in death, Vincent’s father had the power to disturb his sensibilities. If she had not already abhorred the man, his ability to distress her husband would have provided her with ample reason. She slid her chair back a little from the group and unfolded the letter, to acquaint herself with the details of Lord Verbury’s death.

  Verbury Court

  5 January 1818

  Sir David Vincent

  My dear Vincent,

  I do not know if I still have the right to call you brother, but I am writing to you as a brother, so shall take that familiarity. Our father is dead. I do not expect that you will mourn him, but it is necessary that I tell you of his death. He died at our West Indian estate in Antigua last August after suffering a stroke. He had been weakened by yellow fever and I understand did not linger long.

  The second death that I must tell you of weighs more heavily. Our brother Garland celebrated his ascendance as the newly made Earl of Verbury with the purchase of a barouche-landau for himself and invited me out for a drive to Lyme Regis. The roads are not always the best in September, and our carriage was upset. I do not recall the details, but the results I know too well. Garland was killed. I was left with a broken arm and a foot so injured that it had to be removed.

  Garland’s death leaves me the earl. It is not a position in which I ever thought I would find myself.

  It is on this point that I write to you to beg for your help. I know that you have long been estranged from the family and that I did nothing to ease the suffering that our father inflicted upon you. I was a coward. The fact that I told you this in our youth does not excuse it. I simply want to acknowledge that I have no right to expect aid, when I did not extend the same charity to you.

  There is apparently a newer will in Antigua, which will be released only to one of his sons. It does not say which one. I cannot go. Would you be willing to be a Hamilton again, long enough to set the estate in order? You are, let us be honest, better suited to the task than I, in ways which have nothing to do with my health. You studied at university. I studied only horses, the cut of coats, and the inside of gin houses. I was a second son. I expected to die without ever having any more responsibility than to avoid embarrassing the family. You left and fashioned a new path.

  I do not wish to drag you back into the tangled mess that our father left, but I am at a loss. Please. For the sake of our mother, if for no one else, will you go to Antigua? Will you help us?

  Regardless, I have arranged for funds to be made ready for you in Vienna. Call at the office of Lord Flower-Horne, who will make any arrangements you desire, including telling me to go to Hell.

  With deep regret,

  Believe me at all times with sincerity and respect, your faithful and obliged brother,

  Richard Hamilton

  The Right Honourable, The Earl of Verbury

  Jane had to read the letter again to fully comprehend it. She looked up, expecting night to have fallen outside, but the late afternoon sun still shone on the buildings across the street and caught on the mullioned windows. A gentle breeze shook the strands of bobbing ivy that twined around the frame.

  Lord Verbury, dead.

  She did not expect Vincent to regret that fact, but she had no idea how he might feel about the death of his eldest brother or the accident that had disabled his middle brother. She had only met the men once, and it had been an evening fraught with tension. She rubbed her brow, trying to order her thoughts. When she lowered her hand, Herr Scholes was watching her.

  He pushed his chair away from the conversation, which seemed to be about the trials of teething, and drew it next to Jane. “Is Sir David well?”

  Jane smoothed the folds of her dress. If her mother had asked the question, Jane would have given a polite fiction, but Herr Scholes had filled the void that Vincent’s fath
er had created long before his death. “He has received word that his father and eldest brother are dead.”

  “Ah.” A wealth of unhappy knowledge rested in that simple exhalation. He rubbed his bare scalp. It was a gesture she had seen from Vincent many times, and Jane suddenly realised where he had learned it. Herr Scholes looked at the ceiling as if he could see through it to Vincent. “Forgive me for an impertinent question, but does he still have nightmares?”

  “Not since we arrived here. They were particularly bad after the Trial.” Jane was aware that she spoke of it as if there could be no other trials, but when one stood accused of treason by one’s father, as Lord Verbury had done to Vincent, there could be no other. The Trial was over a year behind them, yet Jane knew that Vincent’s sleep would be disturbed tonight. “Have you any suggestions?”

  “I am certain that you know him better than I by now, and you have heard the sum of my wisdom about using glamour to channel your emotions.”

  “He does work himself to exhaustion when upset.”

  “Hm. I am familiar with that…”

  “Was he so often upset?”

  “Angry, more than anything. Understand that, given our profession, I was accustomed to pupils who had been told that glamour was too feminine an art for them to pursue. Most of the young men who came to study with me bore the scars of their choice in some form or another. Your husband was marked by fury, made worse because he was so used to containing it that he often did not recognise his own anger.” He sighed and scrubbed again at his scalp.

  “I think he was still struggling with that when we met. I thought he was angry at me, at the time.”

  “You? You have done wonders for him. I saw him laugh more today than in the two years he studied with me. I think he—”

  An abrupt sound from above, as of a body striking the floor, caused Herr Scholes to break off. Jane was at the door to the parlour without any memory of having stood. She glanced back at Herr Scholes, who met her eye with a knowing look. It was the sound of Vincent falling unconscious.

  Fortunately, only family was present, and they were familiar enough with Vincent’s history that Jane needed to make only a hasty apology for her exit. She hurried out of the parlour and up the stairs to their room.

  Vincent had not been gone long enough to risk a seizure by working beyond his capacity. Even so, it was rare that he pushed himself to the point of fainting. His stamina was impressive and one of his great strengths as a glamourist. Still, Jane would not be easy until she saw him.

  When she pushed open the door to their chamber, the remnants of glamour floated in the room. Unlike the detailed, precise illusions that they created for the houses of nobility, this consisted of raw strands of glamour pulled straight from the ether. Reds and blacks swirled around the room in a thundercloud of distress.

  His voice came from behind the small sofa set in the middle of the room. “On the floor.”

  Jane shut the door and hurried around the sofa. Vincent lay on his back in his shirtsleeves. Sweat had soaked the fabric, sticking it to his chest. It plastered his hair to his head and stood in great drops upon his forehead, but he was clearly not in any danger.

  Jane knelt beside him. “You worry me.”

  “I did not faint.”

  “And yet, you are on the floor.”

  “I was dizzy and caught my heel. It seemed simpler to lie here and wait for it to pass.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “You read the letter?”

  “I did.” Jane still had it in her hand, in fact.

  Vincent covered his face with his hands, letting out a long breath that approached a groan. With his fingers resting on his brow, he rubbed his temples.

  “Does your head ache?”

  “A little.”

  She suspected it was more than a little. Since the concussion he had received when they were in Venice, he seemed to be more prone to headaches and dizziness, but he did not like to discuss it. Jane counted it a victory that he had admitted any discomfort at all. She set the letter on a side table and shifted to sit by him. “Would you like me to rub your forehead?”

  “Thank you.” He moved so that his head was resting in her lap and sighed again as she began to rub his temples. His brow was fevered and still damp with sweat, but no worse than she had seen him at the end of a normal day of work. Where his collar lay open, the strong beat of his pulse counted the time passing. For some minutes, they remained together in this manner, as Jane waited for Vincent to order his thoughts.

  The beat of his heart slowed under her touch and his brow cooled. Vincent lay with his eyes closed. She could almost hope that he had fallen asleep, were it not for the fluttering of his eyes beneath his lids and a crease between his brows.

  Inhaling, Vincent opened his eyes. “Muse, I do not know what to do.”

  “Must we do anything? Your brother is quite right that you have neither reason nor obligation to assist.”

  “I am less confident in that.” Vincent lay still for a moment, the muscle in the corner of his jaw clenching. “My brother.… Both of them, really, but Richard, my middle brother—even were his injury not a consideration.… He was ill-used by my father.”

  “I think that is a common condition for your family.”

  “Ah yes, but—” He stopped and for a moment appeared to hold his breath. A small, thin stream of air escaped in an almost inaudible keen. Though she had pointed out that he made this noise when conflicted, he had yet to break the habit, and she did not encourage him to do so, as the sound proved a useful indication of his state of mind. He grimaced, looking up at her. “Not a word of this, Muse. If you meet Richard again, you must pretend not to know. I know I can trust to your discretion, but promise me nevertheless.”

  “Of course. I shall say nothing.”

  Vincent nodded, jaw still clenched. “Richard is six years my senior. When he was fifteen, my father found him and one of the stable-boys engaged in carnal acts. I ask you to make no judgements against him—I cannot blame him for seeking what comfort he might find in a comfortless household, and nothing merits what my father did as punishment. For reasons known only to him, my father seated the three of us on a bench in the stable.” Vincent sat up abruptly so his back was to her. He blew out air in a huff. “He tied the stable-boy to the wall and whipped him. If we looked away, he beat us, too.”

  “My God.”

  His laugh was ragged. “No God was involved in that. He saw my interest in glamour as a sign that Richard’s propensities had transferred to me, so he included me as a warning. All of which is to say that when Richard says that he did not extend any aid to me, it is because he knew the consequences of doing so.”

  “But you risked being beaten and still—”

  “No. No, you do not quite see. It was not the bodily pain, though I am certain that my father beat Richard as well. But my brother saw someone he loved whipped bloody and turned out with no recommendations and no place. I was too young to think of such things at the time, but I doubt the stable-boy lived much past that night.” He turned to speak over his shoulder, the planes of his face dark against the evening sun. “It is that memory, in part, which causes me to be conflicted about what I ought to do. I now have the opportunity to mend a relationship that has been broken for years, and yet … and yet, is it something that I wish to entangle myself with again?”

  “Did you have good relations aside from the pressure of your father?”

  He shrugged. “By the standards of your family, no. I learned to guard my tongue at an early age and had few honest conversations until I came to study with Herr Scholes. But he was never cruel. Richard, I mean. Richard was never cruel to me.”

  All of Jane’s training was inadequate for this. She had been raised with an understanding of the proper forms and etiquette for mourning. With another family, the death of a father and an elder brother would be a signal to begin deep mourning. She knew to drape the mirrors and to undo the glamour. She knew to procure black cravats and g
loves for Vincent. She knew to order the stationery bordered with black, and the black sealing wax. For a year and a day, they would carry out the mourning period … or, rather, that is what they would have done for a different father.

  With Vincent’s, she was at as much of a loss as he.

  He looked forward again, shoulders slightly hunched. “The mourning period for Princess Charlotte means no glamour in England until November.… If we cannot work there, there is nothing that would prevent me from going to the West Indies.”

  In the hall, the stairs creaked with a slow and steady tread. Jane turned to stare at the door, willing the person away. A gentle knock sounded, in spite of her efforts.

  “Jane?” her father called softly.

  “Yes, Papa?” She made an effort to keep her voice even.

  “Your mother sent me to inquire if everything is all right.”

  Jane ran her fingers down Vincent’s back, feeling the old scars through his shirt. “Please tell Mama that my husband is not dead or even ill.”

  “I already did, but she wants to know what the noise was.”

  Vincent raised his voice. “I tripped. No broken bones or sprains. Only a bruised ego.” He turned his head to Jane. “You should probably tell him.”

  Sighing, Jane clambered to her feet. She loved her family, but there were times when their concerns—or, more especially, her mother’s concerns—overwhelmed the actual difficulties. Jane crossed to the door and opened it, slipping into the hall where her father waited.

  Mr. Ellsworth’s white hair stood out in a silver halo. He wore a rare furrow on his brow and compressed his lips as she shut the door. “I am sorry, Jane. I told your mother that if Vincent needed medical attention then you would call for us, but you know how she gets.”

  “I do.” She bit the inside of her lip, imagining what would happen when her mother heard the news. “Papa … Vincent’s father is dead. And his eldest brother.”