Authors: Mary Robinette Kowal
Tilting his head and frowning, Vincent hesitated. “It does seem as though it would be an imposition on our host to accept a commission which must otherwise fall to him as the foremost glamourist in the region.”
Embarrassment heated Jane’s face at the way in which she had exposed her thoughtlessness. M. Chastain, seated just to the other side of the drawing room, affected to be interested in his book, but Jane could not see how he might have failed to hear her gaffe. Putting all her attention on her embroidery, she tried to pretend that her next words had been her first thought. “I only meant that you could share the commission with M. Chastain. Since Mr. Gilman is British, the introduction might be desirable, as it would bring our host to the attention of different parties.”
The doubt in Vincent’s voice was clear in the slowness of his answer, but he did not betray her by pointing out her initial slight. “Ah. Yes, there is some sense in that.” Rising, he crossed the room to M. Chastain and explained the scheme to him. Chastain, in turn, proved his worth as a friend by claiming he had no interest in a commission in Brussels, and not only insisted that Vincent take the commission, but offered the use of M. Archambault as an assistant.
As they talked and made arrangements for transportation to Brussels, Jane worked the only threads she could, trying with the tangible embroidery to distract herself from the conversation, of which she could have no part. Better that she become used to the restriction and leave Vincent to do the work, which he had done alone long before they met. It cannot be supposed that the embroidery was sufficient to keep her attention, and most of her mind was occupied in listening to their conversation. They spoke in French so rapid that Jane had difficulty following more than the tenor of it and realized in the process how much the household had slowed down to accommodate her own inferior understanding.
If it were possible to take ship and flee to England at that moment, Jane would have abandoned her trunks and gone. She had no place and no purpose for being in Belgium now, and worse, forced everyone to accommodate her simply by being in the room. Jane rose from her place by the fire and walked to the window, staring disconsolately out into the courtyard. Her breath fogged the glass, and a chill crept across to cool her cheeks.
Vincent approached, the heavy sound of his heel marking his stride as if each footstep were trying to press the world beneath him. “Are you not cold?”
“I was too warm by the fire.”
“Then let me draw your chair farther away.”
“No. Thank you.” They stood silently and Jane reproached herself for being needlessly morose. She had that which other women craved, a loving husband with the prospect of a family in the not too distant future, and yet the discontent would not leave her. “When will you go?”
“Mr. Gilman asked me to wait on him tomorrow, but the carriage is engaged, so I shall ask him for another day.”
“Could you not ride?”
“To be sure. But a horse would not suffice for you, I think.”
“Me? Of what use could I be there?”
“I—do you not want to go? I had thought you would want to see the space, and be involved in the design.”
Resigned, Jane faced her husband. “Vincent. I cannot do glamour. I cannot help you in this.”
“But, the design. You can still think and paint.” He wiped his hand down his face. “I want your help. Please?”
Touched by the earnestness of his plea, Jane acceded to his request, and a day was set to meet Mr. Gilman and his drawing room.
* * *
Mr. Gilman’s residence commanded
a view of Brussels Park, which anchored the town, and was nicely appointed without being ostentatious. The Vincents were greeted by the butler at the front door and shown into the drawing room in question, where Mr. Gilman greeted them. He was a slender, dashing young man with a nose that bent as if he might have taken a turn as a pugilist.
His surprise at seeing Jane could not be concealed, and she began to wonder how Skiffy had described her to make Mr. Gilman expect a great beauty. “Well.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “I suppose we should get to business. Mrs. Vincent, our front parlour has quite a lovely prospect, if you cared to take it in while we talk.”
“Did you also intend to have us do the front parlour?”
“Er. No. I only thought that we might bore you.” He gestured between the two gentlemen. “Business is so often trying to the ladies.”
“Often does not equal always, and to all ladies.” Jane offered him a smile to reduce the bite of her words. “I assure you that I am not one of those women who are put off by such things. My purpose here is entirely to focus on your commission. So.” She clapped her hands together, in mimicry of him. “I suppose we should get to business.”
Mr. Gilman straightened as though he were little accustomed to a woman who spoke so directly, and Jane coloured slightly. She had been long enough in Belgium that her manners had quite changed. But she had not said anything outside the bounds of propriety even to an Englishman, and his assumption that she must be feebleminded quite annoyed her.
Vincent held his hand over his mouth to hide a smile and affected to study the walls. He winked at Jane and walked a little away from where they were standing. “What did you have in mind?”
“My wife is coming over in the next month and … we are but newly wed, you see. I do not want her to be homesick, and she has a favourite window at her parents’ home. In Yorkshire, with lambs gambolling.”
Vincent turned entire, his spine straightening. “In Yorkshire? With lambs gambolling. How many lambs will you have, sir?”
“Three at this time, I believe.” He glanced back at Jane, and offered a brief smile. “She likes lambs.”
“I see.” Jane walked the room, considering where they might place an additional window. “Did you have a spot in mind?”
“I had thought perhaps the front windows, so that she might have one room in which there was no reminder of Brussels.”
Jane almost answered that this was not a possibility, given that those outside the house would see the same glamour as those within, which would make it appear that lambs gambolled upon the lawn of the house. Strangely rendered lambs at that, as they would be foreshortened to provide perspective for those viewing from within the house. Fortunately she remembered M. Chastain’s new technique. “Vincent, do you think we could combine the Chastain Damask with the
Sphère Obscurcie
to create that? It might be possible for the illusion to be clear on the exterior and present from within.”
“Hm?” He studied the window and rubbed the back of his head. “Interesting. Possible. Mr. Gilman, have you a picture of the view?”
“I do. My wife, you see, she often paints it.” He directed their gaze to a watercolour hanging over the mantel. While not lacking in talent, it had that stiffness which so often characterizes the amateur artist. The lack of spontaneity and life betrayed a mind too cautious and a reserve too great to pass from technical skill into art. Still, it was a better rendering that Jane had hoped for when Mr. Gilman said his wife painted.
A hill swept up to a copse of trees. Cutting from left to right, a small stream meandered across the hill, lending a natural composition to the painting that brought the eye back in to the centre. On the slopes, a flock of lambs and their mothers dotted the grass. “Perhaps we should consider a small flock?”
“No. Three alone.” Mr. Gilman hesitated. “I might ask for the number to change later, if circumstances warrant.”
Jane studied the painting, wondering what circumstances those would be. They discussed the terms, which Jane left to Vincent, as she still had no sense of what one should charge for projects such as this. With things settled, Jane and Vincent returned to the carriage, and thence back to Binché, promising to come again the next day to begin work in earnest.
After they had been an hour on the journey, Vincent shifted in his seat. “Jane, I was thinking. This project will require no under-painting, and the design is done for us. I can see no real reason for you to make the trip tomorrow, aside from keeping me company.”
“I do not mind. There is little for me to do at the Chastains’.”
“But the rigours of travel.” He gestured in the general direction of her middle. “I do not wish to fatigue you unnecessarily.”
“Two hours in a carriage hardly seems fatiguing.”
“You are so often ill, though. Why add to that?”
“The illness will happen whether I am at home or in motion.” She took his arm and nestled against him. “Besides which, we are supposed to be on honeymoon. This way I am at least assured of four hours without the distraction of others.”
Vincent kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek against her. “Which raises another point. If you do not come, then I can take a horse, which is faster, or stay overnight. Either way, the project will proceed more quickly.”
Jane traced her finger around his hands, feeling the strength that lay there. “Vincent.” She slid her hand into his and squeezed. “If you do not want me to come, it might be easier to simply say so.”
He was silent, and held very still. The creak of the carriage filled the space between them. Jane closed her eyes, regretting the impulse that had led her to speak. She had expected him to protest and proclaim that he needed her there, only feared for her, which would have let her tell him that he was being silly. Instead, there was only silence. Then he spoke. “I do not want you to come. Not every day. It seems senseless on such a simple project, especially when there is nothing which you can do. I would worry about you.”
“Of course. I do not want to be a source of distraction while you are working.”
“Jane, it is not that. You are not a distraction. It is only that this is a nothing job, and it would be a waste of effort for you.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “You said it would be easier to simply say so.”
She felt the chastisement immediately. It was unjust of her to demand his honesty and then punish him for it. And if she were honest with herself, there was sense in what he was saying. “I am sorry. You are correct. But I should like to come sometimes. I do like to watch you work.”
“Of course.” Vincent rested his hand over hers. “You are my muse, and I would be lost without you. Even if I am only painting sheep.”
* * *
The next day, sitting
on a chair to the side of Mr. Gilman’s window, Jane watched Vincent sketch a tree into being. He had already laid the ground for the slope and the stream using M. Chastain’s technique, but rather than a transparency, he was endeavouring to have the exterior of the window show the drawing room. Very sensibly, they had both realized that it would be unpleasant to have someone viewing you if you could not see them.
Since Jane could not extend her senses into the ether, the tree Vincent worked on seemed to coalesce out of nothing, first as a rough shape, then with more detail as her husband refined the form. The bark seemed unpleasantly uniform to Jane, and she cleared her throat. “This might be a nice place to use an
ombré
. It is very easy to thin the—”
“In fact, I am.” He did not break his attention from his work.
Jane shifted in her seat and opened her drawing-book to sketch him working. He stood in front of the window, hands dipping in and out of the ether as he stitched the threads he wanted into place. Legs spread wide, he had doffed his coat and had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The line of his hands captivated her, the grace of his movements combined with the play of muscle in his forearms creating a quiet strength. She had begun to recognise the glamours he was working by the movement of his hands, even though she could see only their effect, not the folds he was managing.
He inhaled in a deep steady breath designed to pull as much air into his body as possible. Even so, beads of sweat stood out on his brow from the exertion of the morning. If she could do glamour, she would make a cooling breeze for him, but that was an impossibility.
Still, there were other ways of making a breeze. Jane tore a page out of her sketchbook, wincing at the noise the paper made as it ripped free. Folding it in even pleats, she made a crude fan and abandoned her chair. Standing by Vincent, she fanned the air, trying to cool him some. Beyond stirring his hair, it seemed to have little effect, and he scarcely seemed to notice her presence, so deep into the glamour was he.
Sweeping his hand back as he worked a Chastain Damask pattern, he caught her raised arm with his elbow. Startled, Jane dropped her makeshift fan and he dropped the glamour. Part of the tree disappeared.
He wheeled on her. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
“I—You looked hot.”
“Yes. That happens. I am working glamour. Or rather, I am
trying
to work glamour.” His face was far redder than it had been moments before.
“I am sorry. I only wanted to help.”
“You cannot.” He gave her his shoulder and focused again on the window. “Now excuse me while I rebuild this tree.”
In agony, Jane took a step back to keep out of his way. “You could use your
Petite Répétition
technique to build it faster.”
“If Mrs. Gilman did not, undoubtedly, know every tree in that painting better than her husband’s face, that might be an option. But as it is, I must build each one individually.” He tied off the thread of glamour he was stitching and faced her, gaze fully in the physical world, and burning her with the anger under his skin. “I
am
sorry you find this tedious, but I did warn you not to come.”
“I thought that was because you were concerned for my health, not because I would be in the way.”
“Well, had I anticipated it, I might have expressed that as a reason, too.”
Jane stared aghast at her husband, trying to understand what had provoked him to this undeserved harshness. Often he could be brusque when he was distracted, but never cruel.
Mr. Gilman chose this inopportune moment to step into the room. Jane hardly knew whether to be thankful for his interruption or to wish him away. “Ah. Mr. Vincent. Might I impose on you for a small change to our plan?”