Of Noble Family (45 page)

“But you do not.”

“The urge is there.” He glanced towards her, but not quite at her. “I needed the reminder of my relationship with my father, because you are with child.”

Of all the things that Jane knew, she was certain that he would never strike their child, and she was equally certain that this was a fear his father had deliberately implanted. Jane held out her hand, resting it palm up on the bed until he took it. “You are not your father.”

“I am glad you think so.”

“You are not like him. You do not use people. You do not beat them for a difference of opinion. The fact that you have the urge to hit …
I
have that urge sometimes. What is telling is that you do not act upon it.”

“Because I am practised at stifling the impulse does not mean— My capacity for violence terrifies me.”

“It does not frighten me.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “
You
do not frighten me.”

“But I have.”

Jane shook her head. “I do not count my nearly constant dread that you will overwork and drop from a strained heart as a fear of you.”

“Can you honestly tell me that you have not been frightened
of me
at some point in the past three months?”

Jane sighed, knowing the moments he was thinking of, when she had taken an involuntary step backwards or when she had flinched because he raised his voice. “Are you able to look at me? I want you to have no thoughts that I am dissembling.”

Too slowly, Vincent lifted his eyes to hers. Even with one eye swollen nearly shut, his fear was obvious. Jane held out her other hand, waiting until he placed his there.

Holding tight to both hands, Jane fixed Vincent with her gaze. She made no effort to govern her countenance, because he would note that effort and likely take it as a sign of things concealed. “You have startled me. Several times, I have been alarmed by the strength of your temper, but
not
because I was afraid of you. I have been frightened of what being here is doing to you. Our first day here—after we discovered your father, you said ‘Forgive me. I am not myself.' I do not think you have been yourself since we arrived. He has stretched and warped and twisted you out of yourself, until you believe that this extremity is your natural state. It is not. You are not yourself. And you are very much forgiven for it.”

Vincent shut his eyes, hands trembling in her grasp.

“You will not hit me. You will not hit our child. It is not in your nature.”

In a very low voice, as if he were forcing the words out, he said, “I am afraid it is.”

“I know you are. That fear is part—only part, mind you—of why I know that it is not your nature.” She lifted his hand and kissed it. “You are obstinate, imprudent, and sometimes rude. You are not cruel. The most I will grant is that you are insufferable and occasionally inscrutable.”

His smile, weak though it was, seemed like sun breaking through rain. Jane kissed his hand again, closing her eyes to hide her own anger. When she was allowed out of bed, she had a list of words to present to Lord Verbury, all of which would shock her mother.

The baby squirmed in answer to her agitation. She could do nothing about Lord Verbury for the present, but she could try to help Vincent settle back into himself. Jane opened her eyes and lowered Vincent's hand to her stomach. “Here. I was going to show you the game we are playing. Push and the baby will push back.”

“Will I not hurt you?”

“No more than this inconceivable child does.” Jane put pressure on the back of his hand, pushing it into the part of her stomach where the baby had last nudged her.

A moment later, an answering bump pushed at Vincent's hand. He let out an unsteady laugh and pushed again. “That is remarkable.”

“I try to think of it that way.” Truly, every time the child moved it was a good sign, even if there were occasions on which it was a trifle uncomfortable. “I think the baby recognises your voice, too.”

“Really?” Vincent lifted his head.

Jane tried to reply only to his surprise, not the bruises. “At any rate, he or she moves more when you talk.”

“Perhaps I should sit here and recite the classics, then. Or moralize upon—God!”

Jane's stomach had glowed.

It was only a brief flash of ruddy light, which had seemed to originate deep within her. Suddenly breathless, Jane stared at her own middle. “I suppose that should not be a surprise, given whose child this is.”

“And at not quite eight months.” Vincent leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I will be certain to boast to Herr Scholes that our child is more of a prodigy than his grandchild.”

“You are going to be insufferably proud as a father, I suspect.”

He sobered a little, regarding her with earnestness. “I hope I am.”

*   *   *

Over the next week,
Vincent's bruises turned impressive shades of purple and spread down his cheek in greens and yellows. The swelling reduced, making it more obvious how bloodshot his left eye was. It was impossible for Jane to look at him without recalling what had caused it. If the mere impulse to hit someone caused bodily harm, Jane's thoughts would have flayed Lord Verbury.

But giving way to her frustration and anger would do Vincent no good, to say nothing of her own state. There was a notable increase in the frequency of pains when she was agitated. So Jane turned that weakness into a strength. If she could not leave the bed, and if she needed to remain calm, then she would make their bedchamber a refuge for her husband.

She lay on her left side with Vincent curled against her back. One of his arms lay nestled against her chest. He seemed to actually be asleep, which was not the case every night, so she tried not to move in response to the discomfort that had awakened her. Jane looked to the shelf clock to note the time. Twenty past midnight. Trying to ease the tension, she inhaled slowly.

Jane smelled smoke.

Frowning, she lifted her head, peering through the sheer lawn curtains and out the window. The moon was only a thin crescent, but dull orange glowed at the base of the frame. “Vincent.”

He made a soft grunt.

Jane turned and shook his arm. “Vincent. Wake up.”

He startled into wakefulness, half sitting. “What is it? Are the labour pains—”

“I think something is on fire.”

A glance at the window had him out of bed. He crossed the room and flung the veranda doors open. The charred sugar smell increased. Vincent swore, and then ran back into the room, snatching his breeches from the chair he had hung them on.

He continued on to the door and flung it open. Leaning into the hall, he bellowed, “Fire! Alarm the house! Fire in the cane fields!”

Jane sat up, pushing the mosquito netting aside. She could just see over the edge of the window, but as the house sat on a hill, she could not get a clear view of the fire.

Hastily, Vincent drew his breeches on, not troubling to change out of his nightshirt. “Ring for Nkiruka. I want someone with you in case the wind shifts or Pridmore shows up.”

“Do you think he set it?”

“One field might be natural.” Vincent shoved his feet into his boots. “This is all of them.”

 

Thirty-one

Fire and Smoke

For the first quarter hour, the great house was filled with frantic activity, as everyone who was able was roused to try to fight the fire. Pinned in bed, Jane listened to people running past. Nkiruka, wrapped in one of Jane's old robes, lit a candle and sat by the door to the balcony to report on what she could see from the house.

All Jane could do was sit in bed, pick at the counterpane, and listen.

After that first quarter hour, the house fell into deep stillness as it emptied. Even the coldmongers went to help. Still, Jane strained her ears, trying to tease some knowledge out of the air. If Pridmore was out there and setting fires, what might he do to Vincent? With such a slender moon, the night would be very dark. That started a whole new string of worries about what might happen to Vincent near a fire. The memories of the people burnt in the distillery accident rose in her head.

Jane slipped a hand between the pillows and her lower back, trying to massage away a dull ache of tension. “Has anything changed?”

“If anything change, me'll tell you.”

“I know. I am sorry. I know you will.”

As the ache in her lower back spread in a band around her middle. Jane closed her eyes and tried to calm down. “What time is it?”

“Another?” With a grunt, Nkiruka got out of her chair and carried the candle to the shelf clock. “Ten to one.”

That was only a half hour since her last. Jane put her hand against her stomach, which was hard and tight. “I am going to lie down, but I shall not be asleep.”

“Na worry, sec. Me'll tell you wha me see.”

“Thank you.” Jane slid down in the bed. She curled onto her left side, face turned towards the window, and waited. The orange glow had grown brighter against the night sky.

The scent of smoke grew as well as the hours carried it on a steady breeze towards the house. Nkiruka held a handkerchief to her mouth and coughed into it.

“Do you want to shut the veranda door?”

Nodding, Nkiruka stood and bustled to the door. She paused to step onto the veranda and lean on the rail to look across the valley floor. When she came back in, her face was tight. “My house on fire.”

“Oh no. Oh, Nkiruka. Your grandchildren … do you need to go?” Jane pushed herself up on one elbow, trying to see out the window.

“Me too slow. Nothing cyan do by the time me get dey. Dolly will mind them.” She twisted the tie on her robe, still looking across the valley. With another cough, Nkiruka shut the veranda door. “Dem safe with Dolly.”

“I am certain you are right. Of course they are safe.”

*   *   *

Jane noted the time
of her next bearing pain in the logbook with some trepidation. The last five had been at regular half hour intervals. Dr. Jones had said to send for her if they became regular or more frequent than twenty minutes, but there was no one to send. She looked up from the page to where Nkiruka stood by the veranda door.

The older woman frowned, her hands set on her hips. The light from the fire had grown bright enough to dimly light the room.

Jane set down the quill. “What do you see?”

“We need go.” She turned from the door. “De fire closer. Wind blowing towards us. Let's go.”

“Go?” Jane stared stupidly at the numbers on the page, as if looking at them would change anything.

“Yes.” Nkiruka bustled across the room and pulled a stout walking dress out of the wardrobe.

As if in answer, the baby pushed against Jane's ribs. She swallowed, resting her hand against the spot. “Vincent would come if we were in serious danger.”

“Fire jus' cross de road. We haffu go. Now.” She carried the dress over to Jane.

Heart pounding, Jane sat up and, for the first time in two weeks, swung her legs out of bed. Nkiruka helped her slip into the dress and then knelt to put her slippers on, since Jane could no longer see her own feet. When Jane stood, she had to grasp the bedpost for support. The room spun a little, as if she had been working glamour. All of the weight she had gained seemed to have doubled in her weeks abed.

“You all right?”

“Dizzy.” Jane rubbed her eyes, trying to clear her vision.

“You lean on me. We go.”

Standing, Jane could finally look out the window at what had alarmed Nkiruka. The flames had swept up the hill, and one of the orange trees on the far side of the great house grounds had caught fire. Jane put her hand on Nkiruka's shoulder and nodded. “I see the need for haste.”

Though Jane felt weak and had to lean on Nkiruka more than she wished, her vision cleared and she seemed to be in no danger of fainting. They went down the passage leading to the back of the house. They scarcely needed a candle—through every window, flames lit the sky. Jane sent up a prayer for Vincent's safety.

Nkiruka opened the door into the yard, provoking both of them to cough. The air was hot and thick with smoke. Nkiruka shut the door and patted Jane's arm. “Wait here. I go get us a couple ah damp cloths.”

Jane leaned against the wall with a hand held over her nose. “Excellent thought.”

Nkiruka hurried back down the hall and disappeared into one of the rooms they had used for the wounded. Jane thanked providence that they were all out of the house, though she was not certain they were any safer where they were.

Another bearing pain squeezed her. Though the discomfort was not great, Jane winced, knowing that half an hour had not yet passed. She hoped it was a sign that they were irregular rather than becoming more frequent.

In short order, Nkiruka reappeared with two lengths of dripping linen. She slowed as she approached Jane. “Another one?”

“Yes.” Jane took the wet cloth from her, trying to ignore the cramp. “How can you tell?”

“You frown, so.” Nkiruka drew her brows together and set her mouth in a straight line. Then she crossed her eyes.

In spite of herself, Jane laughed. “I do not.”

“Next time me'll hold up wan mirror.” Nkiruka tied a cloth around her head, covering her mouth and nose.

Jane followed suit, knotting the wet fabric behind her head so they looked like a pair of unlikely bandits. “I feel as though we should rob a bank.”

“Later. Fus, arwe do fire walki—”

“Jane!”
From the front of the house, Vincent's bellow cut through the walls.

Jane's knees went weak with relief. Only the fact that she was already leaning against the wall kept her on her feet. She pulled the damp cloth down and drew a breath to reply. It turned into coughing, and then a wheeze with each burning inhalation.