Valour and Vanity (17 page)

“And the
capo di polizia
? Did you report this to him?”

It would be more accurate to say that he had reported it to them, but Jane inclined her head.

“And what did he say?”

Vincent flecked a piece of lint off his sleeve. “He blamed us for being fools, quite as much as you do. Were I left to my own devices, I would sleep outside tonight, but my wife—” His breath sounded suddenly unsteady. “Are you able to help us, sir? Please.”

Stomach knotting at his distress, Jane reached for Vincent’s hand. His palm was slick with sweat, but cold.

“Of course.” The priest pulled a small scrap of paper and a lead pencil out of his pocket. He scribbled on it for a moment. “If you will take this to Signora Celsi, we can arrange a bed for your wife. It will be a roof over her head, if not what she is accustomed to.”

“And my husband?” Jane twisted her wedding ring, an idea slowly coming to her for if there were no lodging for Vincent.

“He is able-bodied and male. Venice’s charities are intended to provide means for those who cannot fend for themselves. Women, children, and the lame or ill.”

“Then I thank you for your time and charity.” Jane curtsied, without taking the paper.

“Jane. Truly. I can sleep outside one night.”

“No.”

Vincent took the paper from the priest. “Thank you, sir. If you will excuse us—”

But the priest had already turned back to attending the small altar. Stepping out into the courtyard again, Jane was surprised to see that the sun had not yet set. It seemed that the interview with the priest had taken a lifetime. Vincent exhaled heavily.

“I feel much the same.” The energy that they had given to banter on the way to the church had dissipated, and left Jane feeling flat and painfully aware that they had been taken from the palazzo before breaking their fast. The tightness of her stomach contributed to her general anxiety.

“I have slept out of doors before. It will do me no harm.”

Jane linked her arm through his and encouraged him to step away from the church. “But it will harm
me.
I have read too many novels and cannot shake the idea that if we are separated, we shall not see each other again.”

“Ah, but true love will always triumph. Is that not what the novels say?”

“Yes, but we are in the land of Romeo and Juliet.”

“What a happy thought
that
is.” He tilted his head back to study the sky. “Jane, stay in the church lodgings. It looks to be a dry night so do not worry. It is only one night.”

“Are you certain of that? Because I am not. Even if we find work tomorrow, do you have reasonable expectation of receiving payment on the same day?”

“I—No. So then it is more than one night. Still, that is not so—”

“No.” Jane stopped them in front of a shop. “I read the newspapers. People who sleep on the streets are killed, and I will not—you cannot ask me to—I cannot abide the thought of you doing so, not when we have another choice.”

“All right. What do you propose?”

“We sell my wedding ring—” Jane raised her hand to check the objection that rose instantly to his lips. “I spent two weeks without it and was no less married to you. When our funds are restored, we can repurchase it. Meanwhile, it will offer us the opportunity to find some lodgings and keep us from being so desperate that you are actually contemplating sleeping on the street.”

Vincent’s face undertook a clear struggle to restrain strong emotions. He turned—first his face, then his body—away from Jane as though to hide the effort of retaining his composure, until his turn brought him to face the store she had stopped them in front of. A pawnshop. He stood as one transfixed. “I—I cannot.”

“And I cannot take shelter knowing that you are outside. So we are at an impasse.”

“Jane, I made a vow to provide for you. Your father trusted me with you. To sell your—” His voice broke as if he were incapable of completing the thought.

“We made vows to care for each other. And as for my father, he will understand fully.”

“I do not know that
I
do.”

She hated adding to the distress of the day, but she was also quite certain that she was right. The ring was a symbol—and an important one, yes—but it was not their marriage. That needed nothing outward to cement it. “Do you love me?”

“You know I do.”

“And did you love me when I did not wear your ring?”

“Why must you use logic?”

She ignored his weak protest and pressed her advantage. “Further, you gave me this ring. Considering your theory that a husband’s role is to provide for his wife, it can be argued that selling this ring is, in fact, an extension of the care that you provide for me. Also, it gives me an opportunity to fulfil my own wedding vows to love you for richer, or for poorer.”

“I had thought we already lived through the ‘for worse’ portion of our vows.” Vincent gave a sigh that was closer to a groan. “It is difficult not to feel that I have failed as your husband.”

“You have not. Sanuto took many things, but not my faith in you. Do not let him take your faith in our marriage.”

“Ah, Muse…”

He let her steer him to the pawnshop and only hung back a little as they entered. When it came time to negotiate with the pawnbroker, Vincent proved to be a shrewd haggler. While the sum they arrived at was nowhere near the worth of the ring, it still managed to be respectable enough to allow them to secure a furnished room above a grocer. The remaining coins were tucked away for the day when they would repurchase the ring.

The room was up two narrow flights of stairs, nestled under the eaves of a roof. The plaster of the walls was largely intact, and the linens on the bed, though worn, were clean. A single table stood crammed between the bed and the wall, with a chair tucked under it. Across from it, a small hearth provided a draught for the room. Their wardrobe consisted of five wooden pegs on the wall. That comprised their furniture.

When they were at last in the room, with the door shut and the single candle lit, Vincent stood in the gable at the window. He stared out across Murano. “Well … at least we do not have to tell your mother that we were attacked by pirates.”

Eleven

An Accomplished Lady

Jane startled awake.

Beside her Vincent gave a strangled cry, as if a scream were escaping from his dreams. It had been months since his sleep had been disordered, but not so long that she did not immediately recognise his state. Jane half sat, and pressed a hand against his chest. A fine film of sweat covered him, and his heart beat against his rib cage. Moonlight through the window showed a hard line between his brows.

“Vincent?” She rubbed his chest, trying to wake him gently. “Vincent. It is a dream.”

He tensed; then his eyes dragged open and the tightness eased out of him. Vincent sagged under her hands. He wet his lips. “Thank you.”

Jane curled against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and he shifted to wrap his arm around her and pull her closer. She put one hand on his forehead to try to smooth the creases that remained there. “The old nightmares?”

“A variation, I think.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “That feels pleasant.”

“What was it?”

She felt his shrug under her cheek. “I could not find you. And … a ship? No. Perhaps a warehouse … It is fading already. It does not matter.”

“Can I do anything?”

He shook his head, rustling the pillowcase. “You do enough already.” Vincent took her hand and kissed it. He rolled onto his side with his back to her and pulled her arm around him, cradling her hand against his chest.

With her other hand, Jane traced the visible scars on his back, left from his encounter with Napoleon’s men. The scars left by Sanuto were not visible, but were no less deep for it.

*   *   *

Neither of them slept
well. Even apart from Vincent’s nightmare, every time Jane rolled over, it seemed that a different piece of straw in the mattress found its way through the ticking. The bed, too, was not quite wide enough for both of them to lie prone: one of them must always be on their side or tucked under the other. When the sun rose, so did she, and so did Vincent.

Her stomach growled to announce that it was awake as well. They had been so tired upon reaching their room that seeking food had seemed an overwhelming task. Today, though, she would have to find something for them. Jane stared at the small grate in the hearth and rubbed her hair in consternation. She had never cooked anything more than toast and water for tea.

Well … as they had neither bread nor a kettle, she would not be making either of those enormously complicated dishes. She turned to the chemise that she had worn the day before and began to dress. As she slipped it over her head, she wrinkled her nose at the sour smell. Jane realized that she had no notion of how to launder it. Frowning, she said, “I am beginning to wish that I had somewhat more practical accomplishments.”

“Hm?” Vincent stood by the window, buttoning his trousers. “You are very accomplished.”

“Music, glamour, painting … but I do not know how to cook or to do the washing, which, you must admit, would be more useful in our present circumstances.”

“Glamour has proved useful thus far in our marriage.”

“True, and probably will be so again.” Today, they could begin to try to find work. Jane had no notion of how to go about that, since all of their commissions in England had come from referrals or people already familiar with Vincent’s work. It had never occurred to her to wonder about what his early career was like. She had only known him after he established himself. “When you first started as a glamourist, how did you find work?”

“Hm? Oh. I had recommendations from Herr Scholes and J. M. W. Turner of the Royal Academy. Prinny, too, once he heard what I was about, though that came later.”

“And today … without letters of recommendation, how should we proceed?”

He pulled his waistcoat on. “We? I thought to do this alone—not because I think I am more able, but because for small jobs it is unlikely that anyone would require two glamourists.”

“And you are a man.”

“This is not a matter of masculine pride.”

“I meant that they will take you more seriously. For all that glamour is considered a womanly art, the only professionals are gentlemen, as with dancing and painting.”

Vincent opened his mouth and then closed it again. He snorted. “Do you know, I had not realized that. But of course it makes sense, because women are not required to have a profession in the way that men are.”

“I think that may be true for women of gentle birth, but certainly we have seen maids enough. To say nothing of cooks, dressmakers, and milliners.”

“True…” he said slowly, as if considering her words. “But, our partnership aside, it is still more natural for a woman to remain at home.”

Jane sighed, rubbing her forehead. Under other circumstances, she would be very tempted to give him a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s
The Rights of Women
. In the moment, though, she felt unequal to the task of explaining the thesis. “When we are back in England, I have a book I should like you to read. For the moment … you have a valid point that you are more likely to find work as a glamourist than I am.”

“I won a point? I shall have to record that.”

His humour cheered her more for its attempt than for the joke itself. Jane shook her finger at him, then came to help him with his cravat. It was wrinkled and had lost most of the stiffness of its starch, so though Jane tied it as best as she could, no one could mistake Vincent for a young gentleman of fashion. “I am going out with you, however, to see if I can find some employment of my own.”

“Muse, you do not need to—”

“Yes, I do.”

Vincent stopped arguing, though he did shake his head. He was smiling as he did, so Jane let it pass. They climbed down the narrow stairs and stepped onto the street. By mutual agreement, they made their way toward the main canal, where most of the larger residences and businesses were situated. As they walked, Vincent explained that his plan was to go door to door and attempt to demonstrate his abilities in lieu of a letter of recommendation. In truth, he said, even with a letter, he still almost always had to display his talents.

Then he slowed and pulled her to the side, toward an aged church of brick, which sat close to the canal upon a wide green lawn. “Is that … is that the church that Sanuto wanted a donation for?”

The stone engraved above it said
SANTA MARIA DEGLI ANGELI
. Jane tried to recall, but had only heard the name in one conversation. “Perhaps?”

“Huh. I had expected that it, too, would not exist.” He rubbed his hair into a wilderness. “I wonder if they know. Or, for that matter, if they are involved.”

Jane spied a nun working in a small vegetable garden by the side of the church. Without being entirely certain what it would accomplish beyond gratifying her curiosity, Jane walked up to the iron fence that stood around the church grounds. “Pardon me—”

The nun looked up and favoured her with a smile. “Yes?”

Jane had a moment of surprise that beneath her wimple, the nun had the clear brown complexion and lively dark eyes of a mulatto. She wore a heavy canvas apron over her habit and had a basket of vegetables by her side. Wiping her hands on the apron, she approached the fence. “May I help you?”

“This is an odd question, but do you know a Signor Sanuto?”

The nun frowned and shook her head. “I am afraid not, but I rarely leave the convent aside from taking the children to the park. You could ask Sister Aquinata. She has family here and may know people that I do not.”

“Oh. Are you not Venetian?”

“Rome before this, but Vienna originally.”

“
Ich habe einige Zeit in Wien verbracht,
” Vincent said, and offered her a bow. “
Sie sind ein langer Weg von zu Hause aus.
”

The nun’s face lit up at the sound of her native tongue. Though Jane could not understand the conversation that followed, she knew that Vincent had spent time in Vienna when he studied with Herr Scholes. It seemed that they were sharing fond memories about the city, and some introduction must have occurred, because Jane heard her own name at least twice.