Without a Summer (24 page)

Mr. O’Brien crossed his arms. “Why do you disapprove of me? You are comfortable enough accepting my father’s money.”

Jane pulled her head back, appalled. “Your father is not trifling with my sister’s affections.”

“Trifling? I assure you, madam, that I have never said anything to your sister with less than perfect sincerity.”

Vincent cleared his throat, but Jane continued. “If that is true, then it is far worse. To engage her affections to no end but your own satisfaction is reprehensible. What would you have done with her? As a Catholic, you cannot offer marriage—so, yes, I call that trifling with her affections.”

Mr. O’Brien lifted his chin, spectacles flashing. “What can you mean by that?”

“It is a well-known fact that Catholics cannot marry outside their faith. Therefore—”

“Your
fact
is decidedly false.” Mr. O’Brien’s face had turned an alarming shade of red. He clenched his arms across his chest so hard that his knuckles had turned quite white. He spoke in a low, harsh voice. “The report that we cannot marry outside our faith is spread by the Church of England, by
your
church, as part of a long effort against us. There is no truth in it. Does
that
change your feelings with regard to my eligibility as a suitor?”

Jane could only shake her head in denial. It was not possible that he was free to marry her sister. It was not possible that Jane could have been so in error. But had she ever studied the question? No. She had accepted the facts as she had been taught, without question.

Lady Stratton had lost any expression of sympathy. “Pope Pius’s Benedictine dispensation explicitly allows mixed marriages.”

The spectacles that Melody wore could not hide the fact that she was weeping.

“Jane, we should go.” Vincent went to Melody and offered her his handkerchief. “Thank you, Lady Stratton, for your time and attention.”

Now Vincent was taking Mr. O’Brien’s part? Had he forgotten that this was not the only concern about Mr. O’Brien, not when so much unaccountable conduct remained? “I am sorry, I cannot allow him to stand before us with professions of openness while I know him to be in a secret league … when I have seen Mr. O’Brien meeting with Lord Verbury.”

“What?” Mr. O’Brien’s mouth dropped. He appeared so openly confounded that Jane doubted her own recollection. “I mean, yes. I have met the man, but can barely claim a speaking acquaintance.”

“I saw you on the street speaking with him.”

“So, you are accusing me of having a secret meeting on the street? The man stopped me and introduced himself as Sir David’s father. I
thought
I was being polite.”

“What about the area of silence in the musicians’ gallery?”

He looked even more confused. “It is for them to take a break in.”

“You must do better than that. Why not have them simply leave the gallery?”

“Because, Lady Vincent,” Lady Stratton said, “the string players need a place in which to tune their instruments. The temperature difference between the gallery and the hall would be too great in winter.”

Melody spoke up, then. “Mr. O’Brien is a cellist.”

He seemed to have a ready answer for everything.

“And yet, you have made use of it for private conversation. How do you account for the system of deceit—even espionage and treachery—which you have so recently undertaken? What of your meetings with the coldmongers? Do not deny your plans, sir. I was in the ballroom today and overheard your conversation.”

Mr. O’Brien’s expression soured. “Aye. I see how it is. Being a Papist is not a black enough mark on my character for you. Now you would have me be a traitor to the Crown.” He looked as though he would spit upon the ground if they were outdoors. “The work I do with the coldmongers is nothing that I am ashamed of, nor will I deny it.”

Lady Stratton said, “I must ask why, if you thought my son was engaged in something so deplorable, you did not speak to Lord Stratton.”

“I— It was only supposition.” Jane could not put voice to her reason for not approaching the Baron.

“And it has nothing to do with the fact that we are Irish, I suppose?”

Jane flushed, feeling the warmth of mortification mount in her cheeks.

With her head high, Lady Stratton put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “I am proud of the good work that my son does.”

Vincent asked, “May I ask what work that is?”

“We bear a responsibility to those who are less fortunate than us.” Mr. O’Brien turned, seeming to speak to Melody more than anyone else in the room. “The coldmonger in our house took ill and passed away last summer. I performed the office of returning his effects to the Coldmongers’ Company before we left on our tour of the Continent. I learned that the illness which took him was common to coldmongers. Chilblains occur regularly among them, but in some, the ulceration of the skin becomes so severe that it sloughs off entirely. Infection sets in. They die. Did you know that the word is a corruption of ‘child bane’?”

“I did not.” Vincent still stood by Melody. He held his hands behind his back as though he were listening to any common lecture.

“Children have the constitution and strength to manage the skeins of cold. More importantly, they are too young to feel mortal. Until recently—and still in America—slaves served as coldmongers.
That
is how Lord Eldon’s father first made his wealth.”

“I thought it was as a broker.”

“That is what he calls it now, to hide the fact that his wealth was made upon the backs of children. Is it any wonder that the coldmongers are outraged that they have been forgotten by him? He promised them that he would push a bill through to give them some relief, and has disregarded that.” Mr. O’Brien beat his fist into his open palm. “After our march to the Tower, I think that he will remember us.”

“My God.” As though someone had pulled a slipknot, the pieces of the glamour fell away and Jane could see the pattern at last. Lord Verbury had been playing upon the coldmongers’ unhappiness to create a revolt. By suppressing them brutally, he would “save” the city from the coldmongers and seem a hero. “Vincent, is
this
the Earl’s plan? Creating the march and then striking against it?”

He paled and cursed vehemently.

Melody lifted her head, eyes red from weeping. “Oh, no. Please say that’s not true … it is though, is it not?”

Mr. O’Brien and Lady Stratton looked at each other. Confusion was writ large upon his face. “Will someone explain?”

Vincent and Melody both looked to Jane. Swallowing the bile in her throat, she took a breath to try to steady her nerves. “Lord Verbury wants to displace Lord Eldon as the Lord Chancellor. I believe that he plans to do so by creating a revolt. The footman who spoke with you this afternoon is in the employ of Verbury’s daughter, and she is very much her father’s creature. The march was the footman’s idea, was it not?”

Mute, Mr. O’Brien’s face drained of colour.

Jane faltered. “I am sorry—I thought you were knowingly entangled with Lord Verbury.”

He shook his head.

“When you gather, I think this same footman will tell Lord Verbury the time and place of the march. Verbury has said that the way to deal with such a revolt is by martial law. The coldmongers will be fired upon by British soldiers to ‘restore order,’ and then all of Lord Verbury’s predictions will come to pass.”

“And no one will complain about coldmongers being shot because too much of the populace faults them for the weather. It will be a massacre.” Lady Stratton pressed her hand to her mouth in horror.

“Pardon. I need to be away.” Mr. O’Brien snatched up his hat. “We are marching tonight.”

Vincent glanced at Jane, then tipped his head to Melody, suggesting that Jane take her home. She gave him a half-nod back. Pulling himself upright, Vincent turned to Mr. O’Brien. “I shall go with you. As I know Lord Verbury, my words may help you explain the situation.”

The offer stopped Mr. O’Brien. “I—thank you, sir. That is very generous of you.”

Melody picked up her pelisse and bonnet. “I shall come as well.”

“No. We are going home,” said Jane.

When Melody opened her mouth to object, Lady Stratton shook her head. “Go with your sister. The Coldmongers’ Company does not admit women. We would only be in the way.”

“Sadly, correct.” Mr. O’Brien crossed back to Melody and took her hand. “I would rest easier knowing you were safe.” With an obstinate glance at Jane, he lifted Melody’s hand and kissed it.

*   *   *

Once they were safely
in the carriage, Jane strengthened her resolve to speak with her sister about her conduct. “Melody, dear. I know that you are upset with me.”

“I am, and so I beg you not to speak.” Her eyes were still red from weeping, and strangely magnified by the spectacles she wore.

“I … all right.” It would be best for both of them if they waited until their heads were cooler.

For the rest of the carriage ride, Melody sat facing the window and staring out, at times lowering her spectacles and looking over their rims before restoring them to their place. Jane sat on the bench opposite, fidgeting with a tassel on her pelisse. She felt once again the mortification and shame of the moment when Mr. O’Brien had said that there was no barrier to their marriage. Her conviction had been no better than those who thought that coldmongers controlled the weather: wild supposition instead of fact.

Jane rubbed her forehead as if she could massage her vexation away.

The distance between the oculist’s and their home seemed to expand in the silence. She thought, more than once, that the driver had taken some longer route, but whenever she looked out the window, she saw Piccadilly passing by with its wealth of haberdashers, linen drapers, and booksellers.

It was with greatest relief that they arrived at Schomberg House. Melody descended from the carriage in silence and went into the house without waiting for Jane. Jane settled with the driver and followed her sister inside.

Mrs. Brackett met her in the foyer. “You found her, I see.”

“Yes. The alarm was over nothing.” Jane could not allow gossip to spread through the servants’ channels that Melody had run off. “She had an appointment with an oculist and forgot to tell me it was today. Did you mark her new spectacles?”

“Yes, madam.” Mrs. Brackett’s mouth turned down as though they were distasteful. “I confess that I was surprised. Most young ladies go to pains to avoid such things.”

“True.” Jane pulled off her coat and bonnet. “But my sister likes to read, and these are easier to manage. Did she go upstairs, or to the drawing room?”

“Upstairs to her room, madam.”

“Thank you.” Jane went up the stairs, not looking forward to the interview she was now to face. She knocked on Melody’s door and waited, feeling older than her years.

“Come in.”

Jane let herself into the room. Melody sat at her dressing table holding a handkerchief close to her face. “Did you know that cloth has individual fibres?”

Jane sighed. “I am sorry that I did not believe you, but is it really necessary to rub my face in my error?”

Melody dropped the handkerchief and turned. “Why must you always assume that I am trying some manoeuvre to play upon your sensibility? I am not a glamourist creating the world out of whole cloth. I am twenty years old and this is the first time—No. I reconsider. This is not an argument that is worth having.”

Pressing her hands to her temples, Jane tried again. “I am sorry. That was unfair of me. I have been under considerable strain for the last week, and I thought you were in some danger.”

“I am sure you have been … but, Jane, you have not told me anything.” Melody picked up her hairbrush without seeming to recognise it and turned the thing over in her hands. “You are my sister, and if you expect me to confide in you, then you must do the same. Why did you not simply tell me about Lord Verbury? Or your concerns about the coldmongers? I could have set your mind at ease on that, at least, or perhaps—imagine!—we might have worked together to stop events before they came to a head. La! But why ask your pretty little sister?”

“I did not approach you because it was all just suppositions. Until the footman spoke today, I was not certain of Mr. O’Brien’s guilt beyond his conduct toward you.”

“Which you must now confess has been irreproachable.”

Jane was not ready to admit that. “He should not have invited you to the oculist’s, and you should not have gone. I am certain you will see that when you have had time for rational reflection.” She turned and walked to the door before she could say anything more she would regret.

“For heaven’s sake, Jane. His
mother
was there. What do you think—” Melody visibly gathered herself, tightening her grasp on the hairbrush as though bodily restraining her emotions. When she spoke, she was quite calm. “I assure you that my anger is completely rational.”

Jane paused before leaving, her conscience stopping her. “I know. I do know that.” She spoke to the door. “My conduct has not been all that it might, either. Nevertheless—”

“Oh, stop! Stop. Can you not leave with an apology instead of an excuse?”

Jane swallowed and pulled the door open. Some small part of herself shouted that she was blaming Melody for things that were not her fault. “I am sorry. That is as much as I can say at this time. Perhaps we may speak later, when we are both calmer.”

She slipped out and pulled the door shut behind her. Melody gave a garbled cry and something metal slammed against the closed door.

Jane squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted Vincent. Desperately, at this moment, she wanted to not be responsible for her sister’s conduct or disappointment or anger. She was responsible for all of that and more. She bowed her head and pressed her hand against the wall, trying to anchor herself.

And now Vincent was trying to ease the predicament of the Coldmongers’ Company. That trouble, at least, was simple to repair. Once Mr. O’Brien explained what Lord Verbury planned, they could put off the march and make a new plan. Now that they knew about the footman, they could keep him from telling Lord Verbury about the change.