Without a Summer (25 page)
If he had only the one spy, that is. But a man such as that would have more than one way to accomplish his plans. Vincent would realise this the moment he had time to think, but in the meantime, chances were good that he was relating everything to someone who would betray them.
If they allowed women, Jane would go warn Vincent now. This was hardly the first time that wearing a gown was a barrier, but—
Jane lifted her head. She did not have to wear a gown.
Hurrying down the hall to her bedroom, Jane rang for Mrs. Brackett. As she waited, she pulled off her dress and petticoat. She had worn men’s clothing for two weeks in Binche, and she could do it again.
In a few moments the housekeeper entered, expression showing nothing at finding Jane in a state of dishabille. “Lady Vincent?”
“As quickly as possible, I require a suit of gentlemen’s clothing that will fit me, as well as a pair of boots.” Jane did not, at that moment, care to think about what sort of gossip would spread through London about her attire.
“But, madam—”
“If it makes it easier, I am going to a fancy dress party.” She and Vincent were artists. Surely she could be granted this oddity.
The ride through London on horseback was much different than in a carriage. Jane had always been an indifferent horsewoman while riding side-saddle, but had come to understand that it was because the position itself was challenging. Though she felt exposed in her breeches, sitting above the foot traffic gave her a sense of being somehow more private. The hack that Mrs. Brackett had sent the footman to hire for her was a calm mare, which Jane was grateful for, and she was able to guide it past the knots in carriage traffic with relative ease. The trip to the Coldmongers’ Company took half the time that it had taken her formerly.
The porter knuckled his forehead when she presented herself at the gate. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Jane tried to keep her voice low enough that it would not arouse his suspicion. “I am on an errand to find Sir David Vincent and Mr. O’Brien.”
“I will send someone for them.” He turned from the gate.
“If you will not let me in, then Sir David is preferable.”
“Aye.” He whistled, and a boy of ten, with the warm gold skin of the West Indies, left his playfellows and scampered inside the main building.
Jane had expected to be allowed in. It made sense that they would be somewhat cautious about whom they admitted, particularly with the march in question. She swung her leg over the saddle and lowered herself to the ground. Though she landed heavily, it was still an improvement over a gown. With a riding habit, she always needed help to mount or even dismount a horse.
Waiting, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Wearing breeches in Binche did not seem as revealing as here on her native soil. If they would not allow her in, then there had been little point in changing clothes.
Vincent came out the door, frowning deeply. He looked past her for a moment, then his gaze snapped back. Even across the yard, she could see his nostrils flare with alarm. Vincent ran the last few yards to the gate. “Let him in, please. I will vouch for him.”
“As you say, Sir David.” The porter touched his cap again, and pulled it open for Jane. “What name do I put in the register?”
Vincent’s mouth opened and hung that way. “Um…”
“Henry Vincent. I am his cousin.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I wouldn’t have kept you waiting out here in the cold.” The porter turned to his register and paid them no more mind as Jane followed Vincent into the yard. She gave her horse to a lad with copper skin and shockingly blue eyes along with a shilling to watch the creature.
The moment they were out of hearing, Vincent lowered his head. “What is the matter?”
“It occurred to me that the footman would not be Lord Verbury’s only agent.”
Vincent cursed. “I should have thought of that.”
“You were distracted.”
“Perhaps.” Vincent pulled the door open for her, then looked at her curiously. “I suppose I should not do this while you are dressed so.”
“Men are not courteous to each other?” She went through the door into the small dark entry hall of the Company. A set of double doors stood open at the far end and let out on a larger sitting area, lined with benches. Beyond that she could hear shouting from a mass of people somewhere deeper in the building. “Where is Mr. O’Brien?”
“Speaking to the coldmongers. It is not going well, which makes me think your supposition is correct. They did not care about what I had to say at all.” Vincent scowled and hurried down a hall. “And we
are
courteous. But the manner in which the door is held is different for a lady than a gentleman.”
“You will have to teach me someday.” Jane followed him, boots tapping against the bare wood floors.
“How is Melody?”
“She is unhappy, which is understandable.”
“Did you quarrel?”
“Why do you assume that it is my fault?”
“I do not.” Vincent stopped outside a set of massive double doors. The shouting came from behind those. “I assume that a quarrel happened, but make no further conjecture. I merely wanted to know her state of mind.”
“We did.” Jane looked at the floor and was startled anew by the sight of her legs instead of a smooth sweep of fabric.
Vincent clapped her shoulder, as though she were a man. “It will all work out.”
Nodding, Jane pulled the door open for Vincent. The wave of sound that rolled out was full of anger. With a wince, Vincent passed into the room. The assembly hall of the Worshipful Company of Coldmongers had a high ceiling, hung with banners showing the various guilds around the country. Tall, narrow windows set high in the walls let in thin beams of light, which were supplemented by heavy iron chandeliers. It seemed one part monastery and one part fortress. The room was filled with boys and men in every shade, from the dark Moor to the milk-white Scot. Many of them had abandoned the benches that faced the front of the room and stood, shouting at the three speakers on the dais.
Two of the speakers had the lean build of coldmongers and stood slightly to the side of the platform. The third was Mr. O’Brien. His red hair was caught in one of the rare rays of sunlight, and it glowed in a fiery corona. He held up his hands, calling for silence. “My friends, I beg you to reconsider. You have heard Sir David speak of the likelihood that the Crown will fire upon us.”
“And that’s why we should march!” A young white man with yellow hair stood and raised his fist above his head. He had abandoned his coat in the absence of women, and his blue armband stood out sharply on his shirt sleeve. “We’ve been cast aside, and must show that we will not be forgotten!”
“No, no, that is what they want. Please. Taking time to reconsider our plans will not harm the movement.”
“What about those of us who are being beaten any time we leave the gates?” A young man with light brown skin pushed himself up. “Chill Will’s been beaten twice, and Ice Mike almost lost an eye. Are we just going to let that keep happening? I say No. No! NO!”
The young men around him roared with approval. They were
all
young men, some no more than boys. No one here was over thirty. All were slender, some to the point of appearing emaciated. And she counted four men just among those near to her who were missing fingers. Their health was the price paid for cooling Jane in the summer or keeping produce fresh just that little bit longer. And yet, to say that she would not use coldmongers any more … what work would they have, then?
“If you march now, you will confirm every fear, every rumour that has been spread about you. For months it has been put about that coldmongers are a danger, and the march will be seen to confirm that.” Mr. O’Brien stretched his hands toward them, pleading. “Please, Mr. Lucas. Please, consider the consequences. And let me plead that if you
are
set upon this, that the march give no cause for alarm. Let it be peaceful.”
“If they were afraid of us before, I say let’s give them a reason.” Mr. Lucas stood on a bench and addressed the group. “Lord Eldon has turned his back on his heritage. This will get his attention. And if the people are more afraid of us? I say good. Perhaps they will leave us alone when we go out if we remind them how many coldmongers live in this city. Did we not assemble to march tonight? I say we march!”
The shout of approbation rattled though Jane’s chest. Vincent pressed his hands to the side of his head and squeezed his eyes shut, though whether because his head still ached or from dismay, Jane could not be certain. She felt nothing but alarm and fear. If Mr. Lucas was not the agent of Lord Verbury, then he was doing his work for him out of naïveté.
Mr. Lucas faced Mr. O’Brien and lowered his voice. “My question to you, sir, is if you will also turn your back on us, or if you will march?”
The silence that followed that question rang almost as violently as the shouts had. Mr. O’Brien dropped his hands to his side, looking inexpressibly sad. “Of course. I am with you.”
* * *
The anger carried the
coldmongers outside. Mr. O’Brien strode out after them, his face forbidding. In the yard they assembled, passing out signs and banners. Some of the coldmongers had horses and they swung up onto those. Two rode close to each other with a banner spread between them that read, R
EMEMBER THE
C
OLDMONGERS—
S
UMMER
I
S
C
OMING
.
The wind had come up while they were indoors, making that slogan seem a lie. It swept through the quadrangle, stirring coattails and snatching hats. The horses’ manes snapped in the cold breeze. Jane shivered and wished for a bonnet, which did more to keep out the cold than a top hat.
She looked at the barely contained chaos and turned to Vincent. He was staring at her with the strangest expression on his face. He blushed and looked away, wetting his lips. Still looking across the yard, he leaned down to whisper, “I was thinking about what my father would say if he knew that I found you attractive in trousers.”
Her coat seemed too warm, suddenly. She whispered back, “I do not care what he would say, if you like them.”
The corner of his eye wrinkled into his small private smile. A frown followed as the first torch was lit. “Will you go home?”
“Will you?”
He hung his head, with a little laugh. “There are times when I wish we were not so well matched in temperament.”
“Melody will never forgive me if something happens to him.” As she spoke, Mr. O’Brien swung up onto his horse. Jane’s heart sank as he did. “Is that the horse that Beau Brummell wanted?”
Vincent turned and scowled. “It is.”
The horse was tall, taller than even the Duke of Wellington’s Copenhagen, and towered over the other horses like an equestrian statue cast in bronze. Its coat could be called bay, but that did no justice to the brilliance of its hide. It was a red horse, as red as Mr. O’Brien’s hair. There could be no other horse like it. “And is it well known that he rides it?”
Vincent’s face tightened as he made the same connection that Jane had. “The Earl must be planning on making him a dupe. I will see if I can convince him to change horses.”
“I brought a horse. See if he will take it?”
As Vincent pressed through the crowd, Jane followed. She had little hope that he would succeed. When Mr. O’Brien heard that Vincent thought the horse made him a mark, he would likely cling to it all the more. The effort must be made, however.
“Sir? A word, if you please.” Vincent looked up at Mr. O’Brien.
“Of course.” Mr. O’Brien glanced at Jane, but did not look beyond her clothing. His attention moved past them, taking in the coldmongers as they prepared to march.
“I think that the Earl of Verbury plans to mark you by—”
“Gods, no.” Mr. O’Brien straightened in his saddle and looked past Vincent. Jane followed his gaze, wondering what had caught his attention. On the far side of the iron gate, she caught a shock of golden curls under a bonnet with blue ostrich feathers.
Jane grasped Vincent’s coat sleeve. What in heaven’s name was her sister thinking?
Mr. O’Brien pushed his horse forward to the gate. Jane followed him through the press of people as he broke through some of the lines that formed as the coldmongers organised themselves.
Jane grasped the metal fence. “Melody, what are you doing here?”
Melody looked at her, then looked again. Behind her spectacles, her eyes widened with alarm as she looked a third time. “Jane?”
Now Mr. O’Brien recognised her. “Lady Vincent?”
“Yes and yes.” She frowned at Melody. “You ought not be here. This is no place for a young lady to come alone.”
“It is no place for a woman at all.” Mr. O’Brien swung down from his horse. “Both of you should go back.”
“Melody, let me take you home.” Jane was aware of Vincent at her back, strong and alert for additional danger.
Melody shook her head. “No. This is a just cause, and I want to add my voice to it.” She held up a placard, neatly written. A
LL OUT OF WORK AND COLD FOR ACTION
!
—
H
ENRY
V. “I made a sign.”
“But the Coldmongers’ Company does not admit women.” Mr. O’Brien twisted the reins of his horse. “So, you see, there is nothing you can do here.”
The gates opened and the march tumbled onto the street. Melody lifted her chin and backed away from the fence. “But when they are on the street, who will complain?” She turned and ran to join the ranks of young men, lifting her placard to join theirs.
Mr. O’Brien cursed and swung up onto his saddle. He wheeled the horse and pressed forward into the marching ranks of coldmongers.
Jane started to run after Melody, then cursed, remembering the horse she had brought. She was not enough of a horsewoman to feel comfortable directing it in this crowd. She turned to Vincent. “I hired a hack, the grey mare there. Will you take her? I will have better luck catching Melody afoot.”