Without a Summer (7 page)
It astonished her how distracting a sigh could be.
* * *
At the end of
the day, Jane’s arms ached as she pulled her pelisse back on. They had managed to place much of the underlayer of the glamour, but they still needed to tackle the musicians’ gallery before they were ready to begin sketching the broad strokes of the forms they wanted to add. Vincent often added an underlayer of paint, but they did not want to disturb the ballroom’s panelled walls, so they had decided to create the whole of the glamural with illusion.
With Lord Stratton’s offering, they had not needed to eat the bread and cheese that Cook had packed for them. Vincent stooped to pick up their basket from where Jane had left it by the door. He groaned softly as he stood. Placing a hand behind his hips, Vincent leaned backwards and cracked his spine. “I am getting old, Muse.”
“You are younger than I am by a full year.” She took his arm, feeling every one of
her
thirty years, as they left the ballroom. “What must Melody think of us if you think yourself old?”
“We are ancient, infirm creatures on the edge of our graves.”
As they walked toward the front of the house, the sound of a pianoforte led them to the music room. The tune was a simple one, adequately played but without the authority of a true musician. Melody’s voice rose above it in a clear, sweet accompaniment.
Jane tilted her head, listening. “It sounds as though she has been practising.”
“She may not have had anything else to do this week.” Vincent grimaced and buttoned his coat. “I dislike neglecting her so much after inviting her to come to London, and yet…”
“And yet, we have our work to do.” Jane squeezed his arm. “She is my responsibility, not yours.”
Vincent stopped her in the hall and looked down with a serious cast to his features. “Do not think that I consider her less of a sister than if she were my own.”
“Like the one you were afraid to see?” Jane teased him, but regretted her words the moment they were out of her mouth, as Vincent winced, turning his face to the wall. “I am sorry, my love.”
He shook his head, staring at the bust of a cupid sculpted into a nook and traced a line down its nose with his finger. The muscles in his jaw bunched. Letting his breath out in a huff, Vincent said, “It is not Penny that I am afraid of. Or rather … not precisely her. I am afraid that my father sent her, and I do not know why.” He laughed rather desperately, gripping the cherub’s wing.
Jane stood on her toes to kiss Vincent on the cheek. “He has no hold over you.”
“No.” He let go of the statue. “So, shall we rescue your sister from ennui?”
A burst of laughter came out of the music room. Jane raised a brow. It was not only Melody, but a gentleman laughing. “I wonder if we need to.”
They walked down the hall and entered a sunny room, which contained not only a pianoforte, but also a harp and a cello. Melody sat at the keys with the sun shining behind her, making her hair fairly glow.
A young gentleman leaned against the pianoforte, resting his elbows upon the cloth thrown over it. He was a tall, slender man, with a riot of red hair, which sparkled in the sunlight like ruby to Melody’s gold. His blue eyes were a match for Lady Stratton’s, though a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles framed them. His clothes, which showed all the signs of an excellent tailor, were splashed with mud. There could be little doubt that this was Alastar O’Brien, eldest son of Lord Stratton.
As the Vincents entered, he straightened, the casual nature of his posture altering to something more formal, but none the less attractive for that. “Good afternoon?”
Vincent offered him a short bow and made the appropriate introductions. Jane could never get used to being introduced as Lady Vincent, but she smiled and curtsied. “I see you have already met my sister.”
“I was drawn to the music. It was quite improper, but when one hears a muse, one must follow.” He was quite the gallant.
Looking up through her eyelashes becomingly, Melody said, “I should say that the one who inspires the music is the muse, rather than the one who merely plays it.”
“It depends, I suppose, on where one finds inspiration,” Mr. O’Brien said.
“I have often felt the same way, sir.” Vincent suppressed a smile and almost winked at Jane.
Mr. O’Brien gestured at the dirt on his trousers. “Forgive my attire. I have only just arrived in town, and my parents did not tell me that we had guests.”
“Ah. That is because we are not guests.” Jane paused, seeing that he did not understand. “Your parents have hired us to adorn the ballroom. We are glamourists.”
“Oh.” He looked back at Melody, the open expression fading from his face. “I did not know. Forgive me for presuming on your time.”
“Not at all.” Melody rose from her place behind the pianoforte. “I was very glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise.” He bowed to her and to the Vincents. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to find my parents and let them know that I am here.”
As he left, Jane stifled the urge to call him back and tell him that Melody was the daughter of a gentleman, and not merely the sister of an artisan. Regardless of the Irish reputation for being wastrels, Jane could not stand to see her sister slighted.
The following day, Melody stayed at home, which Jane could not help but think had something to do with Mr. O’Brien. Now that Melody had the use of the music room, Stratton House should have offered more diversion than their own. She complained of a headache, so Jane did not press her, but left Melody to recline in the relative darkness of her bedchamber with a damp rag over her eyes.
Though concerned about her sister, Melody’s absence left Jane and Vincent free to attend to the glamural. The work absorbed them to such an extent that, when they finally left Stratton House, Jane was surprised by the lateness of the hour. Dusk had fallen over the streets and painted deep shadows at the corners. It had begun to snow while they were inside and the walk home, while beautiful, was cold and damp.
When they arrived home, Melody met them in the foyer. She had a heavy cream envelope in her hands and was fairly dancing with excitement. Any sign of her prior affliction had vanished.
“Look! Oh, look! I never thought to see this.” Melody held it out so that the Prince Regent’s seal was visible on the paper. “Is it real? Is it really him?”
“It is.” Vincent exchanged a look of perplexity with Jane as he shed his coat, which made it clear that he had no more notion as to why the Prince Regent was writing to them than she did. “May I?” Melody passed him the envelope, but continued to describe an orbit about them, glowing as though she were lit by glamour. If Mr. O’Brien could see her now, he would not mind that she was the sister of an artisan.
Jane did not attempt to look over Vincent’s shoulder as he read the sheet inside the envelope. He would let her know soon enough what it contained, and at the moment, she was more interested in finding her way to her rooms and getting out of her wet clothes. “I am going up to dress for dinner.”
“Are you not curious, Jane?” Melody hugged herself. “La! I have been staring at it for most of the day. What Miss Baker at home will say when I tell her that we had a letter from His Royal Highness.”
“I am more damp than curious.” Jane displayed her dirty hem. “Mrs. Brackett will not approve of me dripping on her foyer, I think.”
Lifting his head, Vincent passed Melody the letter. “Allow me to relieve the curiosity, nevertheless. In light of the weather, we have been invited to a skating party on Monday.”
A squeak escaped from Melody as she regarded the letter. “All of us?”
“Yes.” Vincent tucked his chin in and compressed his lips. A faint whine escaped him as he stared at Melody. Taking a deeper breath, Vincent squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as though to brace himself. When he opened them, he said, “I shall write to accept.”
Her dear had never been one who enjoyed a press of people. Jane had thought she would have to convince him to accept for Melody’s sake. To voluntarily submit himself to an afternoon in the company of the peerage was a great sacrifice, which she doubted her sister fully understood.
Melody threw her hands in the air with a cheer of delight that would have been more suited to a schoolgirl than a young lady. “I must write to Miss Baker and Miss Downing. Oh! What shall I wear? I have never skated. What if I fall? La! Where does one even get skates? Oh! This is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me.” Her exuberance overran her sense, and she embraced Vincent and then Jane in turn. “Thank you for bringing me to London. I must enter this in my appointment book. How grand that will look. Skating with the Prince Regent! Oh, and I must write to Mama and Aunt Genevieve. Oh. And Miss Marchand.” Clutching the letter, Melody hurried into the drawing room, still listing those whom she must apprise of the coming event.
Vincent stood in the centre of the hall with his mouth a little agape. Jane slipped her arms around him and nodded to where her sister had vanished. “You have made her very happy.”
“So it appears.” He hesitated. “It seemed necessary.”
She leaned her head against his broad chest. “And that is but one example of why I love you.”
* * *
The day of the
skating party dawned bright and clear. It had snowed all day on Easter Sunday and drifts were piled around the city. Melody and Jane were wrapped in their warmest dresses with extra petticoats and shawls to guard against the chill. They carried new skates, procured by the efficient Mrs. Brackett, as the carriage dropped them off in the broad circular drive of Carlton House.
Jane could not help but notice the picture her sister made as they were escorted through the palace interior and to the grounds behind it. Over her dress, she wore her celestial-blue Hessian pelisse, which fastened with broad ornamental frogs up to her throat in the manner of an officer’s uniform. The regularity of the braids cast the swell of her bosom into graceful contrast. Her gold curls were piled onto her head and peeked becomingly from beneath a high-crowned hat that had been trimmed with blue and white ostrich feathers. She carried before her a muff as white as a cloud against the sky.
The grounds at Carlton House had been transformed into a wonderland of winter, with nods to the vanished spring. Snow sculptures of deer and fawns shared the pristine white grounds with frozen swans and flowers made of frost. A shallow reflecting pond already featured gentlemen and ladies gliding over the ice. Their habits, in mulberry, pomona green, and primrose yellow, stood out against the severe landscape like flowers on a banquet table.
The Prince Regent stood in a cluster of men by the pond. His figure, restrained by corsets, had yet another layer of bulk added to it by the heavy fur coat he wore. He noticed them come out of the house and motioned Vincent over.
“Well, Melody,” Vincent sighed and waved back, “you had wanted to meet His Royal Highness.”
Melody’s eyes got very round, but she kept her composure admirably. Jane had not seen the Prince Regent since they had removed to Long Parkmead. She recognised a few of his companions. The gentlemen from his set stood in various poses, as if a fashion plate illustrator might wander by and engrave their image at any moment.
As they walked up, Sir Lumley waved an aromatic handkerchief and beamed with delight upon catching sight of her. His greatcoat hung open to show off his usual dark blue coat with gold buttons and a yellow waistcoat. The white ribbons of his breeches peeked out of his top boots as though he had puffs of snow clinging to his knees. “My dear Lady Vincent. Such a pleasure. You have kept too much away from us. How are you, my dear?”
“Quite well, thank you.” Jane offered him a curtsy and turned to introduce her sister.
Before she could begin, the Prince Regent clapped Vincent on the back. “Skiffy is quite right. Who has hired you away from me?”
“I am always at your Royal Highness’s service.” Vincent bowed as though they did not have an entire ballroom to finish for Lord Stratton.
“Good. You are lying, but I may hold you to it later in any event. My daughter is getting married in May, you know.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “I am not in the habit of performing for weddings.”
The Prince Regent laughed and beat Vincent’s back again. “Ah, you are always a treat. Meanwhile, I need a diversion. These gentlemen have come for an afternoon of pleasure and talk of nothing but uprisings.”
“Oh, Prinny. You do exaggerate. We also discussed the high food prices.” Sir Lumley waved a handkerchief at him, briefly perfuming the air with lavender.
“And soldiers,” another gentleman teased. “You must not forget those.”
Lord Chesterford, who clearly did not understand a jest, shook his finger and his moustache quivered. “Our good men fought for our country and have returned to a thankless home. We serve them ill if they cannot find useful employment. Mark me! The Luddite riots in the north are just the beginning.”
The Prince Regent held his hands out in mock despair. “Always, you return to riots.”
“We saw a riot on our wa—” Melody broke off, face colouring with the realisation that she had spoken without being introduced to His Royal Highness.
“Gracious me.” The Prince Regent peered around Vincent with an expression of some surprise. “Sir David! Ah … I see that you have brought your most worthy wife, and a vision of loveliness.”
Once, such a comparison between them would have nettled Jane, who had long felt the shadow of her younger and more beautiful sister. The fact that she had found contentment with her situation and Melody was as yet unattached, if not a happy thought, at least relieved her of any symptoms of jealousy. So she was able to receive the Prince Regent’s words with a smile and say, “Your Royal Highness, may I present my sister, Miss Ellsworth.”
She was less able to overlook the surprise on that gentleman’s countenance or the way his gaze darted from one face to the other, seeking a resemblance. They shared only the shape of their eyes, which they had from their mother.