Vincent bowed in a similar fashion.
The old man smiled, his hooked nose bending along with his wrinkles. “The pleasure is entirely mine. I must thank you for your efforts on our behalf. This…” He waved at the ceiling. “I have travelled a good deal in my day and have not seen its like before. Remarkable.”
It was so much easier to accept a compliment when one had actually done the work. “You are too kind. In truth, though, the credit belongs to the glamourists who worked with us.”
“But you designed it, did you not, Lady Vincent?” He tilted his head to the side. “Have you had occasion to visit any of the Arctic countries?”
“Not yet, I am afraid.”
“Oh, you must. Iceland, in particular, is one of—”
“You!” In an elegant frock of Venetian gauze, Mrs. Pridmore pushed her way through the crowd. A full plume of white ostrich feathers tipped with amber quivered over her head as she advanced on Vincent. “Mortal! That blush of shame proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name; First of the mighty, foremost of the free, Now honour’d less by all, and least by me. Seek’st thou the cause of loathing? Look around!”
It took Jane a moment to understand that Mrs. Pridmore was reciting verses by Lord Byron. Vincent seemed just as taken aback. Mrs. Pridmore’s voice rose as she recited. To do her credit, her elocution was first form and filled with all the loathing of Minerva. The dancers slowed their movements and the crowd turned to watch her chant.
“First on the head of him who did this deed
“My curse shall light—on him and all his seed:
“Without one spark of intellectual fire,
“Be all the sons as senseless as the sire:
“If one with wit the parent brood disgrace,
“Believe him bastard of a brighter race:
“Still with his hireling—”
Mrs. Whitten stepped between Vincent and Mrs. Pridmore. “My dear … perhaps this is not the best time.”
“He had no right! Grenville worked so hard. All the time.” Her voice shook with emotion. “What are we to do?”
“Let us go somewhere more private, hm?” Mrs. Whitten looked past Mrs. Pridmore and caught the eye of one of her servants. He nodded, and, in moments, two men in livery were sliding through the crowd. “I have been wishing you would come to me.”
“How could I? After he fired Grenville. With no cause! The humiliation is not to be borne. He is so—we had such hopes, and now…” She began to weep.
Vincent spread his hands in distress. “Mrs. Pridmore, please accept my honest regrets that you—”
She screamed and flung herself at him. Without thinking, Jane stepped in front of her husband. At almost the same moment, Vincent took Jane by the shoulders. He turned her, sliding around her, so his back was to Mrs. Pridmore. The breath puffed out of him, but he stood, arms wrapped around Jane, as Mrs. Pridmore rained blows against his back.
For several long moments, the shock held everyone in place. Then, Dr. Hartnell said firmly, “Mrs. Pridmore!”
“Let go! Let me go!” she shrieked, sobbing. “I will see you hanged! We have friends. Do not forget that! We have friends here!” Still sobbing, she was half led, half carried through the crowd, all of whom stepped back with murmurs at the spectacle.
Hands shaking, Vincent released Jane. She turned, her shock giving way rapidly to useless fear now that the danger was past. He had closed his expression off so it seemed severe, but nothing more. Holding her at arm’s length, Vincent ran his gaze over her person. “Muse? Are you all right?”
“Shocked, only. You should not have done that, she—”
“The baby.” He let go of one arm and wiped his face. “As soon as you moved—her aim changed. Down.”
That was the only moment of comparative solitude they were granted. The crowd that had stood back during Mrs. Pridmore’s actual assault now rushed around them, wanting to hear all the details.
In the midst of this, Mrs. Whitten appeared. “Shall I call your carriage?”
“Yes.” Jane had no need to consult Vincent when his body spoke with such eloquence of wanting to escape. “Forgive me, but yes.”
With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Whitten nodded. “Good. Because I suspected as much and already did.”
She extricated them from the crowd, making their apologies for them, and in short order, had Jane and Vincent out of the ballroom and in the carriage. Vincent leaned back against the seat with a heavy sigh. He winced and straightened again.
“Did she hurt you?”
“No … although, remarkably, she lands a more solid punch than her husband.”
*
On the Sunday following the charity ball, Jane and Vincent prepared for a different event. With the assistance of Frank and Nkiruka, they had arranged a thank-you dinner for the glamourists who had helped create the glamural and their families.