Vincent stared at his hands still longer before pressing them together to quiet the shaking. Jane gave him time to organise his thoughts. Her much-tried patience was rewarded when he sighed and sat forward, turning his face so that the bruises were more prominent. He did not meet her gaze, though, and seemed to be studying the base of the wall behind her. With one hand, he touched the heavy purple under his eye. “This. My response to Pridmore, both when he was here, and when I punched him—I needed the reminder that.… It has been easy to pretend that I do not have a temper these past few years, but that is only because it has not been tried.”
“I would say that it has been sorely tried on several occasions and that you have exhibited admirable restraint.”
“Restraint. You mean when I am afraid to move because if I do I will hit something?”
“But you do not.”
“The urge is there.” He glanced towards her, but not quite at her. “I needed the reminder of my relationship with my father, because you are with child.”
Of all the things that Jane knew, she was certain that he would never strike their child, and she was equally certain that this was a fear his father had deliberately implanted. Jane held out her hand, resting it palm up on the bed until he took it. “You are not your father.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“You are not like him. You do not use people. You do not beat them for a difference of opinion. The fact that you have the urge to hit … I have that urge sometimes. What is telling is that you do not act upon it.”
“Because I am practised at stifling the impulse does not mean— My capacity for violence terrifies me.”
“It does not frighten me.” She tightened her grip on his hand. “You do not frighten me.”
“But I have.”
Jane shook her head. “I do not count my nearly constant dread that you will overwork and drop from a strained heart as a fear of you.”
“Can you honestly tell me that you have not been frightened of me at some point in the past three months?”
Jane sighed, knowing the moments he was thinking of, when she had taken an involuntary step backwards or when she had flinched because he raised his voice. “Are you able to look at me? I want you to have no thoughts that I am dissembling.”
Too slowly, Vincent lifted his eyes to hers. Even with one eye swollen nearly shut, his fear was obvious. Jane held out her other hand, waiting until he placed his there.
Holding tight to both hands, Jane fixed Vincent with her gaze. She made no effort to govern her countenance, because he would note that effort and likely take it as a sign of things concealed. “You have startled me. Several times, I have been alarmed by the strength of your temper, but not because I was afraid of you. I have been frightened of what being here is doing to you. Our first day here—after we discovered your father, you said ‘Forgive me. I am not myself.’ I do not think you have been yourself since we arrived. He has stretched and warped and twisted you out of yourself, until you believe that this extremity is your natural state. It is not. You are not yourself. And you are very much forgiven for it.”
Vincent shut his eyes, hands trembling in her grasp.
“You will not hit me. You will not hit our child. It is not in your nature.”
In a very low voice, as if he were forcing the words out, he said, “I am afraid it is.”
“I know you are. That fear is part—only part, mind you—of why I know that it is not your nature.” She lifted his hand and kissed it. “You are obstinate, imprudent, and sometimes rude. You are not cruel. The most I will grant is that you are insufferable and occasionally inscrutable.”
His smile, weak though it was, seemed like sun breaking through rain. Jane kissed his hand again, closing her eyes to hide her own anger. When she was allowed out of bed, she had a list of words to present to Lord Verbury, all of which would shock her mother.
The baby squirmed in answer to her agitation. She could do nothing about Lord Verbury for the present, but she could try to help Vincent settle back into himself. Jane opened her eyes and lowered Vincent’s hand to her stomach. “Here. I was going to show you the game we are playing. Push and the baby will push back.”
“Will I not hurt you?”
“No more than this inconceivable child does.” Jane put pressure on the back of his hand, pushing it into the part of her stomach where the baby had last nudged her.
A moment later, an answering bump pushed at Vincent’s hand. He let out an unsteady laugh and pushed again. “That is remarkable.”
“I try to think of it that way.” Truly, every time the child moved it was a good sign, even if there were occasions on which it was a trifle uncomfortable. “I think the baby recognises your voice, too.”
“Really?” Vincent lifted his head.
Jane tried to reply only to his surprise, not the bruises. “At any rate, he or she moves more when you talk.”
“Perhaps I should sit here and recite the classics, then. Or moralize upon—God!”
Jane’s stomach had glowed.
It was only a brief flash of ruddy light, which had seemed to originate deep within her. Suddenly breathless, Jane stared at her own middle. “I suppose that should not be a surprise, given whose child this is.”
“And at not quite eight months.” Vincent leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I will be certain to boast to Herr Scholes that our child is more of a prodigy than his grandchild.”
“You are going to be insufferably proud as a father, I suspect.”
He sobered a little, regarding her with earnestness. “I hope I am.”