“I have not stopped you. We have the brazier at Mrs. Hamilton’s feet to draw the bad spirits down, and I see that you have already tied a red ribbon around young Master Charles’s arm. Next comes the spirit bower. I am familiar with the routine.”
“I show you, Mr. Hamilton.”
He was aware that they were managing him. After the distillery accident, he had seen how effectually they managed the family members of the wounded. “Thank you.”
Working briskly, they cleared away the blood-soaked blankets and washed Jane. He had to turn his back to stare out the window so he could not see how limp she was. At some point, he realised he had given Charles his little finger to suck on, which reminded Vincent that he would need to arrange for a wet nurse.
“Much better. You may turn around—your wife is decent again.”
He almost laughed. They thought he had turned around out of modesty? Of all the aspects of their marriage, he and Jane had never been shy about that after their wedding night. He had turned because he could not bear to see Jane suffer, which was why he had learned to be open with her, as well as why he hid his infirmities from her. He was aware how much that annoyed her, but she fretted when she knew. It was the one trait she had inherited from her mother, though his Muse turned it outward rather than inward—her own infirmities she disregarded almost scrupulously. But his she treated like threats to his life.
If, for instance, she had known that Vincent’s father had cracked one of his ribs, she would not have let him carry her, even though he was demonstrably capable of it. He was not so careless of his health as she believed, but he drew a distinction between discomfort and disability. If he could learn to dance after being caned, then he could carry Jane with a cracked rib.
And he could turn now. It hurt to see her limp figure, but it would not leave a permanent mark. If she were to die, that would be a very different matter.
They had dressed Jane in a rough chemise and drawn a clean blanket up to cover her. If she were not so drawn and still, with a bundle of pillows holding up her legs to encourage blood to stay near her heart, she might simply be resting after her labour.… Vincent swallowed and had to clear his throat before he could speak. “You had mentioned a glamour?”
Nkiruka beckoned to him. “I set it. You can keep it going.”
“Is it a running thread?”
“No. Uses what your wife calls ‘poorfire threads,’ so they fray quick. Gotta to keep refreshing, or it dissolves, but…” She gave Dr. Jones a glare. “My people don’t get childbed fever. Folks who keep the old ways? Less infection.”
“And I am telling you that it is a matter of heritage.” Dr. Jones shook her head. “Europeans are more prone to infection than are Black Africans. It is natural that, as populations mix here in Antigua, we should see a rise in infection among the coloured population. It has nothing to do with abandoning the old ways.”
“Still, I should like to try it.” Vincent would try anything that stood a chance of keeping Jane alive.
“It will do no harm.” Dr. Jones picked up the bundle of soiled cloth from the floor. “But I do not want to give you false hope.”
She had no worries on that count. Vincent grasped the thread of despair and wrapped it into a tight knot with the others. Later. Later he could let them unravel and find somewhere to hide until he could stitch a plausible countenance back together again.
Thirty-four
A Second Sight
Vincent ran his finger down the length of Jane’s strong, proud nose in a way he never did when she was awake. He loved the shape of it and the way it reflected the force of her character, but any attempt to convince her of that had failed. She thought it overlong. If one wanted an insipid lady of the fashionable set, she was correct. But the way the tip of it curved when she smiled, the wrinkles across the high bridge when she was annoyed, the flare of her nostrils when she was working … all of these made it so eloquently her that he could not fail to adore it.
He straightened and studied the web that Nkiruka had woven over and into Jane. It was largely composed of poorfire threads. Though he did not think they could help Jane, he suspected that Nkiruka had set up the web to give him something to attend to while he waited. He was grateful for that.
Vincent expanded his vision to the second sight. Now the web stood out in glowing lines, which his mind interpreted as a black-purple not-colour. The threads were all tied off, though not with any knot he recognised, so all he needed to do to keep it from decaying was to be certain the thread was spun to the appropriate degree. The high, tight hum of the poorfire threads buzzed beneath his fingers as he made a minute alteration to tighten them.
A brief, familiar knock sounded on the door. He sighed. What news would Frank have for him?
“Enter.” Vincent let go of the threads and turned his vision back to Jane, hoping for some reaction to the sound of his voice.
The door opened. “They told me. I am so sorry.”