“Mm.” He wiped his hand down his face to remind himself to act somewhat human and stood to meet Frank.
Frank had changed clothes since the morning and was in a sensible black suit, cravat neatly tied, with no trace of the fire from the night before. He carried a bundle under one arm. “I brought you a change of clothes.”
Vincent looked down, seeing for the first time his own dirty nightshirt and breeches. He had been holding Charles in this? Small wonder that Dr. Jones had insisted on taking him to a wet nurse. Jane would be appalled if she woke to find him in such a state. “Thank you.” Something more was required. “How is your family?”
“Shaken, but safe. Mother will be bruised for some time, but Pridmore did her no serious bodily injury when he took Lord Verbury.” Frank hesitated as he set the clothes down on the little table. “What is your state?”
“I hardly know.” He held the tendrils of feeling so tightly that all of them tangled together. He was aware of what that did to his countenance and worked to present a less forbidding expression. It was not welcoming, but given that his other choices were breaking things or breaking himself, placid civility seemed the best option. He looked down at Jane. “I am concerned, but calm enough to hear your news. I assume you have some.”
“I do.”
The birth stool had been removed from the room and replaced with a soft chair that would be useful when Jane was up and nursing Charles. Vincent gestured to it and pulled his own straight-backed chair from beside Jane’s bed. He did not want to be even that far away, but Frank deserved the courtesy of his attention, and more. Sitting, he nodded for Frank to begin.
“I will start with the least important, since it will not require much in the way of remark. I have an early report of the property damage.” Frank pulled out a sheet of paper from his coat pocket.
The motion made Vincent think of his own coat, which he had not thought to take from the great house. The miniatures Jane had given him were still tucked inside. He lost his grip on the illusion of calm, and a strand of rage lashed free.
Standing, he walked away to the window until he could tame the urge to hit. Frank was not the object. That was Pridmore, who had threatened Jane and destroyed what might be her last gift to—no. She would wake up. Vincent cleared his throat. “I trust you have that well in hand.”
The paper rustled as Frank folded it. “Vincent, all of this can wait.”
“I have nothing else to do.” He pulled in and in and in until it was safe to move again. He could not act on instinct in this state, but needed to consider every action and measure it against what a rational person would do. Smiling would be too much, but to turn and incline the head would suit. Vincent did so. “Should we go over it?”
“No … I wrote it out so you could look at it at your leisure. The irony is that because Pridmore set multiple fires, several of them burnt towards each other, due to the lay of the land or the wind patterns, so the losses were less extensive than they might have been. The great house had damage to the roof and the blue wing, but the stone construction worked in our favour there. There was some smoke inhalation among those who fought the fire and some minor burns, but no loss of life.” Here was the hesitation again. “With one exception.”
“Who?”
“Pridmore sought refuge in the safe house.” He held up his hands. “Not fire, but smoke.”
“I see.” There should be something there, a sense of vindication or relief, but it seemed to be only a fact that had nothing to do with Vincent. What would Jane make of this? “His wife?”
“I can make inquiries.”
“I recall Jane—” His voice cracked on her name, and he had to stop. “I recall being told that Mrs. Pridmore was from London. If she does not have family here, will you arrange for passage for her?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Vincent nodded. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Even to Vincent, Frank’s hesitation made it clear what the next matter would be before he spoke. “Dr. Jones believes your father has had another stroke.”
What to do with that information? Vincent would welcome his death. If Jane had not been with him, he thought he might have left his father by the path, but she would not have approved, and she would have been correct. To have him still alive.… It did not matter, and Vincent suspected that it had never mattered.
Nothing mattered except Jane.
Vincent held his breath until it was steady, then ventured, “He has recovered from strokes before.”
“I—I think that will not be the case here.”