The next day passed slowly. Vincent had dressed with care in the clothes that Frank had brought him. Jane liked it when he was tidy. He looked at the razor. The way the light danced along the edge as his hands shook told him that he would slice his own throat if he tried to shave now. Vincent closed the blade and set it aside before he was tempted to try.
Around noon, someone brought a bowl of a thick ragout and some aromatic bread for him. He stared at the heavy red broth, and all he could think of was blood. If he were to create a glamural of the ragout, it would bear no true resemblance to blood, being both thicker and more orange, but his stomach turned regardless. He drew the serviette over it and pushed the bowl towards the centre of the table.
He managed a few bites of bread, which stuck to the sides of his mouth. Vincent knew his own tendency to stop eating when distressed and could not allow himself the luxury of weakness. If Jane needed to be carried anywhere, or Charles.… He should eat the soup.
Drawing the bowl back to himself, he pulled the cloth off of it. His gorge rose and he stopped, swallowing. The rebellious nature of his own body frustrated him beyond measure. He had learned to hide the shaking and the nausea, to work through dizziness, overheating, and shortness of breath, but no amount of training could make them go away. All he could do was to proceed as if they were of no consequence.
Vincent picked up the spoon.
A commotion in the hall drew his attention, and he was glad for it. Vincent set down the spoon, pushing his chair back. He paused at Jane’s bed, hoping the raised voices would cause her to stir. She lay in exactly the same attitude as she had for the past day. Tucking his hands behind his back, Vincent went to the door and opened it.
The door to the room across the hall stood open. Dr. Jones stood over the bed, supporting the shoulders of a figure that convulsed wildly. At the foot of the bed, a coloured man constrained the legs, to keep them from writhing off the bed. The person—a man—had been rolled onto his side, and strangled grunts came in time with his tossing arms.
Vincent knew what a seizure looked like. One of the pupils at the Royal Academy had been coldmongering on the side, to pay bills, and then pushed too hard in a class. “Do you need help?”
Dr. Jones looked up, meeting Vincent’s gaze. “Close the door, Mr. Hamilton.”
Until that moment, he had not recognised the man on the bed. His back was to Vincent, and the man was too thin to be his father. His father had always been a giant, even when his hair silvered. Even when he was confined to a wheeled chair, the force of his character had overshadowed Vincent. Without the armour of his clothing, the bone-thin man did not seem to be related to the Earl of Verbury.
“Close the door,” Dr. Jones repeated, and then she turned her attention back to the figure, who continued to shake in her grasp.
Vincent took a step back into the room where Jane lay and pushed the door to the hall shut. He stood, staring at the white paint, waiting for some feeling. The tangled ball of emotion in his core hung there, heavy and dark, but the idea that his father might be dying provoked … nothing. He felt not even relief at the thought.
Turning his head, Vincent looked over his shoulder at Jane. The stillness of her figure pushed the knot of feeling into his throat. He closed his eyes and tightened his jaw around the urge to gag. It took a few careful breaths to steady himself.
When he felt more composed, Vincent crossed the room and pulled the chair from the table to the side of Jane’s bed. He sat, took her hand, and waited.
*
When Frank knocked on the door, Vincent jumped in his chair. His neck had an odd pain in it, as though he had fallen asleep sitting up. “Enter.”
He set Jane’s hand carefully at her side and stood, scrubbing his hand over his face. His face was damp. God’s blood, he was a mess.
Frank slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. His face was too carefully composed to bear any sort of good news.
“He is dead?”
“Yes.” Frank stepped farther into the room. “I thought … this is vulgar, but, given the previous circumstances, I thought you might want to see him before I made arrangements.”
Did he? Vincent could barely think beyond the confines of the room. “I saw … I saw the seizure. I keep thinking that I should feel something.” He rubbed his hair with both hands and sat back in the chair. “My whole life I fought him, even when he was not present. I have fought and fought against the man he had wanted me to be, and now that he is gone, now that the obstacle is finally removed … I do not know what to do.”
“Given your history, I am not surprised.” Frank crossed the room and sat in the nursing chair. “He and I had a very different relationship, but even for me, very few aspects of my life have not been shaped by his lordship’s wishes.”
“That is very much it.” Vincent drew a breath. “I feel as if I have been pushing against a wall and it is suddenly gone.”
“A door, perhaps, that is now open?”
“For both of us, I hope.”