They must have closed a little, though, because Vincent was at the bed with a wriggling bundle, and Nkiruka was slipping out the door. Jane pushed against the mattress, trying to sit up, but succeeded only in thinking about moving. Vincent knelt next to her, turning so that she could see their son’s face.
Charles had finished his fit of pique and stared at her. His eyes were wide and serious with the slightly troubled expression unique to newborns, as if he had come into the world knowing how to right all the troubles but could no longer quite remember how.
He grunted and waved his arm, fingers spreading as if he were going to work glamour. Without thinking about it, Jane shifted her vision to the ether. There was nothing for him to catch, and his motions truly were the random waving of an infant. Still, it felt remarkably good to let her vision relax into her second sight.
Jane pulled it back to the corporeal world with an effort. She was so tired, and she wanted to see as much of her son as possible before falling asleep. He yawned at her, as if in complete agreement.
“Have you been good for your papa?”
“Exemplary conduct.” Vincent’s eyes were still quite red but had dried somewhat. “And becoming of a gentleman.”
“Good.” A yawn escaped her to match Charles. “Pardon.”
“Shall I let you sleep?”
“I am afraid so.” She suspected she had little choice, but there was one matter left unattended. “But … kiss me first?”
Still holding their son, he bent down and gave her a tentative kiss. Vincent tasted of salt and strong tea and still smelled of smoke. The brush of the stubble on his chin gave her a rough gauge of how long she had been unconscious.
Jane kissed him again, just managing a touch of the lips. “Poor thing.”
As he pulled back, his eyes had again grown wet, but they crinkled at the corners. “You always do worry more about me than you should.”
“Because you are a delicate china cup.”
*
Two days after Jane awoke, Vincent finally felt comfortable leaving the room. She was not well by any means and could not yet sit up, but Dr. Jones was willing to go so far as to assert that the danger was past. He was gone for several hours, and when he returned, he had dirt on the cuffs of his shirt.
His face was a little pinched.
“What is the matter?”
“Hm?” He paused in the action of sitting, then lowered himself slowly the rest of the way. “We buried Lord Verbury. Frank and I.”
“Oh, Vincent…”
“There was no one else we could ask to do it. He is supposed to be more than a year dead.” He displayed his hands, which had blisters on the palms. “Oddly, I think it helped. You will find this foolish, but I think I needed to be certain that he was actually dead this time.”
She understood and did not have the benefit of having seen the body. “I am not surprised.”
He shifted in the chair and reached into his pocket. “I also needed to look for this.”
“What is it?”
He put a small, dark rectangle in her hand. It had a cracked, rough surface. Frowning, Jane held it in front of her face. For a moment, she fumbled with it, still clumsy with fatigue, and then it opened into three equal pieces. It was the trifold case she had given him for his birthday.
The two portraits inside had been a little darkened with smoke but had somehow survived the fire.
“When you are well…” He paused for a moment, and when he went on, his voice was rough. “When you are well, I shall require the third portrait.”
Tears filled her eyes as she nodded. “Of course.”
Vincent reached out. For a moment, she thought he was going to retrieve the case from her, but he slipped his hand into hers instead. They sat in amiable silence as Vincent ran his thumb over the edge of her fingers. He sighed once, before looking up with reddened eyes. Wiping his face with the back of one hand, Vincent shook his head and gave a blushing smile. “I have been thinking … or, rather—I spent a great deal of time when you were … I talked to you. Or, at you, I suppose would be more accurate.”
Jane almost held her breath in imitation of her husband. During the course of their marriage, Vincent had become better about discussing his internal state when she inquired, but it was still a rarity for him to offer anything without prompting. She allowed a squeeze of his hand to encourage him but otherwise tried to wait as he gathered his thoughts.
“As we were burying his lordship, I realised … there are things I would regret if I never said to you.” He stopped, his gaze lowered and brows drawn together. “I never told you why I fell in love with you. Because it reflects badly on me. Not—not falling in love, but the … the circumstances. Or … or what it said about me. I mean to say, it was difficult to explain without also explaining my family, and I—” He snarled his free hand in his hair, shaking his head.