Now he needed some assurance, which Jane could provide. She squeezed his hand again. “I trust you know by now that I am not so easily frightened away?” Even so, she was fairly burning with curiosity about something that she had not thought of since the early days of their marriage.
He nodded. “You are a wonder.” Clearing his throat, Vincent sat forward in his chair and freed his hand. With both hands clasped in front of him, he appeared to be in a deep study of the floor. “Your skill caught my attention, but—as I am certain you recall—it vexed me. Later, I realised it was jealousy.”
“Jealousy!” Jane could not prevent her laugh. She had never met a more accomplished glamourist than her husband, and she privately suspected that time would judge him to be Herr Scholes’s superior. “My recollection was that you said my work was stiff and lifeless.”
His head came up and he gave a crooked smile. “At the time, your completed glamurals were exquisitely rendered to the point of being somewhat studied, yes. But your tableaux vivants … Jane. I wish I could make you understand how truly extraordinary you are.”
“I will accept your approbation because I am too tired to protest.”
Jane regretted teasing Vincent as his brows went up with concern. “Shall I let you sleep?”
“No, no. I want to hear how I dazzled you with my talent.”
“Well … I wanted to talk with you, and propriety, as well as my own … curmudgeonly nature, made that difficult. But there was a day when … you were out riding with Mr. Dunkirk and his sister. I was drawing an apple tree when your party came upon me. I had been hearing your laughter for some time before you saw me, I think.”
“I recall the day.”
“We talked about art and the nature of perfection, and you said that you thought that imperfections helped one appreciate something beautiful more fully. It was … it was a transformative thought for me. My entire life, I had been taught that imperfections meant failure, and yet, I could not deny your statement, for I had chosen that tree to draw because its storm damage made it more interesting, and in many ways, more beautiful than its perfect neighbours. And I thought—” His voice cracked and he compressed his lips, shoulders hunching forward. “And I thought that perhaps it meant that I was not flawed past redemption.”
Jane would have given much to be able to get out of bed. Her chest ached for her husband. Understanding him now rewove that long-ago afternoon in her mind. She could now see his silence and forbidding nature for what they were, preservative camouflage to survive his relationship with his father. Vincent was correct. If he had told her earlier, she would not have understood, because she would have found it impossible to believe that any father could be so terrible to his child.
“I love you because of your imperfections. I love the way you try to protect me when I do not need it. The way you become cross while working, your stubbornness and independence and that you can be utterly insufferable.” She looked down at the trifold case that she somehow still held in one hand and turned its roughened surface over. “I would not wish any of them away, because then you would be someone else.”
“And this is why you are my Muse.” Vincent came to sit beside her on the bed. He leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Only thank you.”
Jane slid over to allow him room to curl beside her. She wanted strength for anything more, but marital duties can take many forms, and in this instance they involved only silence, and understanding, and a release of cares.
Thirty-six
With a Will
It was another week before Jane was allowed to sit up in bed, but she felt no desire to try to leave this time. She was not able to nurse Charles, and she felt a pang of jealousy every time she saw Amey give him suck. With children only two months apart, Amey and Jane had much common ground for conversation. They were thrown together often, as the newborn needed regular feeding.
Jane sat on her bed holding Isabella, a lively little girl with the stamp of a Hamilton, while Amey nursed Charles. Isabella had a decided fondness for the strings of Jane’s cap and held one fast in her plump fist. Jane laughed as her cap was knocked amiss yet again. “Very well. You may have it, though what you shall do with it, I do not know.”
The answer was to shove a corner of the cloth into her mouth and chew upon it.
“Don’t spoil her, ma’am.”
“I think she has other plans.” Jane bent her face down to the little girl and blew a rude noise upon her cheek.
Isabella squealed with laughter. Jane did the same upon the other cheek, which was velvet soft, and then laughed herself. “Amey—” Jane stopped, staring at the woman who was nursing her child. The tenderness with which Amey watched him drove whatever insignificant thing Jane had been about to say straight from her mind. What she wanted most in Charles’s life were people who cared for him. “Amey…”
“Yes, ma’am?”