He shook his head.
She waited as he leaned against the rail. He wheezed like an asthmatic with each deep breath he drew in. Jane crossed her arms, clenching her hands into fists. Witnessing this unprecedented level of distress, she could not imagine the effort it must have cost him to be so composed when addressing his father. A rush of anger heated her through at the thought of that man. Jane bit her lips, finding it severely taxing to conceal her vexation. She must be steady for Vincent.
He coughed once and cleared his throat. “Is there water?”
“I do not—yes.” By the bed, she spied a carafe of water with slices of lime floating in it, and she sent a silent blessing to Frank for having it ready for them. Jane hurried to the bed and poured a glass. A pair of fine linen napkins lay on the table, so Jane picked up one and doused it with the water. Thus armed, she returned to her husband’s side.
Standing well back, she held them out to him. Still not looking directly at her, he reached for the water. Tremors shook his hand, but when it closed on the glass, the shaking was nearly concealed. He took a sip, staring at the horizon, then spat the water over the side of the veranda to rinse his mouth of the sick.
God. Her heart ached for him. Jane held out the cloth again, longing to embrace Vincent and keep him safe. Right now, though, he was as a man flayed.
“Thank you.” He took the cloth, setting the glass on the broad rail of the veranda. He wiped his mouth, and then slowly let his breath out. Much of the wheeze was gone. Vincent cleared his throat again. Lowering the cloth, he coughed into his fist, still looking at the hills in the distance.
The sun had touched the horizon, turning the clouds into a confection of orange and pink. With the blushing of the sunset, the wattle and daub houses were picturesque shadows in the distance, the neglect and dirt masked by the warm evening light.
Vincent turned a little to sit on the rail. “Forgive me, I should have asked sooner. Are you all right?”
“Well enough.” Truly, Jane was by turns angry at Lord Verbury and frightened for Vincent, but he did not need to hear that in the present moment.
“Good.” He glanced down to the flowerbed below the veranda and scowled. “Well. Someone will report the mess to my father. It has been years since we have had that conversation. How delightful to revisit old times.”
Jane could only stare at him, aghast.
“Muse … I know I look a fright, but it is not so bad as it seems. There was a period at Eton when I did…”—he gestured at the mess in the flowers below them—“this, with some regularity. I enjoyed school, until the holidays, when my father would come to fetch me himself. He terrified me.”
There must be something she could do. “What helped you in the past?”
“I replaced my fear with anger.”
Accompanied by pinpricks of chill, Herr Scholes’s words returned with force: Your husband was marked by fury …
“Truly, Muse, it will pass, and I ask for your patience.” His voice did sound steadier, and when he sighed, the wheeze had gone. He glanced at her, then away quickly, as if meeting her gaze hurt. “But he will take great joy in reminding me of my weakness.”
She swallowed. “I do not think anyone saw.”
He surveyed the grounds. “Perhaps not, but with shrubbery this extensive, he must have a gardener who tends the flowers with regularity, and I did make a notable mess.”
“We could tell people that I was sick. I have reason enough.”
“God! No!” Vincent rose, eyes wide with terror. Then he caught himself and screened his expression with an unlikely laugh. “I would rather he not know you are with child.”
“We can hardly hide it for long.”
He looked at her midriff with the sort of calculation he usually reserved for glamour. “Unless someone were to know you, the fact that you are increasing is not yet obvious. You might only be stout. I think the secret is still safe.”
“The birth of a child will give the game away eventually.”
Vincent shuddered. He turned to the rail as if he were going to be sick again, but only leaned against it.
“He has no hold on you. We have an independent living through our work as glamourists, and even were that not the case, he is an exile and a traitor to the Crown.”
“Yes, well, I also thought he was dead, and you see how well that is working,” he snapped. Then he winced, lowering his head. “Sorry. My tongue might be a trifle keener than I would like tonight.”