Herr Scholes relinquished Tom with a sigh. “Mrs. O’Brien. It is a pleasure to spend time with your son. My grandchildren are all too old to have much time for me.”
Entering behind Melody, Alastar O’Brien crossed to shake the glamourist’s hand. “It is very good of you, nevertheless. And allow me to repeat the invitation to dine. Cook has promised Erd?pfelkn?del for dinner.”
“Thank you. I accept.”
The next few moments were occupied with a procession of parental figures as Jane’s parents and Mr. O’Brien’s joined the merry gathering. Mrs. Ellsworth repeated the invitation to dinner and continued to press Herr Scholes to stay, as though he had not given his assent several times already. The conversation turned back to the health of Tom and the pleasures of having an infant in the house, though this latter became more dubious as the young man began to add his own contribution to the volume of noise.
While they were attempting to quiet the boy, Alastar escaped the small circle and went to Vincent. “There are some letters for you.”
“Ah. Thank you.” He took the small packet, clearly grateful for an excuse to avoid the bustle, and sat with them by the window for better light.
Herr Scholes smacked his forehead with the flat of his palm. “Letters! I was so taken with young Master O’Brien that I forgot I had a reason for calling. Have you given thought to what you will do when you return to England?”
Jane shook her head. “I am afraid not. We had originally thought to seek some new commissions, but with the state of the nation presently…”
“Princess Charlotte.” Melody sighed in commiseration, making those necessary arrangements to attend to her son. “Such a tragedy.”
The Prince Regent’s daughter had died birthing her stillborn son the previous November, though news travelled so slowly that Jane and her family had not received word until recently. With all the resources the royal family had, and with excellent medical care, it did not seem possible that Princess Charlotte should come to such an end. Yet women died of childbirth so often, it should not have surprised Jane that even a member of the royal family could be felled.
The entire nation was in mourning. For the year after the death, the streets of London would be lined with crape-covered windows. Ladies would dye their wardrobes black, and gentlemen would wear a band of black upon their sleeve. Glamourists would be briefly employed to strip homes of glamour for the duration of the mourning period.
It was such a desolate tradition. When Christ had risen after the third day, he had let the disciples stick their fingers in his wounds, saying, “Let there be no illusions here.” So, while in mourning, a house stood bare to the eye to remind the inhabitants of the one who was lost. Even here in Vienna, Jane and Vincent had pulled the glamour from the house as a gesture of respect for the death of the Prince Regent’s heir and her son. As bare as a house in mourning … which meant that there would be little work for glamourists in Britain in general and none at all for the Prince Regent’s glamourist.
Herr Scholes cleared his throat. “Well, I had a letter from one of my pupils, who is starting a school for girls in London and has asked me to help her find glamourist teachers. She is one of Sir David’s former pupils, so I naturally thought to ask if you and he might be interested.”
“Possibly.” It would be very agreeable to remain in one place for a while. Their tour of the continent had been extended rather longer than they had originally planned. Jane turned to get Vincent’s opinion, more than a little surprised that he had not expressed some curiosity about the project.
He sat in the window in a state of shock, though not at Herr Scholes’s news. His face was a blank mask, breath held, as he stared at one of the letters that Mr. O’Brien had brought in. From Jane’s seat, she could make out a black border on the edge of the paper. That, with his rigid expression, could only mean that he had received word of a death.
“Vincent?”
“Hm?” He shook himself and looked up. “Forgive me. I was not quite listening. What were you saying?”
Melody, who was less acquainted with his moods, said, “Herr Scholes has a possible situation for you.”
“That is very kind.” He looked down at the letter again, folding it so the border no longer showed.
“It is a school for glamourists. In London! Is that not grand?”
“Indeed.”