“Speaking of learning glamour … Herr Scholes, would you tell my sister about your grandson’s first use of the art?” Jane tried to draw the group’s attention away from Vincent. He was clearly discomfited—or, rather, it was clear to Jane that he was distressed. To another, he might appear merely distant or unconcerned. His agitation was marked by a layer of excessive calm spoilt only by a faint tremor in his hand as he turned the folded letter over and over.
He made a show of listening to Melody and Herr Scholes compare notes about infant glamour, but his gaze stared through them as if he were watching the ether. Jane tried to think of some errand that could offer her an excuse to take Vincent out of the room and find out what news he had received. She now rather wished they had not invited Herr Scholes to stay for dinner.
Before she could think of a ruse, Vincent stood and crossed the room to Jane. He leaned down, handing her the letter, and whispered, “My father is dead.”
Two
A Letter of Note
At his words, Jane looked up sharply from the letter he had handed her. “Are you all right?”
“I hardly know. Will you forgive me if I…?” He flexed his hands in an unconscious gesture, as if he was already reaching for glamour to calm himself. Or, if not to calm himself, at least to work himself to exhaustion in an effort to clear his head.
“Of course.” Louder, she said, “Would you mind fetching that book we were discussing?”
Vincent nodded in thanks. “It is upstairs.” With apologies to the small gathering, all of whom were so occupied with Tom they paid him little mind, Vincent slipped out of the room.
It had taken Jane a long time to understand his need for privacy while he contended with his feelings. He had spent too long trying to be the model of manliness that his father expected, to be at all comfortable freely expressing any troubles. Still, she planned to look in on him later.
The ceiling creaked overhead as Vincent paced in their apartments upstairs. She could picture him with his chin tucked deep into his collar in thought, hands clenched behind his back, as though he were a lecturer. When his strides overhead stopped, the picture changed to him standing in the middle of their bedchamber working one of his vast abstract glamours.
Even in death, Vincent’s father had the power to disturb his sensibilities. If she had not already abhorred the man, his ability to distress her husband would have provided her with ample reason. She slid her chair back a little from the group and unfolded the letter, to acquaint herself with the details of Lord Verbury’s death.
Verbury Court
5 January 1818
Sir David Vincent
My dear Vincent,
I do not know if I still have the right to call you brother, but I am writing to you as a brother, so shall take that familiarity. Our father is dead. I do not expect that you will mourn him, but it is necessary that I tell you of his death. He died at our West Indian estate in Antigua last August after suffering a stroke. He had been weakened by yellow fever and I understand did not linger long.
The second death that I must tell you of weighs more heavily. Our brother Garland celebrated his ascendance as the newly made Earl of Verbury with the purchase of a barouche-landau for himself and invited me out for a drive to Lyme Regis. The roads are not always the best in September, and our carriage was upset. I do not recall the details, but the results I know too well. Garland was killed. I was left with a broken arm and a foot so injured that it had to be removed.
Garland’s death leaves me the earl. It is not a position in which I ever thought I would find myself.
It is on this point that I write to you to beg for your help. I know that you have long been estranged from the family and that I did nothing to ease the suffering that our father inflicted upon you. I was a coward. The fact that I told you this in our youth does not excuse it. I simply want to acknowledge that I have no right to expect aid, when I did not extend the same charity to you.
There is apparently a newer will in Antigua, which will be released only to one of his sons. It does not say which one. I cannot go. Would you be willing to be a Hamilton again, long enough to set the estate in order? You are, let us be honest, better suited to the task than I, in ways which have nothing to do with my health. You studied at university. I studied only horses, the cut of coats, and the inside of gin houses. I was a second son. I expected to die without ever having any more responsibility than to avoid embarrassing the family. You left and fashioned a new path.
I do not wish to drag you back into the tangled mess that our father left, but I am at a loss. Please. For the sake of our mother, if for no one else, will you go to Antigua? Will you help us?
Regardless, I have arranged for funds to be made ready for you in Vienna. Call at the office of Lord Flower-Horne, who will make any arrangements you desire, including telling me to go to Hell.
With deep regret,
Believe me at all times with sincerity and respect, your faithful and obliged brother,
Richard Hamilton