Oh, but it was never good when he changed the subject that openly. Jane sighed, to let him know that she was fully aware of his contrivance and that she would tolerate it for a few minutes. He cleared his throat in understanding. Jane turned and let her husband pick the ties of her dress loose. His fingers were not shaking, at least. He helped her pull the muslin over her head and dropped it on a chair next to them. Her petticoat followed after that, and then he worked the corset lace free.
With a sigh, Jane slipped her long stays off and hung them over a chair back, glad to be able to breathe at last. Sliding his arms around her, Vincent rested his head against hers. “Would you be willing to go to Jamaica without me?”
“Are you mad?”
“I want a few more days. There are issues of safety that Frank cannot address with Mr. Pridmore, but I can. Once the boiler is repaired and—”
“No.” Jane turned in his arms. “I will stay confined to this room if I have to, but I will not leave you. Do not—hush. Do not even think of explaining why it seems like a reasonable course to you.”
“But—”
“Vincent, husband. No. You asked if I were willing, and I am not. You are not yourself here.”
He nodded, still holding her, but studying the carpet. A new line had pinched into being between his brows. “I … I think I shall take a walk to clear my head. Will you be all right if I go for a bit?”
“Yes, only…”
“Only what?”
“Why are you not working glamour?”
He held his breath, and the small whine of protest sounded. Vincent tightened his hands on her waist for a moment, then let out the held breath with a little laugh, stepping away. “I had hoped you would not notice.”
“Is it … is it because your father would not approve?”
“God, no. That never stopped me before.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Vincent tilted his head to the side. “I stopped when we realised you were with child.”
“Vincent! Being exposed to glamour is not dangerous.”
“I know. I—I was trying to be.… You cannot work glamour, and it distressed you so much before that I thought to abstain, too.”
Jane’s eyes stung. “That is, without a doubt, the sweetest and most foolish thing you have ever done for me.”
“I was trying to be respectful.”
“My love … if we were not here, you would be giving up our livelihood.” That was not strictly true, given the state of mourning in England, but close enough. “More to the point, I would like for you to work glamour. The house feels exposed without it.”
“The house is, publicly, still in mourning.”
“So do not work glamour in public. But in the privacy of our room, it would be no different than the great houses that shut up their ballrooms rather than tearing out an expensive glamural during mourning.” Jane sighed. “Also, you are clearly driving yourself mad without that outlet.”
He looked at his hands. “You are not wrong.”
“Then I am going to lie down while you work.” Jane matched action to words and pulled the counterpane back.
“I am an exceedingly fortunate man.”
“Pray remember that.”
“Always. Except when your feet are cold in the winter.” He took a breath, rolling his shoulders as he always did before he started working. Jane held the retort he deserved, along with her breath, as Vincent dipped his hand into the ether. He pulled out strands of pure yellow, wrapping the light around his hand. His face softened. The remaining tension turned into concentration as he passed the fold from hand to hand. He reached in again, drawing out warmer golds to go with the yellow. He gave a half laugh. “I am out of condition. My heart is already speeding.”
“This does not surprise me.”
He wrapped the gold around the yellow, tying neither off, but simply spinning them. “I promise not to lose consciousness.”
“If you do, I will let you sleep on the floor.” Jane settled back in the bed and watched him work. It was not a good sign that she thought that Vincent working himself to exhaustion was better than the alternative. “I might pull a blanket over you if the night is too chilly.”
He almost smiled. “Then I will work next to the bed and try to faint on it.”
Vincent began with small folds, passing the colours between his hands, wrapping the fabric of light up to his elbows, then sliding it off in a ripple of sunrise. The nuances between a Vincent who was concentrating on work and a Vincent who was angry would be imperceptible to another. Both versions of her husband scowled. Both were abrupt when spoken to. But when Vincent was at work with glamour, he had a fluidity and ease of motion that transported him from being merely an attractive man to one who was dazzling. Each movement extended naturally from the one before it and into the next. Colours sprang from his fingers and followed in the wake of his movement.