“A little.”
She suspected it was more than a little. Since the concussion he had received when they were in Venice, he seemed to be more prone to headaches and dizziness, but he did not like to discuss it. Jane counted it a victory that he had admitted any discomfort at all. She set the letter on a side table and shifted to sit by him. “Would you like me to rub your forehead?”
“Thank you.” He moved so that his head was resting in her lap and sighed again as she began to rub his temples. His brow was fevered and still damp with sweat, but no worse than she had seen him at the end of a normal day of work. Where his collar lay open, the strong beat of his pulse counted the time passing. For some minutes, they remained together in this manner, as Jane waited for Vincent to order his thoughts.
The beat of his heart slowed under her touch and his brow cooled. Vincent lay with his eyes closed. She could almost hope that he had fallen asleep, were it not for the fluttering of his eyes beneath his lids and a crease between his brows.
Inhaling, Vincent opened his eyes. “Muse, I do not know what to do.”
“Must we do anything? Your brother is quite right that you have neither reason nor obligation to assist.”
“I am less confident in that.” Vincent lay still for a moment, the muscle in the corner of his jaw clenching. “My brother.… Both of them, really, but Richard, my middle brother—even were his injury not a consideration.… He was illused by my father.”
“I think that is a common condition for your family.”
“Ah yes, but—” He stopped and for a moment appeared to hold his breath. A small, thin stream of air escaped in an almost inaudible keen. Though she had pointed out that he made this noise when conflicted, he had yet to break the habit, and she did not encourage him to do so, as the sound proved a useful indication of his state of mind. He grimaced, looking up at her. “Not a word of this, Muse. If you meet Richard again, you must pretend not to know. I know I can trust to your discretion, but promise me nevertheless.”
“Of course. I shall say nothing.”
Vincent nodded, jaw still clenched. “Richard is six years my senior. When he was fifteen, my father found him and one of the stable-boys engaged in carnal acts. I ask you to make no judgements against him—I cannot blame him for seeking what comfort he might find in a comfortless household, and nothing merits what my father did as punishment. For reasons known only to him, my father seated the three of us on a bench in the stable.” Vincent sat up abruptly so his back was to her. He blew out air in a huff. “He tied the stable-boy to the wall and whipped him. If we looked away, he beat us, too.”
“My God.”
His laugh was ragged. “No God was involved in that. He saw my interest in glamour as a sign that Richard’s propensities had transferred to me, so he included me as a warning. All of which is to say that when Richard says that he did not extend any aid to me, it is because he knew the consequences of doing so.”
“But you risked being beaten and still—”
“No. No, you do not quite see. It was not the bodily pain, though I am certain that my father beat Richard as well. But my brother saw someone he loved whipped bloody and turned out with no recommendations and no place. I was too young to think of such things at the time, but I doubt the stable-boy lived much past that night.” He turned to speak over his shoulder, the planes of his face dark against the evening sun. “It is that memory, in part, which causes me to be conflicted about what I ought to do. I now have the opportunity to mend a relationship that has been broken for years, and yet … and yet, is it something that I wish to entangle myself with again?”
“Did you have good relations aside from the pressure of your father?”
He shrugged. “By the standards of your family, no. I learned to guard my tongue at an early age and had few honest conversations until I came to study with Herr Scholes. But he was never cruel. Richard, I mean. Richard was never cruel to me.”
All of Jane’s training was inadequate for this. She had been raised with an understanding of the proper forms and etiquette for mourning. With another family, the death of a father and an elder brother would be a signal to begin deep mourning. She knew to drape the mirrors and to undo the glamour. She knew to procure black cravats and gloves for Vincent. She knew to order the stationery bordered with black, and the black sealing wax. For a year and a day, they would carry out the mourning period … or, rather, that is what they would have done for a different father.
With Vincent’s, she was at as much of a loss as he.