Eighteen
The Sound of Footsteps
One of the interesting side effects of having spent a week in bed and another venturing no farther than the blue parlour was that Jane had become adept at recognising the footsteps and knocks of the people who passed in the hall. Given Frank’s similarity in build to Vincent, she would have expected the two men to sound much alike. Vincent’s stride had been designed to exemplify all that was masculine. He moved with firm vigour, and his bootheels hit the floor with force. Frank, however, had been taught to be invisible. She rarely heard him before he was close to the door. His knock, when it came, had two raps that were just loud enough to be heard if one were awake and unoccupied.
Such a knock sounded each evening after the Incident with Sir Ronald, as they had begun to call it. Each evening, he came with a request from Lord Verbury for an audience with Vincent. Since the Incident, Vincent had seen his father only once, and that while Jane was unconscious. The substance of the conversation had not been conveyed to her, but she could guess it well enough.
Tonight, at the sound of the knock, Vincent lifted his head from the book he was studying and glanced at Jane. She had been resting upon the sofa and now sat up, nodding to let him know that she was fit enough to receive Frank.
“Enter.”
Frank opened the door smoothly and stepped into the room without a sound. He shut the door carefully behind him. “My apologies. His lordship has sent me to again request your company.”
“No.”
This was how similar requests had been met on other evenings. Tonight, however, Vincent cleared his throat and then wove a small sphere of silence, using Nkiruka’s method to cloud the sound. “It should be safe to speak freely now.”
Rather than abating the tension in Frank’s frame, this seemed only to increase it. “This implies you have something you wish to discuss privately.”
“Jane introduced me to Nkiruka and Amey today. They had interesting things to say about Mr. Pridmore.”
“Ah … yes.” Frank hesitated, and revealed a rare moment of indecision. He dug his thumbnail into the side of one finger and studied the floor. “I am going to ask you again to talk to your father, but this time I am asking for me and for my family.”
“Frank, I am willing to help you in those ways I can with the running of the estate, but I will not speak to my father.”
“Hear me out, please. I am aware of what I am asking you.” Frank drew in a deep breath and pressed his long fingers over his eyes. “People talk when I am in the room. They forget that I am there, or that the coldmongers can hear. Your father … I have never seen him so enraged as he was with Sir Ronald over the Incident. His instruction had been that Sir Ronald was to delay your departure until Lord Verbury had an opportunity to make amends with you.”
Vincent’s fingers tightened on the book he had been reading. “Did you know? That night, did you know that Sir Ronald was sent into the room?”
“No.” Frank dropped his hand. “Though I will not be so insincere as to affirm that I absolutely would have let you know. I like to think I would have, but … my family. I might equally have chosen to believe that no harm would come from my silence. My point in telling you this, however, is to say that I have seen signs of genuine distress and remorse. I believe that if you speak to him about Mr. Pridmore, he will listen to you.”
“He has not in the past.”
“But in the past … in the past he did not have a reason to try to make amends. If you wait too long, his remorse will turn into resentment and anger.”
Vincent rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes closed. He dropped his hand and pushed himself to his feet. “Stay with Jane.”
Jane’s heart sank at this. Since the Incident, Vincent’s tendency to turn inward and brood had asserted itself, though he made an obvious effort to be open with Jane. Still, it seemed that every conference with his father had further oppressed his spirit. “Must you do it this evening?”
“I shall spend the night thinking on it, regardless. And Frank is correct in the timing. It is the andiron again.”
Jane knew the story, but Frank shook his head in confusion. “Pardon?”
“When I was twelve, my father hit me harder than he intended. I fell and struck my head on the hearth andiron. Badly concussed. Very badly, and apparently for a time my recovery was in question. His contrition … he did not apologise, but there was a period after that in which he did anything I asked.” Vincent shrugged. “And then for a time he resented any reminder that he had made a mistake. So, though I do not relish it, I shall speak with him. For you.”
“Thank you.”