Vincent’s gaze slid a little sideways to Jane. This was familiar ground for both of them. All too often, when they took a commission, the gentleman and lady of the house had differing views of what constituted an appropriate glamural for a dining room or parlour. One might want hunters and hounds, the other would perhaps favour roses in a folly. Having three opinions to contend with would be a challenge, but so petty after the trials of the last weeks as to seem almost welcome.
Jane smiled at Mrs. Whitten. “What are the motifs you are considering?”
“We have narrowed it to two.” She gestured to the drawings on the table. Some of them showed talent, while others showed merely that someone possessed a set of pastels.
“Hm.” Vincent slid a paper to the side and exposed another, which was drawn with some competence. “The Arabian Nights, I believe?”
Mrs. Ransford nodded, straightening in her chair. “I thought a touch of the exotic would be welcomed by our guests. Then, during the course of the evening, we could have a few tableaux vivants of different stories. We could also dress some of the mulatto slaves as Indians to make the scheme more fully realised. Some mulattos can be exceedingly handsome in the right clothes and the right setting.”
No one looked at Mrs. Whitten, keeping their attention firmly fixed upon the drawing, but Jane felt her own face flush on the gentlewoman’s account. Clearing her throat, she picked up one of the pastels, which held an awkward view of a canal. “And this?”
“Oh, Venice!” Mrs. Pridmore clapped her hands together and gave a little shrug of delight. “Your recent visit inspired me. I thought we could do the ballroom in the Italianate style and have glamour in the windows so that it appeared we were at a palazzo looking out over the Grand Canal. It would be so cunning to see a gondola go past, do you not think? I am so enchanted with Venice.”
The Venice idea had some merit, but the gondolas would be rather more difficult than Mrs. Pridmore thought, simply because it would involve either multiple illusions to create the effect of a ship passing from one window to the next, or a single enormous fold that stretched the length of the exterior of the building. And of course it would then need to be masked so it was not visible on the approach to the building. It was not impossible, but it was more complicated than it sounded. Then, too, Jane was not entirely certain she wanted to relive Venice quite so soon.
She glanced at Vincent, who was tapping his finger upon the drawing of the canals with his eyes a little narrowed, as though he were playing out possibilities. He then turned to the Arabian Nights. It would be much simpler to achieve, and it had some merit, but Jane felt ill at ease on Mrs. Whitten’s account. Though perhaps she was being too quick to guess at the other woman’s feelings on the matter. Jane tilted her head, considering, then looked up. “Mrs. Whitten, did you have an idea as well?”
“Oh, no. I am happy to provide the ballroom. I feel no need to do more when we are already so well supplied with ideas.” Her manner was tranquil and she gave an easy smile.
Vincent rubbed his chin, still considering. He turned from the table to regard the ballroom as a whole. Jane rose to stand beside him, considering the prospect.
Behind them, Mrs. Pridmore said, “Oh, I do so love to see a gentleman at work. Do not keep us in suspense, Mr. Hamilton. Which one do you think we should do?”
“If you will give us a moment of privacy.” He and Jane walked a little away from the group, then Vincent brought his hand up, swiftly weaving a small sphere of silence around them. With their backs to the women, it would be obvious that they were conversing, but their subject would at least be obscured. “This is truly awful.”
“It is not so bad as that. The cherry tree is quite nicely done.”
“And wildly out of proportion to the hill upon which it is supposed to rest.” Vincent shook his head, grimacing. “Muse, do you recall when we met and I said that I expected your glamour to be like that of any accomplished young lady? This … this is what I had come to expect from the accomplished ladies of the fashionable set.”
“But you had seen the glamural in our parlour by then.”
“I … I thought a professional had done it.” Vincent blushed charmingly and shrugged. “Allow me to apologise again for undervaluing your skills.”
“You were forgiven long ago.” She very much wanted to take his hand, but with their assembled audience, it seemed best not to. “As for the task at hand…”
“Ah. Yes … which awkward choice interests you?”
“It seems to me that if we pick either of them, there will be difficulties and more than a little enmity. The points they have in common are a desire for the exotic, though achieved in different ways.”
“So perhaps we can guide them to a different kind of place. Russia? That is cold, which surely must be a rarity here.”
“Oh!” Jane recalled something she had read in the paper about Britain mounting an expedition to seek a path to China through the Arctic Circle. “The Northwest Passage Expedition.”
“Ah … glaciers. Icebergs. An ice palace?” He nodded. “That might do. There is a Scottish fellow in charge of the expedition, if I remember correctly, so that should please Mrs. Ransford. We can suggest that it represents the superiority of the empire in an exotic locale.”