“Shall we?”
“You lead, please. I am still … irritable.”
“Oh, love. You are always irritable with clients.”
He gave her the smallest of smiles. “More so than usual, then.” He undid the threads keeping their conversation private.
Dropping those threads returned them to a room in which a heated conversation was taking place. Mrs. Pridmore was in the midst of saying, “… no use at the estate, so I am certain he will not be missed.”
“Even so, if she cannot work … and in her condition, I hardly see how she…” Mrs. Ransford’s voice trailed away and she coloured, with some degree of consciousness. “Oh. Have you decided? We are most particularly keen to know what your opinions are.”
Jane had doubt on that score. There could be little question as to what the women had been discussing, or of Mrs. Pridmore’s opinions of Vincent’s efforts at managing the estate. He had grown still and grave again at her side. Jane chanced a smile. “We were discussing your disparate schemes. My husband and I found that there were motifs among them that suggested they had more in common than at first blush.”
“Yes, but which does he prefer?”
She had long since become accustomed to clients using “he” and “him” when they were working together, yet she still sighed. Before she could form a response, Vincent said, “My wife is my equal partner in our work. On this matter, we agree.”
“If you wish to help your guests escape from the fatigues of running their estates, then you must provide novelty. In truth, we think that Venice and the Arabian Nights both express a desire for novelty and the exotic, but they share a common flaw. You are too much in the English habit of thinking of warmer climes as exotic.” She nodded to the window. “But that is hardly the case for the patrons you most seek to impress. They spend the day in the hot sun and want nothing more than to forget it.”
Mrs. Whitten said, “What do you recommend?”
Jane answered her, “In honour of Captain John Ross’s expedition to find a Northwest Passage, we thought to suggest an ice palace.”
“Ooooo!” Mrs. Pridmore clapped her hands again and bounced in her chair, apparently delighted by any novel idea. “And our estate has ever so many coldmongers. It is my husband’s especial project, and I am certain he will be willing to loan them to the ball for the occasion.”
“Your estate?” Vincent only smiled, and yet the room grew colder by degrees. “I was unaware that you and Mr. Pridmore had purchased any land. I must congratulate him.”
“I—oh. That is to say—”
He turned from her to address Mrs. Whitten. “Since it is your ballroom, may I assume that questions about our working hours should be directed to you?”
Mrs. Ransford replied instead, “No, those should be directed to me, since the coordination of the glamural has been my charge in previous years.”
“Ah … did I misunderstand?” Vincent offered a little bow. “I had thought you wished us to create the glamural.”
“Well, yes, but Mrs. Hamilton can hardly work glamour in her state.”
Jane stepped in before Vincent could reply. While he was often irritable with their clients, there was a difference between an eccentric curmudgeonly artist and an arrogant nobleman. His manner in that moment tended towards the latter and made Jane uneasy. “Mrs. Ransford, I am so glad to hear you offer your help. We shall certainly need it, although in truth I had been looking forward to continuing my involvement. I am half mad from want of activity.”
Mrs. Ransford looked frankly at Jane’s stomach. “But you cannot work glamour.”
“I can still do drawings and paint. My husband can work some of the glamour, and when he is occupied, I have found a glamourist of some talent who can assist.”
“Oh?” The pale woman raised her eyebrows. “I thought I knew all of the glamourists of any skill on the island.”
“Her name is Nkiruka. She is a retired field hand.”
Laughing, Mrs. Ransford shook her head. “I quite misunderstood you. When you said you had found a glamourist, I thought you meant someone with training.”
“She does have training, although I will grant that it is not in the European tradition.”
“To be certain.” Though her manner said she was anything but certain. “Still, you must understand my confusion when I thought you were comparing the work of a folk glamourist—and a slave, at that—to what a lady of refinement might produce.”
Vincent looked around the ballroom. “Is this your work?”
“Indeed it is.”