Then his composure crumpled. The panic he had hidden earlier twisted his features into a tight grimace. With a ragged growl, Vincent pulled his hand free and shoved away from the door, putting his back to Jane. He strode to the table and leaned against the back of one of the chairs with his head bowed. Even through his coat, she could see the tension in his back. He stood like that for a moment and then slammed his palms against the wood. “God. This is tiresome.”
He was not addressing her, she thought, but rather speaking to himself. That Vincent had not woven a Sphère Obscurcie and hidden she took as a sign of trust, which, after this evening seemed infinitely more precious. Jane crossed to stand behind him, careful not to touch him in this state. “What may I do?”
Still leaning against the chair, he shook his head. For a moment, he held his breath, and then let it out in a slow, careful stream. “Muse, I am sorry you have to witness this.”
“I hope you know by now that I do not mind it.”
“Nevertheless, it is embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? What am I doing to make you feel embarrassed?”
“It is my own inability to govern myself. What do I truly have to weep over? That my father spoke harshly to me? That he forbade me to use glamour as a boy? I go about the estate and I see men and women who are beaten and living in the most execrable of conditions and bear it. Yet I am unmanned by … dinner?”
Jane held out her hand so he could take it or not as he chose. “Come sit down with me?”
Slowly, so very slowly, Vincent straightened. He did not meet her gaze, but, even so, she could tell that the rims of his eyes were reddened. Jane bit the inside of her cheek and kept her hand out. After too long a moment, Vincent slipped his hand into hers. His palm was slick with sweat and he trembled a little.
Jane led him to the sofa and pulled him to sit down beside her. She retained his hand and the other rested on his thigh. “You know it is more than that. You have been under a very great strain since we received the letter from Richard, and you had not, I think, fully recovered from Murano.”
He did not reply, but neither did he deny that.
“I am going to suggest that the stress of our situation is not going to dissipate until well after the baby is born. If you continue to try to contain the … the struggle within yourself, I do not think you will survive.”
“It is not so bad as that.”
“How often have you been sick since our arrival?”
He bowed his head and that muscle in his jaw tightened. She could almost see him building a reply word by word. Long practise kept her silent, giving him space to answer. Vincent grimaced and opened his mouth twice before speaking. “I will grant that the appearance can be alarming, because you have not seen me go through this before.”
“Even if I had, I should be alarmed. But you did not answer my question.”
“Five.”
That gave her more than a little pause. They had been in Antigua for a month, and Vincent had been ill more than once per week. “To give me some context, how often—as an adult—did that happen before coming here?”
He tilted his head to the side and his eyes moved as though counting motes of dust. “Four.” Looking down, he rubbed his free hand along his breeches. “I take your meaning.”
“Vincent … love. This is destroying you.”
“What do you propose I do?”
She slid her arm around his back and pulled herself closer. “The difficulty is not you. The difficulty is your father, and some difficulties are insolvable.”
The air hissed out of him in that small thin whine and his hand tightened in hers. The other one clenched into a fist. “It is difficult to see things that I know are broken and could be made better, such as the boilers, or the slaves’ conditions, or the embezzling, and not attempt to affect a change.”
“Can you make changes? When you try to run the estate, he impedes your efforts. It does not seem to me to be anything except a means by which to further degrade you.” She paused to let him consider that, then said, “Why do you keep handing him weapons to use against you?”
Vincent’s breath was shallow and rough. Beneath her hand, he trembled like a snared bird, but somehow he kept his countenance calm save for a contraction of the brow. He stared into the middle distance, gaze darting from nothing to nothing.
After some moments, he wet his lips and swallowed. “You are correct. If I keep engaging, there can only be Pyrrhic victories.” He nodded slowly, and his breathing steadied. “He will, of course, see this as one more example of running away.”
“I know.” It pained her to see him struggle, but to hear Vincent say that he would not engage with his father was an immeasurable relief.
“I cannot win.”
“I think you just did.” Jane lifted his hand and kissed the tips of his fingers.
Twenty-three