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Authors: Mary Robinette Kowal
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summer excursion? It would be more comfortable with the exertion of glamour.”
“Excellent suggestion.” Vincent moved to the next bolt of fabric. “Where is your cloth for cravats?”
“Here, sir.” The tailor lead Vincent to a selection of fine muslin, linen, and silk.
Having now committed himself, Jane’s husband proceeded to examine the fabric with all the attention to detail that he brought to his work. He considered the weight of the fabric, the way the textures worked together, and their utility. Jane settled into a chair to one side to enjoy the spectacle of her husband shopping for clothes.
At times, the varnish of the Right Honourable Vincent Hamilton smoothed the edges of her husband’s taciturn nature as his early training reasserted itself. Unlike the times when he had been forced to assume the role of a young gentleman of means, here his natural love of art seemed to express itself in appreciation for the art of tailoring. As he relaxed in discussion with the tailor, his headache seemed quite forgotten. One might almost think he was enjoying himself, though not enough for her to try him with shopping for her own wardrobe.
When he had done, the tailor asked him to remove his coat for the purpose of taking his measurements. Jane appreciated this quite as much as the rest of the day. The tailor slid his hands over Vincent’s back to smooth the fabric. Jane saw the moment of hesitation when he brushed the scars there. The tailor was a consummate professional, though, and only that momentary pause and the slight widening of his eyes told of his surprise. She knew all too well how apparent the bumps and welts of flogging must be, even through fabric.
Even so, her husband was a tall man with the broad chest of a professional glamourist. With his arms spread wide for the tailor to take his measure, the power of his figure was all the more apparent. If she thought she could dissuade him from visiting the glassmakers this afternoon, Jane would have suggested they return to the palazzo straight away.
That he had not forgotten their purpose was apparent when he shrugged his coat back on. “Thank you, sir. My wife and I have some other errands, but I can stop by this evening for the first of the shirts.”
“No need, Sir David. I will have my shop boy run it to you if you give me your direction.”
“Thank you.” Vincent wrote down the details for Signor Sanuto’s house for him.
As he was occupied with writing, Jane stood and addressed the tailor. “I was wondering if you happened to have a sword cane in the shop.”
“Nothing suitable for your husband’s height, I am afraid.” He led the way to the display of canes. “A nice ebony, perhaps?”
“This is for a friend of ours. About your height, I think.”
“Ah. In that case…” He pulled out a cane that bore a striking resemblance to the one that Signor Sanuto had lost. Twisting the handle, he drew the sword that was held within. “Would this suffice?”
“That is the very thing.” Indeed, Signor Sanuto may have acquired his at this shop.
“Shall I send it with the other items?” The tailor took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the steel clean of smudges before returning it to the shaft of the cane.
Vincent said, “Should we take it with us, Muse?”
“I think so.”
Nodding, the tailor wrapped it in brown paper, tied with a bit of twine. “Is there anything else?”
Jane cleared her throat and looked to the window so that her bonnet would prevent her from seeing the tailor’s judgement. “Yes. It is rather irregular, but I shall also require a pair of buckskin trousers.”
“Ah—planning ahead for Carnevale.”
Jane turned her head with astonishment. Even Vincent made a sound of surprise. She had been prepared to tell a story about a fancy dress party, when the truth was that she would not be able to wear muslin so close to a glassmaker’s furnace. To have the notion of a woman in trousers accepted so easily was
“Excellent suggestion.” Vincent moved to the next bolt of fabric. “Where is your cloth for cravats?”
“Here, sir.” The tailor lead Vincent to a selection of fine muslin, linen, and silk.
Having now committed himself, Jane’s husband proceeded to examine the fabric with all the attention to detail that he brought to his work. He considered the weight of the fabric, the way the textures worked together, and their utility. Jane settled into a chair to one side to enjoy the spectacle of her husband shopping for clothes.
At times, the varnish of the Right Honourable Vincent Hamilton smoothed the edges of her husband’s taciturn nature as his early training reasserted itself. Unlike the times when he had been forced to assume the role of a young gentleman of means, here his natural love of art seemed to express itself in appreciation for the art of tailoring. As he relaxed in discussion with the tailor, his headache seemed quite forgotten. One might almost think he was enjoying himself, though not enough for her to try him with shopping for her own wardrobe.
When he had done, the tailor asked him to remove his coat for the purpose of taking his measurements. Jane appreciated this quite as much as the rest of the day. The tailor slid his hands over Vincent’s back to smooth the fabric. Jane saw the moment of hesitation when he brushed the scars there. The tailor was a consummate professional, though, and only that momentary pause and the slight widening of his eyes told of his surprise. She knew all too well how apparent the bumps and welts of flogging must be, even through fabric.
Even so, her husband was a tall man with the broad chest of a professional glamourist. With his arms spread wide for the tailor to take his measure, the power of his figure was all the more apparent. If she thought she could dissuade him from visiting the glassmakers this afternoon, Jane would have suggested they return to the palazzo straight away.
That he had not forgotten their purpose was apparent when he shrugged his coat back on. “Thank you, sir. My wife and I have some other errands, but I can stop by this evening for the first of the shirts.”
“No need, Sir David. I will have my shop boy run it to you if you give me your direction.”
“Thank you.” Vincent wrote down the details for Signor Sanuto’s house for him.
As he was occupied with writing, Jane stood and addressed the tailor. “I was wondering if you happened to have a sword cane in the shop.”
“Nothing suitable for your husband’s height, I am afraid.” He led the way to the display of canes. “A nice ebony, perhaps?”
“This is for a friend of ours. About your height, I think.”
“Ah. In that case…” He pulled out a cane that bore a striking resemblance to the one that Signor Sanuto had lost. Twisting the handle, he drew the sword that was held within. “Would this suffice?”
“That is the very thing.” Indeed, Signor Sanuto may have acquired his at this shop.
“Shall I send it with the other items?” The tailor took a cloth from his pocket and wiped the steel clean of smudges before returning it to the shaft of the cane.
Vincent said, “Should we take it with us, Muse?”
“I think so.”
Nodding, the tailor wrapped it in brown paper, tied with a bit of twine. “Is there anything else?”
Jane cleared her throat and looked to the window so that her bonnet would prevent her from seeing the tailor’s judgement. “Yes. It is rather irregular, but I shall also require a pair of buckskin trousers.”
“Ah—planning ahead for Carnevale.”
Jane turned her head with astonishment. Even Vincent made a sound of surprise. She had been prepared to tell a story about a fancy dress party, when the truth was that she would not be able to wear muslin so close to a glassmaker’s furnace. To have the notion of a woman in trousers accepted so easily was
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