Glamour in Glass (21 page)

Jane nodded and followed him into the sitting room, but she took no triumph from her victory, for she could not help but feel that she had used emotion as a weapon. Beneath that unease lay another, deeper fear: that Vincent had been right she would give him away by some change in her countenance, and her husband’s life would be forfeit to her pride.

Seventeen

Retreat and Regard

Vincent sat Jane down at the table and put his writing desk in front of her. He pulled his pocket-book out from his coat and opened the slim leather folding-case to withdraw the key to his writing desk. “Now, I have been taking notes and then passing them to Mr. Gilman in Brussels, so what I have here are only those which I have taken for my own benefit. They will require some explanation.”

Frowning, Jane ran her gaze down the sheet of densely lined paper he had pulled out. “This is a recording of breeds of lambs.”

“Yes.” He drew up a chair and sat next to her. “Mrs. Gilman has no real interest in lambs gambolling. Her supposed requests were a code for Napoleon’s movements.”

“So you knew?” Jane lowered the sheet and stared at him in astonishment. “You knew he was in France.”

“No. We knew that he had left Elba, but not where he had gone. The day that Mr. Gilman asked for the single lamb, he was passing on that message to the circle of spies in Brussels.”

“That seems an awful lot of work, when you could just meet in private to discuss things.”

Vincent nodded. “So we do. However…”

“However, you could not meet when I was present.”

“Just so. Forgive me, Muse, for being so cross with you.”

Jane raised his hand and kissed the back of his fingers. “Now that I know the reason, you are forgiven. But I still do not comprehend the purpose of the lambs.”

“No one would take note of Mr. Gilman’s meetings with a glamourist, so we were able to meet with relative ease. Mr. Gilman’s chief benefit is that he is known to be a society man, absolutely disinterested in politics. If he were seen meeting privately with any of the political characters he would be suspect at once. A glamural in his drawing room can serve as a map which others may consult while at his home for parties. In much the same way, my benefit is that I am known to be a glamourist. It affords me entry into homes that would mistrust another Briton.”

Jane remembered now the portrait of Napoleon over Mme Maçon’s fireplace. “Such as discussing folk glamours with Mme Maçon.”

“Exactly. That ostensible interest and a few small odd jobs took me to homes that our fellow countrymen do not have access to.” He pointed at the Scottish Blackface section, which had a list of ewes and rams after it. “This is my most promising lead, given accidentally by you when you mentioned the tricolour cockade.”

“Lieutenant Segal.” That, coupled with the memory of the ribbon shop—which seemed so long ago now—came together in sudden understanding. She had been so used to the tricolours representing France during the long years that Napoleon reigned that she had not recognised the cockades as unusual, but with the Bourbons in power, the lieutenant should have been wearing a white cockade. Jane hastily told Vincent about the ribbon store, leaving out only the moment when the woman had struck her.

When she had finished, Vincent rubbed his jaw, a muscle tightening in the corner. “Are you certain you will not take ship? I would rest easier if you would.”

She did not dignify that with a response, fixing her attention on the paper instead. “Should we visit Mme Meynard? I owe her a call, and the officers frequent her house.”

“Not yet. Let us see how the week plays out. We may yet be taking ship.”

“You have more breeds of lamb. Who are your other suspects?”

“The Awassi represent M. Archambault, M. Chastain’s student who made the glamour
à la Chinoiserie
. Belgium Milk Sheep is M. Bertrand. Cotswold…” He sighed heavily and tapped the page with his finger. “Cotswold is the Chastain household.”

Truly shocked, Jane could only stare for a moment. To have accepted hospitality from a man and then to spy on him was beyond the pale. “You cannot believe that.”

“Not willingly, no. And yet, Yves seems a likely choice, because of his youth and the influence that they might promise him for being a cousin of the Bonapartes.”

“But he thinks that Napoleon is the wickedest man in Europe.”

“That is what he told his youngest brother. But if he were a Bonapartist, and under his father’s roof, what else could he say?” Vincent rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I do not like the thought any better than you, but I have been watching them. Your observation on our first day here was right: there is an unnatural tension between father and son.”

“Surely though, were there cause enough for Yves to so betray his father’s wishes, he would not remain under his roof.”

“Yes … well.” Vincent covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. When he drew it away, a shadow remained. “A young man might not always have his independence. I was fully an adult before I renounced my father.”

“Love…” Jane stopped, unwilling to push him into a revelation he did not wish to disclose.

He drummed his fingers on the table, jaw working silently. “I have never related what caused the breach with my father, have I?”

“No, beyond that he did not want you to pursue glamour.” She took his hand. “If it is too private, I do not wish to intrude.”

He snorted. “No, I am learning that it is better to keep no secrets from you, though I would rather not burden you with my troubles.”

“I trust you understand now that I do not think it a burden.”

“I do.” Vincent sighed heavily, then stood to pace around the room. “Forgive me. I am so in the habit of keeping this to myself that it may take me some time to order my thoughts.”

Though she longed to comfort Vincent, Jane held still rather than risk frightening him into flight. He strode with the restless grace of a caged bear.

“My father, as I have implied, has strict ideas of propriety and exacting standards for what comprises the masculine ideal.” He knit his hands together at the base of his neck and paced another moment before continuing. “He saw my interest in the ‘womanly’ art of glamour as being evidence of … partialities which alarmed him. When I refused to drop the interest, he whipped me. I was a stubborn child, and simply found ways around his injunction. He then devised a schedule and course of curriculum designed to turn me into the model of good breeding.”

Vincent stopped his pacing and put his hands against the mantel, leaning forward and bracing himself there. Jane suppressed her own reaction, though she could feel nothing but horror. He blew out in a huff as if trying to dislodge some tension. “In a display of ‘fairness,’ my elder brothers were included in these lessons. If any of us performed with less than perfection, we were punished. The punishment ranged from whippings to privation of food. He once had me suspended from my arms for hours so that I might learn that my hands were not to be used for glamour. In defiance, I learned to work glamour with my toes. In fact, my ability to push past the physical limits many other glamourists face comes directly from my father’s efforts to stop me, so for that I suppose I should thank him. I owe to him as well my command of French, Latin, and German, my abilities on horse-back, as a pugilist, and with a sword. Even my penmanship is borne of his desires.”

Jane now understood the unexpected ability her husband had shown when they were accosted on the road to Binché. As much as those skills had saved them, the price still seemed too high.

“Where was your mother in all this?”

“My mother is very beautiful.” That single phrase carried more condemnation than compliment. Bending his elbows, Vincent leaned forward until his head rested on the mantel. “As befitting a third son, my father sent me to Eton to study law. I studied, of course, because I did not know how to do anything else, but never before had I possessed unscheduled time. Every moment not spent in lessons was spent pursuing glamour. It represents the first unfettered freedom I ever experienced. You cannot know how glorious it is to
fail
with no consequences but one’s education.”

“This is why you feel that art must be free of constraints.”

“Yes.” He lifted his head from the mantel, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think this went on for two years. And then, after my adventure with the clock tower, word reached His Lordship about what I had been doing with my free time.

“I thought I had seen my father angry before, but nothing matched this. What had changed was that he could no longer physically intimidate me. His own fault, of course.” His smile was a cold and bitter one. “He threatened to cut me off entirely, but because I had spent my time studying law as carefully as I had studied any other task he set me to, I offered a counter-proposal. In exchange for a small living, I would give up my name and never trouble him again. If he refused, I would make public his displeasure with me and continue to practice glamour under his name. The threat of humiliation was quite enough.”

Jane swallowed, remembering how Vincent had come to propose to her. He had brought his family’s solicitor with him and had taken up his family name again. “You were ready to give up your art and return to that unfavourable circumstance to marry me?”

“Yes.” Vincent sat in the chair next to her and took her hands. “Jane, I had nothing, and was afraid your father would decline my offer for your hand. That was not a risk I could take.”

“And yet your father took you back?”

“Neither of my elder brothers have yet produced an heir.” He placed a gentle hand on her middle. “That is why I have not written to him about our child. When you accepted me as I was, and we chose to continue working as glamourists, I had no reason to keep the Hamilton name. If—when—my father learns that there is another potential Hamilton in the world, he will exert pressure to have an influence in the child’s rearing.”

Jane shrank from the thought of letting such an unfeeling man into their lives in any fashion. “He will have none.”

“No, he will not.” Vincent pointed to the papers on the desk. “So, you understand now when I tell you that it would be fully possible and even probable for Yves Chastain to have been seduced by the Bonapartists. If he is at all estranged from his father, they would be able to play upon that and appeal to his vanity through his relationship to Napoleon.”

Jane grimaced with understanding. “He has run through his funds, and I believe that his father is not sympathetic to the situation.”

“That alone could drive him to join the Bonapartists, and added with the rest … I hope that I am mistaken.”

They went over the remaining papers, Vincent leaning over her chair to point out details. Though she was still greatly shaken from the disclosures which her husband had shared with her, Jane could not help but rejoice, for here was the camaraderie of their marriage, which had been replaced of late by a stiff and awkward reserve. To ask questions and have them answered without dissembling made her inexpressibly happy. The answers themselves disturbed her, but the fact that the behaviours which she had attributed to a diminishing regard lay instead in Vincent’s secret duty gave her considerable relief. Jane reproached herself for the shallowness of her thought, and yet she returned to it again and again: Vincent loved her.

Though conspiracy was not the art to which they had pledged themselves, their thoughts fit together piece by piece over the course of the evening as they engaged in this new collaboration.

*   *   *

In the morning, all
of Jane’s nausea had returned. She was hard-pressed to tell if it were a result of her health or her anxiety. Vincent was still in their apartments when she arose. “Are you still having trouble?”

“I am quite well.”

“You are green.” Vincent narrowed his eyes. “I think more a Pomona green than a Hooker’s. Certainly not emerald, but perhaps one that has been mixed with flake white.”

“Continue that, and I shall wish you to Brussels.”

He sobered. “It would look strange if I went. Anyone with sense will stay close to home today, in case there is further news.”

They heard nothing new that day, nor the next, but as Jane went about her routines, she became aware of why Vincent feared that the knowledge of his charge from the Prince Regent would change her behaviour. She measured every action she took for what it might mean to an outsider. She weighed the words of every person who spoke with her as if they might be a spy themselves. She did not think any of these thoughts showed, as she put them in a compartment in the same manner as she had concealed her early regard for Mr. Dunkirk—hiding thoughts of spies and revolutions was not so very different from hiding a sensibility toward a gentleman—but she was constantly aware that they were there.

So Jane made no alterations in her plans, and the town settled back into an uneasy peace. Each passing day offered little news as the entire world waited to see what Napoleon would do. On the third day, they received word that Napoleon had reached Paris without a shot fired and that King Louis XVIII had fled to Brussels. The truth of it was impossible to deny, for the Bourbon retinue had travelled through Charleroi, the town next to Binché. Too many tradespeople had seen them for it to be a rumour.

But rumours abounded as the occupation of gossip was replaced with speculation about Napoleon. Napoleon would march to Brussels. No, he would march to Vienna. No, Queen Marie Louise was returning to him. No, he would abdicate again.

Many of the rumours Vincent was able to tell her were unfounded, but the one that would most directly impact them remained the likeliest. The chance of Napoleon marching on Brussels seemed almost certain if he continued his patterns from before his abdication. If he did go to Brussels, he would pass through Binché.

They sat at Vincent’s writing desk, going over Mr. Gilman’s questions about lambs and translating his ciphers into meaning. “Jane, I ask again: will you take ship to England?”