Glamour in Glass (25 page)

“My situation does not signify. It is still quite early, and my confinement is not for several months. Pardon me for the imposition, but I must ask your help in arranging a ransom.”

“A ransom!” Mr. Gilman shook his head. “But that is not possible.”

Pushing away the shame of asking for aid from someone so little known to her, Jane swallowed. “I know I have insufficient funds, but thought that surely you could draw from the Crown.”

“It is not the funds that are at issue, I assure you. It is not possible to ransom your husband.”

Appalled, Jane could only stare at him. “But I know officers who were ransomed back after capture. Why not my husband?”

“Because he is not an officer. If he were a nobleman or even a gentleman, then we might consider it, but he is—forgive me—only an artist. If I were to offer a ransom it would be so far beyond the pale as to draw unwanted attention to him. The ransom would surely be denied, at best. At worst, it would make them question our relationship and put the whole of our circle here at risk. No.” He shook his head firmly. “Though I esteem your husband most highly, it is impossible for me to ransom him with any degree of impunity.”

“You say ‘if he were a nobleman.’” Jane took a breath, and asked forgiveness of Vincent for revealing his secret. “Then allow me to let you know that David Vincent is an assumed name. My husband is the Honourable Vincent Hamilton, third son of the Earl of Verbury.”

Mr. Gilman’s face twisted in sympathy. “Mrs. Vincent, that changes nothing. He is here as David Vincent. His papers say David Vincent. To suddenly treat him as Vincent Hamilton would, again, single him out for unwanted attention. If his father were to ransom him, then that would be different, but
I
can offer no direct aid. The best I might do is send a dispatch to the Earl on your behalf.”

Given what she knew of the relations between Vincent and his father, she expected a chilly reception at best, but deemed any effort worthwhile, no matter how small the chance for reward. “Thank you.”

He took her hands gently. “Take a ship for England. The best thing you can do for your husband is to reassure him that you are safe.”

Jane could not do that. She would not abandon him. “I cannot. But if I might borrow paper and a pen, I will trouble you for but a short time longer before I return to Binché.”

He leaned forward, placing one hand on the table before her in entreaty. “Please do not go back. Consider your child.”

“I
am
considering my child, but I have a duty to my husband, and until I can find someone willing to help him, it falls to me.” She derived a certain bitter satisfaction from seeing him wince.

“Can I say nothing to dissuade you?”

“No.”

“Very well.” He rang for a servant and gave instructions to show Jane to his study so she might write her letters in privacy. “Allow me to at least offer you some funds. Transportation to Binché will not be easy to come by. Everyone is fleeing to Antwerp.”

Jane stood, brushing the folds out of her pelisse. “Thank you. That would be very kind.”

With strained courtesy, they took their leave of each other.

As Jane was led to the study, they passed the open door of the parlour where Vincent had spent so many hours. Begging leave, Jane stepped inside to see the glamural. Where once there had been a single lamb, the flocks she had suggested now gambolled. She could now conceive the expanse of hillside as a map, with the stream representing the border between France and the Netherlands. The whole of the hillside below the stream was covered with lambs, all moving with purpose toward the top of the hill. It was quite lovely. Even for something which served a practical purpose, Vincent had rendered each lamb with individual care.

Jane shuddered and returned to the hall, and thence to the study where she wrote two letters, one to the Right Honorable The Earl of Verbury, and the other to Skiffy.

Knowing full well that it could be weeks before she heard from either man, Jane left Mr. Gilman’s home with an inexpressibly oppressed spirit.

*   *   *

Despite Mr. Gilman’s prediction,
Jane experienced no difficulty in arranging transportation back to Binché. This was due to the truth of his statement that everyone was fleeing town to Antwerp, Ghent, and Ostend, thus leaving the local carriages which travelled in the opposite direction quite vacant. Only two other people occupied the
diligence
that went to Binché: an old woman with a small pug on her lap, and a banker’s assistant. It was obvious from their sideways glances that they knew that she was British by her clothes, and both sat on the opposite side of the
diligence
from her.

They chatted with each other with great animation, pointedly ignoring Jane. The one travelled to see to her daughter’s lying in, the other to arrange to shut up his master’s banking house in Binché.

Jane could not resist the opening. “Is there danger, then?”

“Madame!” He affected shock. “Have you not heard that Napoleon is on the march?”

“I had.” Jane put her hand to her breast and let some of the strain she had felt show in her voice. “But you made me fear that there were troops close by.”

“If you are fearful, then you ought to go home where you belong.” The old woman snorted. “The British should let well enough alone, if you ask me.”

Jane coloured deeply at this and had no reply to offer. She turned her face to the glass and sat in silence for the rest of the trip.

The
diligence
set her down in front of A l’Aube d’un Hôtel, whence she walked back to the Chastain household. Would that the walk cleared her head, but Jane’s thoughts remained caught in a furious twirl of fruitless speculation. It seemed impossible that no one should know where the French troops were stationed. From what Mr. Gilman had said, they were not yet in Belgium, which made the question of where they had taken Vincent all the more perplexing.

Jane questioned her own judgement repeatedly as she walked. What could she do, alone, to rescue Vincent? Were she not better served to heed the advice of her friends and acquaintances and flee while there was a chance? Her nature, though, would not admit to that necessity without exhausting every other possibility. Once she saw Vincent and his situation, she would be better able to make a decision about what action to take.

When she arrived at the gates of the Chastain home, the building was dark and shut up. A solitary paper blew across the courtyard, which had so lately been full of life. Jane felt all the weight of the day press down against her, and she would have sunk where she stood were it not for the sight of Mathieu La Pierre seated on the front steps of the main house.

Jane hurried across the courtyard, breathless now as if she held the strands of a massive glamour in her hands. Mathieu rose as she came up the steps. “Pardon, madame. They said you had gone, but I was sure you were coming back.”

“Oh, thank you, Mathieu. You are too good to wait for me.”

“I wish I had better news.”

Jane’s knees gave way and she sat abruptly on the stairs. “Vincent?”

“They have left town. I
think
they have taken him to Charleroi, because that is the route that Napoleon will take to reach Brussels, but am uncertain about anything more precise than that.”

“Thank you.” Jane nodded, staring out the gates at the opposite side of the courtyard, her thoughts already focused on obtaining transportation to Charleroi.

“Please, madame. It is not good for you to sit outside. Let me help you indoors.” Mathieu’s face was so pinched with concern that Jane let him draw her upright solely to set his mind at ease. She offered him some of the funds which Mr. Gilman had so lately tendered to her, but Mathieu refused them. “I should be ashamed if I did. You and your husband are great artists and should not be so used.”

Before she could protest, Mathieu La Pierre touched his cap and took his leave.

The housekeeper appeared not long after Mathieu had left and gave her a candle to carry upstairs, mouth bent down with disapprobation. Jane affected not to notice, treating the housekeeper with more courtesy than her ill temper warranted. If she were to be here alone, then she would need every aid she could garner.

The long, winding stairs to the upper floors seemed to have lengthened in her absence. Jane hauled herself up, one hand on the banister. The house echoed with ghosts, her every footstep bouncing back to her and making her aware of how empty it was. With more than a little relief, Jane pushed the door to her apartment open, ready to collapse in her bed without undressing.

By the window stood Anne-Marie.

Twenty-one

A Question of Innocence

Jane and Anne-Marie stared at each other, both sheet white. The pallor of Anne-Marie’s face made the bruise under her right eye stand out in a livid purple. It was a bruise such as the heel of a shoe might make.

Anne-Marie ventured a smile. “Madame, I thought you had gone with the others.”

“So I see.” Upon further inspection of the room, it was clear that Anne-Marie had been making a thorough examination of its contents. “I had thought to pack your things and send them on to you.”

Again, Jane said, “I see.” She set the candle on the nearest table and shut the door, twisting the key set in the lock, then removing it. “Perhaps you might tell me where my husband is.”

“It is horrible, madame. You must be so distraught.”

“I am, and you would be well advised to remember that.” Jane’s fingers clenched the handle of the small travel case she carried. Anne-Marie’s eyes locked on it. “Now, I ask again, where is my husband?”

In a mockery of innocence, Anne-Marie’s hand rose to her chest. “How can you think that I should know?”

“Do you really require me to enumerate the reasons? Only look at yourself in the mirror and tell me how you acquired that bruise.” Jane’s ire was up. She stalked farther into the room. “I am well aware that you have been spying on us. All I require now is for you to tell me where Lieutenant Segal has taken my husband.”

Anne-Marie gaped. “But, madame, you are mistaken. Spying? No. This is your distress speaking.”

“That I am distressed does not lessen my ability to reason.” She pointed at the clothes laid over the sofa. “Am I to suppose that you are here to pack my things without the aid of trunks? Am I to understand that the bumblebee pendant you wear represents something other than loyalty to Napoleon? Am I to believe that your relations with Lieutenant Segal mean nothing? No, no, and no. Understand me, Mademoiselle: I am with child, and you have taken my husband.”

“But I did not. I did nothing!” Anne-Marie edged toward the door.

Jane stood her ground. “Do you think Napoleon will release Vincent when he is done with him? I think he will not. I think he will use him up. Tell me. How was it to grow up without a father? I wish to know, since
that
is the position you have placed my child in.”

Crumbling, Anne-Marie sank into the chair by the desk. “I swear to you, I did not know they would take him when I told Etienne—Lieutenant Segal—about the
Sphère Obscurcie
. Had I known, I would never have done it.”

“And now you do.” Jane could feel no pity for the girl.

Anne-Marie stared at her hands as if wondering what to make of them. “I cannot weave the
Sphère
, not as M. Vincent describes it. I think that is why Lieutenant Segal took him.”

Jane’s neck throbbed with tension.

“They are at a farm just south of Quatre Bras. Gemioncourt.”

“Thank you.” Jane unlocked the door to the apartment and left it standing open. She gestured at the dresses strewn across the room. “You may put these away when you come in the morning.”

Bewildered, Anne-Marie lifted her head, tears streaking her face.

“I shall need help, and you can take nothing else from me that you have not already.” Setting her back to the girl, Jane took up her candle and went into the bedchamber.

She shut the door, locked it, and set the travelling case on the bedside table. With dry, dispassionate movements, she opened the case and pulled out the glass
Sphère
from where it lay swaddled in cloth. The clear glass cooled her fingers. Jane lay on the bed and curled around the ball.

In the other room, cabinets opened and shut. Clothes snapped and rustled as they were folded. Jane lay awake until the outer apartment door clicked shut and then she lay still awake, wishing herself asleep.

Once, when she had longed for sleep, she had worked glamour to drive herself to exhaustion. This night, she lay dry-eyed and staring until the candle burned down. Then she watched the dark.

Twenty-two

Cravats and Easels

Jane had spent the night thinking about what she might do with the knowledge of where Vincent was. She had decided that the thing she must do before anything else was to see the location where the French held him. That would inform all her other decisions.

To that end, she left her room as the sun first lit the sky with pale, watery light. As if responding to her mood, clouds stretched from horizon to horizon with the promise of a grim and brooding day. She went to the wing of the house where the Chastains lived and let herself into Yves’s room.

There she searched through the clothing that he had left behind and selected the plainest trousers, shirt and coat she could find. A battered pair of boots stood well back in the wardrobe, and Jane took those as well. With stockings, a cravat, and a waistcoat to complete her ensemble, Jane returned to her apartments.

Despite having worn men’s garments at the glass factory, these felt strange and too confining. Where before the clothing had been too large and threatened to fall off of her, here she was aware of how the buckskin trousers clung to her legs and defined her thighs. The slight swell of her middle was not pronounced enough to show for what it was, but simply lent her a stouter figure. Tying the cravat seemed natural, given the number of times Jane had helped Vincent with his.