Glamour in Glass

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Jane pulled paper from the drawer and sharpened her pen, considering. While she could make an attempt at the code which Mr. Gilman and Vincent employed, she did not know it well, and to write that Anne-Marie was an inferior Cotswold ewe sired to a Scottish Blackface failed to capture the nuances of the situation. To get them across she must write in plain text, and while Jane might trust M. Chastain to deliver the letter directly to Mr. Gilman, she had no such discreet route to receive a reply.

  Leaning back in her chair, Jane stared at the ceiling and chewed on her lower lip in thought. Even if she were to remain and find Vincent, she did not have sufficient funds to ransom him. For that, she must have the aid of a patron. Given his work for the Crown, she felt justified in asking for that very thing, though she knew Mr. Gilman hardly at all. Her fear, though, was that if she left Binché without discovering where Vincent had been taken, she would be unable to find him later. With no way to know when and where they might move him next, Jane was loath to venture too far from the town.

  And yet, she absolutely must speak with Mr. Gilman.

  Jane set down her pen and rose from the table. She would need help of a local sort and considered where she might turn for assistance. Mme Meynard was absolutely out of the question, given her relations with Lieutenant Segal. Even if she were not a Bonapartist, her discretion had proved notably lacking. Most of Jane’s acquaintances were equally ill-suited for the task, but she thought of a few who might prove amenable.

  Jane went first in search of M. Chastain, and acquainted him with her wish to accompany them so far as Brussels and then return to Binché. Though he was notably displeased by the latter part of her decision, he could offer little argument, save that he would be unable to send the carriage to carry her back to Binché. Jane rather suspected that he hoped she would remain in Brussels with no easy means of return, but she had no such intention.

  She went next to find Yves Chastain. Though she was well aware that the boy would be accompanying his family to Brussels, she had hopes that his friends would remain behind. She had further hopes that these friends would be sympathetic to her plight, having seen the will with which they joined in throwing shoes at the glamourist the previous night.… Had it truly been only the night prior? Jane felt the weight of a lifetime between the two events, and yet not even a full day had passed.

  When she explained what she wanted, Yves quickly supplied her with the direction of his friends. Jane began her visits with M. Giroux, the young bookish fellow who had accompanied them the previous night. She thought him the likeliest of the group to have some measure of discretion. Yves offered to run round to M. Giroux for her, but Jane declined on the grounds that his mother wanted him close at hand.

  Instead, she called on M. Giroux in a modest house not many blocks from the Chastains’ establishment. She was let into a bright parlour, well-appointed with furniture from fifty years ago, and waited there for M. Giroux. The worries that had been suppressed first by shock and then by a flurry of activity came upon her in a sudden rush as she waited. Dread knotted in her stomach, and she had to fight to breathe.

  When the parlour door opened, Jane jumped in her seat and then flushed quite red. A woman, likely M. Giroux’s mother, entered the room with her chin held high. “You are the British woman?”

  The coldness of her reception came as a shock. Jane could only nod.

  “I do not know what business you think you have with my son, but I assure you, we have no interest in it.” She inclined her head once. “Good day, madame.”

  “Please!” Jane gasped and held out her hand in supplication. “My husband has been taken by Napoleon’s men. I only need help in finding him. I thought your son might know where they are encamped, boys being boys.”

  “You want my son to spy for you?” Mme Giroux’s countenance darkened with anger.

  “No. Certainly not. I only wanted to ask if he had heard any word of their whereabouts.”

  “I fail to see how that is in any way different from spying. We do not spy, and certainly not for the British.” She pulled the door to the parlour open. “Good day, madame.”

  Jane searched her face for some hint of compassion, but was met only with cold disdain. Trembling, she left the parlour and went out to the street. She stood in the inexcusably beautiful day and stared at the cobblestones. Could she expect a different reception at the homes of Yves’s other friends? Perhaps she should have asked him to run the errand for her, after all.

  Grimacing, Jane trudged on to the next name on the list, passing through the town square on her way. The signs of the festivities from the night before had vanished, save for a few scattered shoes lying abandoned in odd corners. Under the balcony where the glamourist had been, a glazier worked to repair the window which had broken in the shoe-tossing fervour.

  As he reached for a new pane of glass, Jane could not hold back a cry of surprise. The glazier was Mathieu La Pierre, the glassblower’s son. Mind working quickly, Jane hurried over to him. “M. La Pierre! Might I trouble you for a moment?”

  Raising his eyebrows, he set down the pane of glass he had been lifting. “Mme Vincent. Are you well?”

  “I confess, I am not.” Jane clenched her hands as she spoke and quickly acquainted him with the situation in which she found herself. “My hope is that on one of your deliveries you might have come across some information about where they are holding my husband. If you have, I do not ask you to do anything except to let me know.”

  When she had finished, he whistled, then resettled his cap. “If I do hear anything, you may be certain that I will tell you.”

  “Thank you. I go to Brussels tonight, but I hope to be back tomorrow.”

  He promised to meet her whether he had news or not. It was not much, but Jane forced herself to be content with this small bit of progress.

  Twenty

  To Brussels and Back Again

  The journey to Brussels passed in tense and uncomfortable silence. Along the road on either side stretched encampments of British and Prussian soldiers, a grim reminder of the coming war. At first glance, the ranks of redcoats inspired a sense of confidence, but closer inspection revealed the soldiers as the motley crew they were. Alternately, the tall rye fields and the rows of stately orchards lent a sense of pastoral tranquillity which did not quite negate the military presence. Each rise in the road showed some new evidence to make them fret.

  Having attempted to dissuade Jane from her course of action, the Chastains seemed bent on giving her no signs of approval. They did prevail upon her to at least stay over with them rather than applying to Mr. Gilman’s residence so late at night. Road weary and dusty as she was, Jane had to acknowledge that it was the wisest course. There was nothing which Mr. Gilman might do that night, and, though she chafed at waiting even that long, the morning would come soon enough.

  At the earliest practical hour, Jane made her way to the Gilman home carrying a small travelling case which contained a change of clothes and the glass Sphère Obscurcie. She was let in without delay and received by Mr. Gilman in his breakfast room. He set aside his serviette and rose as she entered. “My dear Mrs. Vincent!” Drawing out a chair, he beckoned her to sit. “Please, you are quite pale. What is the matter?”

  His tone, so thoroughly alarmed on her behalf, undid half of Jane’s resolve. Her hands trembled, and she had to clench them in her lap to keep the tremors from showing. With her eyes low to hide the incipient tears—Jane would not give way to them when there was so much to be done—she said, “My husband has been taken by the French army.”

  “Good God.” He sat heavily in the chair next to hers. “When. How?”

  Again, Jane relived those painful moments, relating them with as disinterested an account as she could. When she had finished, she added a piece of information she had told no other save Vincent. “We believe that my maid, Anne-Marie, has been acting as a spy and sharing information with a Lieutenant Segal. She certainly has an attachment to him, and has had ample op
portunity to have access to Vincent’s papers.”

  “That is bad news.” Mr. Gilman slid his fork across his plate, as if compelled to some form of action, even a purposeless one.

  “Vincent did say that none of his correspondence with you should be suspect, as it all pertains to lambs. He believed that Napoleon was more interested in his technique for quickly rendering things invisible.”

  “Possible.” He let go of the fork and grimaced. “I am sorry to hear this, and I thank you for letting me know. We will arrange passage back to England for you, of course.”

  How could all these people assume that she would leave while her husband was in danger? “Thank you, but I will not return to England until Vincent is safe.”

  Mr. Gilman became quite still. “You do understand that there is a war coming? Napoleon is on the march and could cross into Belgium as early as next week. Mr. Vincent will not be safe until after he passes, and, forgive me, but a woman in your situation should not be here.”

  “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.