Laughing gaily, Anne-Marie hallooed the farm. Lieutenant Segal swung her down from the wagon, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. From across the courtyard came fragments of Anne-Marie’s merry chatter as she talked of how she had fooled Mme Vincent and assured her of sending her things on to her in England. How she was certain that the secrets Lieutenant Segal sought would be in one of these trunks.
Jane coughed once. Before she could draw her breath to cough again, Lieutenant Segal turned to the trellis. He strode across the yard, beckoning a soldier to accompany him. His intent was clear. He wished to question Vincent about the contents of the trunks. This, Jane had not considered.
When he arrived, Segal would find Vincent unbound. With his attention fixed on the trellis, there was no time for Jane to swap the manikin for her husband. Her mind raced, seeking some answer, but Lieutenant Segal was upon them too swiftly for any to present itself.
Segal’s soldier bent down to untie Vincent’s bonds. The moment the soldier’s hand touched Vincent’s wrist, he moved with a speed that belied his wounds, grabbing the man’s leg and toppling him.
With a single motion, Vincent pummelled the soldier and forced himself to his feet. Lieutenant Segal drew his pistol, aiming it at Vincent.
Jane leaped forward with the Sphère Obscurcie held firmly in her grasp and pushed Vincent out of the way. Lieutenant Segal cursed as Vincent came within the influence of the Sphère and vanished from view.
“What good will it do you to be invisible, Vincent?” Lieutenant Segal shouted. “You cannot run from us.”
As he kept his gaze on the spot where Vincent had last stood, Jane and Vincent crept away from the trellis. It was apparent to Jane that the cost of his flurry of movement was great. Vincent leaned much of his weight on her. She transferred the glass Sphère to her left hand and wrapped her right around his waist to help support him. Her hand brushed something rough and sticky as Vincent gave a muffled cough and tensed under her arm.
She had touched the mass of wheals on his back. Moving her hand lower, she braced herself as he put his arm around her shoulders.
Jane risked a glance behind them.
Lieutenant Segal had his men surround the area where Vincent had been and tighten the circle. This gambit would have worked well, had Vincent still been there. As it was, their attention was drawn away from the Vincents’ careful progress. Locked in step, Jane led her husband through the maze of sunlight.
The manikin tangled their footsteps, slowing them. Jane squeezed Vincent’s waist as they passed a supply wagon, bringing their progress to a halt. She eased the manikin off her shoulder and tucked it into a nook in the supplies. Though it would not serve her intended purpose, she hoped it would still act as a distraction.
The progress was slower than her route in, as Vincent needed to stop every few feet. His breath was ragged and hot against her skin. She feared what would happen if he fainted while they were in the middle of the courtyard.
Lieutenant Segal shouted in rage, drawing Jane’s attention back to the trellis. He and the soldiers patted the ground where Vincent had been, clearly bewildered about where he could have gone. Crossing the yard in great strides, Segal bore down on Anne-Marie where she stood by the wagon. “Where is he?”
“I do not know!” She held up her hands in protest.
Segal slapped her. “Liar. You brought us the news of his technique. Tell me how he can walk with it.”
Anne-Marie’s hand went to her cheek and her voice caught before she answered him. “He cannot. It is impossible.”
Snorting in disgust, Segal looked at the items on the wagon. “I am not insensible to the fact that he made his escape only after you arrived with the Vincents’ effects. Do you think me such a fool as to believe that this is a coincidence?”
The astonishment on Anne-Marie’s face was unmistakable. “I tell you, it is not possible to walk any distance and support a glamour.”
“And yet, he is gone.” He gestured to the wagon, directing soldiers to it. “Unload it. I will find the answer even if I have to throw sticks instead of arrows.”
Jane watched this activity, wincing. The carter had stopped the wagon in the sun.
It lay directly across the path where Jane and Vincent must walk. She pulled to a halt and surveyed the farm. Unable to speak for fear of drawing attention, she could not explain the trouble. If they retraced their steps, there was a route that passed through only one shadow, but it was farther away, and she had her doubts about how much longer Vincent could remain standing. Another option would be to pass behind the wagon and try to hold the Sphère in the sun. The third choice was to walk toward the front gates, which she could reach without shadow, but which opened onto a tree-lined drive.
As the soldiers worked to unload the wagon, she realized that their activity would, of necessity, take them inside the farmhouse. There would be very few people in the courtyard, and perhaps the carter might pull the wagon out of the way.
Jane watched as the last trunk came off. Anne-Marie, rather than moving the wagon, stayed in the courtyard, hand pressed against her bruised cheek. She alone stood near their path, and Jane judged that they would not have a better opportunity.
Tightening her grip around Vincent’s waist, she started them forward again, conscious of how much weight he leaned upon her. They reached the wagon and moved as close to its bed as she could. Jane stretched her left hand out to keep the Sphère in the sun as they crossed the cool shadow.
On the far side of the shadow, Vincent stumbled.
Jane threw her hip under him trying to slow his fall, but he outmassed her by a considerable percent and dragged them both down. The glass Sphère tumbled from her grasp.
She and Vincent tangled together, trying to catch it, but it shattered against the ground. The crack of breaking glass bounced off the buildings around them. All other sound in the courtyard stopped.
Anne-Marie turned, spying them. Her eyes widened.
They were, for the moment, blocked from view by the bulk of the wagon to everyone save Anne-Marie, but other footsteps ran toward them. Vincent lay nearly insensible on the ground.
Jane could not let them take him again, and if discovered, they would take her as well, which would put their child in danger. Where before one life had been at risk, she had now imperilled all three of them.
Desperately, Jane reached into the ether and drew out a fold of glamour. She twisted it, and with a speed she had not known she possessed, blew a Sphère Obscurcie around them. Spots swam in front of her eyes and the courtyard pitched beneath her. Jane dragged air into her lungs.
Anne-Marie shrieked. Flinging her hands in the air she raced toward the house and away from Jane and Vincent. “If they have broken Mme Vincent’s looking glass, I shall have words with them. I had my heart set on it.”
At the end of the wagon, Lieutenant Segal stood staring in their direction, but did not come any closer. He tilted his head as if it would change the view. “You think of looking glasses when our prisoner has escaped?”
“Has it escaped your notice that I am a French woman?” Anne-Marie walked next to him and pressed her body against his. Her voice softened. “I am sorry you are angry with me. Is there nothing I can do to make it up to you?”
He traced the back of his hand down her face, pausing to caress the bruise beneath her eye. “Perhaps.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, eyes never leaving her face. “Napoleon will be so interested to meet you, tomorrow.”
“Will you see to my looking glass?”
“No. I must find our prisoner before the Emperor arrives.” He kissed her again. “The mirror will not be any less broken if I attend it now.” Turning from her, Lieutenant Segal shouted for his horse, and made arrangements to begin the search for Vincent.
When he had gone, Anne-Marie stood with her hand at her breast, fingering the bumblebee pendant which hung there. Spinning so that her skirts flared around her, Anne-Marie took up one of the blankets and shoo
k it out. Then she lay it over the rails of the wagon so it formed a tented space large enough to cover two people.
She patted the bare wood bed of the wagon the way one might beckon a dog. “Before I change my mind.”
Jane got to her knees and pulled Vincent up to his. Helping each other, they clambered to their feet. Jane reached again for the folds of the Sphère Obscurcie but Vincent stopped her with a hand on hers. He shook his head once.
Untying the threads, he managed them for two steps and then swayed. Jane caught the fold from his hand and played it out two steps more. Passing it back and forth between them, they reached the end of the wagon. Anne-Marie stood in the bed with her back to them, holding a blanket outstretched and shaking it occasionally. With the cover in place, they could safely drop the glamour long enough to clamber on board.
The wagon creaked and groaned under their weight. The driver shifted in his seat. “What are you doing back there?”
“Just arranging the blankets.” Anne-Marie lowered the cloth and tossed it behind her, keeping her attention focused away from the wagon, as if she wanted to be able to say in truth that she had not seen them.
Jane caught the blanket as it fell and pulled it over them. A hand pressed her shoulder and the wagon creaked as Anne-Marie crouched beside her. In a low voice, she whispered. “I do not want you to think that I betrayed you again. I had thought to endear myself to the camp to tend M. Vincent in your absence. God speed, madame.”
Her hand lifted, and the wagon shook as Anne-Marie hopped down. Muffled in the dark, Jane lay scarcely breathing, moved beyond all measure by Anne-Marie’s words. Then the tail-board latched shut and they rolled into motion.
Twenty-four
Into the Rye
Through the blanket, sun and shadow alternated in dappled patterns that gave hints of their whereabouts. When the sun predominated, Jane pushed the blanket off and peeked out. They were on the road to Binché, but to Binché they must not go. The soldiers would almost certainly think to look for them in the wagon and the Chastain house. Though Jane had thought that possibility was a natural misdirection, it had only been desirable when the plan had them travelling to Brussels.
She was not sure how long Anne-Marie’s change of heart would last, but was grateful for it. Nor did she wish to chance what the driver would do upon seeing them, and for both reasons thought it prudent to take their leave. Jane pressed her mouth to Vincent’s ear. “We need to get off the wagon.”
He wiped his hand over his face and nodded. Moving with as much care as they could, they unhitched the tail-board and let it lower. The driver sat with his shoulders bowed and his head bent to his chest, as if trusting the horse to find its way back to town.
They swung their feet over the tail of the wagon and jumped down to the dirt road. Jane staggered and nearly fell as she landed, and had she been in skirts, she surely would have. Catching Vincent’s hand, she pulled him to the side of the road and into the tall field of rye.
He stopped her when they were well into the field. “Muse, I do not think I can go much farther.” His voice cracked with weariness.
Jane squeezed his hand with compassion. It was possible that Vincent might be able to remain where they stood until she fetched him. The rye was close to harvest, and stood nearly a man’s height. If one crouched down, it would be enough to hide him or her from the road, for which Jane was grateful, because she doubted her ability to handle another glamour. Jane ran her hand across her middle as if she could reassure their child that this trial would be over soon. “Would you stay here, then? I have a dogcart phaeton waiting for us not too far away. Let me fetch that and then we can be on our way to Brussels.”
“How did you come to have a cart?”
Jane flourished a bow. “I am Henri Villeneuve, the consumptive artist. The locals know me for my love of painting their fields en plein air. I had planned for us to—”
She stopped as Vincent held up his hand. “Jane, do you know that until this moment I had not noticed that you were in men’s clothing?”
Colouring, Jane ran her hands down the breeches which left her legs so indecorously exposed. She had quite forgotten her state of dress as well. “I hope you do not mind.”
“Mind? Muse, you are a marvel to me.” He sat down heavily in the rye. “Please. Go and fetch this famed dogcart phaeton.”
* * *
Jane hurried through the field as fast as she could. Though her heart rejoiced to have freed her husband, she would not rest easy until they were in Brussels. The sun, which had been so necessary to reach Vincent, had now become oppressive. Jane did not understand how men suffered through the summers wearing thick coats and buckskin breeches. Her shirt clung to her back.
In the distance, she heard dogs barking.
Likely a hunter, but if they had decided to use hounds to track Vincent … Jane quickened her pace to a run, pressing her hand to a stitch that formed in her side. The tableau she had created had been left quite undisturbed, and for that she thanked providence. She hid the manikin behind a small bush, tossed the easel and paints heedlessly into the back of the phaeton, and untethered the horse, which had cropped a wide circle in the grass.
Jane returned the champagne, now quite warm, to the basket. As she did, the ripe scent of the cheese which she had procured caught her nose, inducing a wave of revulsion. Barely backing away from the phaeton in time, Jane retched in the grass. Gasping, she wiped her mouth with her red-stained pocket handkerchief and dropped it, no longer needing that part of her costume.
The cramp in her side seemed only to have worsened with her upset stomach. Jane gritted her teeth against the pain, set herself in the seat, and directed the horse toward Vincent. She drove west a few minutes before she reached the crossing that led to Brussels.
A heavy tramping sound pulled her attention toward Binché. At the edge of her sight, row upon row of men in blue and white uniforms marched toward her under the tricolour flag of Napoleon’s France. Jane groaned and steered the phaeton toward Brussels.
What had seemed to take so long on foot passed in only a few moments by phaeton, and she quickly lost sight of the French army as the road bent behind her. She urged the horse to more of a trot until she was close to where she thought they had stopped. The rye grasses showed no signs of their mad dash, so Jane pulled the horse to a halt and stood on the bench of the phaeton spying for Vincent. The rye rustled and parted like the Red Sea as he limped out. She pushed aside the easel and helped him clamber into the cavity in the rear.
He lay down with a groan.
She did not want him to worry about the soldiers on the march, and there was little either of them could do, save flee. Jane kissed the split skin above his eye and the rank scent of his unwashed flesh sent another wave of nausea through her. Staggering back, Jane again was sick in the field.
Vincent raised himself on his elbow. “Muse?”
“I will be well shortly. The stress has made the nausea worse. I am sorry it alarms you.” She straightened and pushed him back into the compartment of the dogcart phaeton. “Now lie still.” Jane arranged one of the blankets around him and climbed back into the bench seat.
She urged the horse into motion. Though she wanted nothing more than to push him to a gallop and race toward Brussels, that would draw unwanted attention to them, so she kept him to a slow and leisurely walk. By necessity, the road took them past Gemioncourt. Jane tensed, waiting for someone to come out and stop them, but they passed by unnoticed. Were it not for the dread twisting knots in her stomach, Jane might have been out for a Sunday ride.
Once past Gemioncourt, she urged the horse into a trot, which also had the benefit of smoothing out his gait and making the ride gentler for Vincent. Jane’s chief concern though, was to put as much distance between themselves and the camp as possible before the French army arrived, increasing the number of men that might be employed for pursuit.
They had gone nearly an hour down the road when she heard horses thun
dering toward them. Jane glanced over her shoulder, heart rising into her throat.
Three French officers galloped toward them. The one in front saw her take notice of them and shouted, drawing his sabre.
If Jane were an innocent, she would stop and see what he had to say, but if Jane were an innocent she would not have the escaped prisoner they sought in the back of her phaeton. “Vincent. They have spotted me. Can you hide yourself if I stop?”
“I am not certain I have the strength.”
“Then I think we had better make a run for it.” Matching words with action, Jane snapped the reins across the horse’s back. It sprang forward, and Jane let the reins out like long strands of glamour, conjuring the horse to speed.
At first they pulled away from the officers, as their horse was fresher than theirs, and eager to run. The phaeton rattled down the road. But as they went, the cart began to wear on their horse and the gap between them narrowed. Fire raced up Jane’s arms as she strained to hold on.
They overtook a carriage travelling toward Brussels and Jane fought to steer their phaeton around it. The coachman looked astonished as they came round.
Jane shouted, “Napoleon is behind us!”
With a glance over his shoulder, the coachman cursed and whipped his horses so they lumbered into a gallop behind Jane and Vincent. One of the French officers got past and drew alongside.
Vincent roared, rising to his knees, and flung Jane’s canvas at the soldier. His horse shied and reared, tossing his rider under the hooves of his comrades. Cursing, one of the other riders drew his pistol and took aim.
The retort alarmed Jane’s horse. He sprang forward with a new burst of speed, but they did not have long before one of the other riders gained on them. Vincent lifted the easel and swung it at the man. The officer caught it on his sabre, splintering the wood. With the shattered remnant, Vincent aimed next at the horse’s head and neck.
Jane split her attention between the view over her shoulder and the road before her. Though the latter demanded her attention, her greatest interest lay with her husband as he tried to fend off the Frenchmen. As they began to climb one of the rolling hills that marked the Belgian countryside, her horse flagged. Taking advantage of the slower pace, the coachman’s outrider levelled a long carbine and aimed it at the soldier in the rear. The shot went wide but caused him to drop back nevertheless.
Glamour in Glass Page 22
