Glamour in Glass (29 page)

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 thundering 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.

Mounting the top of the hill, Jane surveyed the road ahead. A peasant woman drove her flock of geese along the road, and beyond her, a carriage rode toward them from Brussels with riders before and behind. Jane doubted of her ability to steer clear of the woman and still miss the approaching carriage.

Gaining speed as they charged down the hill, Jane shouted, “Alarm! Alarm! Napoleon is behind us.”

The woman shrieked and tossed her apron over her head. She and the geese scattered, she to the side of the road, the geese rising into the air. Jane’s horse liked this not at all, and broke from the road, galloping into the rye fields.

The carriage bounced and slowed as the rye caught in the wheels and bound around the axle. The French soldier closest to them followed, and his horse having fewer encumbrances, soon caught them. Passing the cart, he snatched the traces of their horse and pulled the lathered beast to a stop.

Breathing heavily, he railed at them from his saddle, cursing their parentage and their persons until his tirade broke off abruptly.

Jane became aware of the rustle and clop of more horses approaching through the rye. She dared look behind her to see what had produced such a look of alarm in the Frenchman.

Mr. Gilman rode through the rye, a group of redcoats at his back. “I should unhand them, were I you.” He looked Vincent up and down, lifting his brows at his sorry state. “Well, Vincent, I am glad your wife cannot see you now. She would have my hide for abandoning you to the French army’s attentions.”

Vincent cleared his throat and clapped a hand on Jane’s shoulder. “This
is
my wife.”

Mr. Gilman’s eyes widened to a gratifying degree. He sketched a bow from the back of his horse. “Mrs. Vincent. Then I must thank you for your most uncommon gift of a glass lamb.”

*   *   *

On the ride back
to Brussels, Mr. Gilman explained that Jane’s letter, which had accompanied the glass lamb, had been sufficient to spur the Duke of Wellington into action. Though Vincent was clearly in sore need of a physician and rest, he insisted on being taken at once to the British military headquarters. Under an elm, which cast a welcome shade upon a neat white military tent, His Grace, the Duke of Wellington received them and had his personal surgeon attend to Vincent’s wounds while he delivered his report. Around them, officers and aides-de-camp took notes as he spoke.

Jane sat on a camp chair next to him, still feeling the effects of her exertions. Her shoulders ached and her arms felt leaden. Both palms were raw from where the reins had cut into her hands. The cramp which had plagued her earlier came and went, coupled with nausea.

Vincent winced as the surgeon cleaned the wounds on his back, but did not stop his recital. “From what I was able to gather, your Grace, the French are planning on establishing their defences at Quatre Bras, then driving through into Waterloo and then Brussels. Lieutenant Segal had hoped to use the
Sphère Obscurcie
to lay in an ambush for your troops.”

“We could have used this technique of yours sooner.” Wellington gestured to the map of the battle, which one of his tactical glamourists had sketched in the centre of the tent. “The glamourists in the Royal Engineers are restricted to creating the illusion of groves of trees, which is useful at the beginning of an engagement, but not so once forces start moving. In battle, they are largely limited to attempts at breaking the enemy’s attention with flashes of light and blasts of noise. You should have told Mr. Gilman of this
Sphère Obscurcie
at once. “

“I am not a military man and did not conceive of its potential in war. Once I became aware…” Vincent rubbed his head, showering dirt onto his shoulders. “I demonstrated the wrong technique for the
Sphère
to the French and claimed that it must be worked quickly or it would collapse. I do not think they ever mastered even that. But if they do, their efforts will render them invisible, but sitting in a dark sphere and reliant only on their hearing. The true
Sphère
is transparent both within and without.”

“So your wife’s letter stated.” Wellington beckoned his tactical glamourist forward. “Can you teach Major Curry here?”

Vincent assented, and with Major Curry watching, slowly worked the fold necessary to create the glamour. When they vanished, Wellington exclaimed. “Good God! Is it as fast as that?”

From her seat, Jane offered a weary smile at his astonishment. “Faster, once you have the trick of it.”

Vincent and Major Curry reappeared as her husband untied the fold. His face was paler than she liked, and he shook his head. “I fear my strength might be at an end.”

“I think I have it, sir.” Major Curry pulled a fold of glamour from the ether. “With permission?”

“Granted.” Wellington leaned back against a table and watched them.

Major Curry stretched and twisted the glamour, vanishing from view. He cursed. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

“Not at all, Major.” Jane smiled at him as he reappeared. “Was it black or silver inside?”

“Silver.” Red lit his cheeks, but she suspected it was embarrassment at cursing rather than exertion.

“Then you nearly have it. Do the same fold, but twist it widdershins.”

He glanced at Vincent, who nodded. “My wife is an extremely accomplished glamourist.”

The Major attempted it again and disappeared from view. “Thank you, ma’am. That did the trick.”

Wellington had him cast the glamour a few more times, watching from within and without. “Very good. I want you to train the rest of your team to do this, but tell them that they are under orders not to share the knowledge with anyone. This is a state secret.”

Vincent shifted in his seat, uncomfortably. “I beg your pardon, your Grace—”

“Mr. Vincent. I can anticipate what you are about to say. Allow me to stop you from a conflict neither one of us wishes. Your technique has won the war for us. I have no wish to quarrel with you about my desire to keep it a military secret. I trust you can see the importance of keeping this ability quiet.”