Glamour in Glass (7 page)

“Some words are specific to glamour, but you will not find those until you have practised further.”

Vincent had retreated a few steps away, the relief at having escaped obvious in the set of his shoulders. Not minding the girls’ inquiries, Jane spent some time with them, explaining a few simple things about glamour that language sufficed to deliver until their parents called them away. Before going, the Misses Cornell pressed Jane to sign their pamphlet and swore their eternal devotion to her as well.

As soon as she was certain they would not see, Jane smiled and joined Vincent at the rail of the ship. “Oh, my dear. I have never seen the like of that.”

He grunted. “This is why my father did not want me to use his surname. The spectacle.”

Laying her hand on his, Jane rubbed her thumb against the fine hairs across its back. “Is it … is this normal for you?”

“Well … they were younger and more conspicuous in their enthusiasm, but yes, the part of a glamourist is often to be a curiosity. People assume that because my art is on display, I myself must also be an exhibit for their attention.”

Jane remembered well their first meeting, and how he had given her his shoulder when she approached him. “I am sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because I did the same when we met.”

“Ah, Jane.” He lay his other hand over hers, holding it with both hands. “I regret every moment I kept you at a distance.” Leaning down, Vincent kissed her. Jane, in sight of the entire ship, returned the kiss with enthusiasm.

Five

Travel and a Little Napoleon

The prevailing winds were against their ship, and so the trip across the Channel took a full two days. Jane found that not even the rough weather could dampen her joy in their transit. The Prince Regent’s favour had extended to arranging a private cabin for them. Though it was no larger than the linen closet at Long Parkmead, with Vincent’s company the cabin seemed cosy rather than cramped.

Even so, she was glad to disembark in Calais and get her first taste of life on the Continent, but the port was quite filled with English travellers, so many of them that there were few places where she did not hear the accents of home. Jane consoled herself that once they left the city behind, she would find a more authentic experience of France en route to Belgium as they travelled in
La Diligence
.

In truth though, the Vincents’ travel from Calais to Binché was little different from any trip in a public carriage despite the charming name of France's national system of carriages. The
diligence
was too crowded for comfort, and the views out the windows—though of unfamiliar scenery—were only glimpsed by twisting one’s neck.

The
diligence
exchanged passengers at inns, crossings, and stables so that they had an unending variety of new travel companions. Jane cared not at all. None of the other passengers took notice of them, and the freedom from responsibilities delighted her nearly as much as what little scenery she could glimpse.

For the first two days they travelled without concern, slowed only by a log across the road, which delayed their progress by some hours. As the
diligence
rolled through the country, Jane was enchanted by the differences between France and England. Not that she found France in any way superior, but the local garments, which changed with every region through which they passed, were endlessly charming. At one stop, the local women had red borders on their aprons. When they halted for a quick nuncheon at an inn in the north of France, the women wore heavy wooden clogs as they walked through the mud of the stable yard. In another region, white fichus were the order of the day.

But as the
diligence
bounced across the landscape, what Jane most wished for was more padding upon the seats. She was, therefore, delighted when the carriage slowed and then stopped, as this would offer a chance to escape its confines. Outside, she could hear a muffled conversation, but no coachman appeared to open the door. She hoped that it was not another log across the road, though even that might be welcome if it afforded them the opportunity to stretch their legs.

After a few minutes, one of the other travellers—an old matron whose black lace marked her as a widow—peered out the window and tutted loudly. She turned to the young girl travelling with her and said something disapproving in Flemish.

Jane sat on the other bench, by the door, with Vincent acting as a human shield between her and the German soldier who shared their bench. He would not have been objectionable as a companion were it not for his propensity to eat whole garlic cloves. Curious as to what the matron had seen, this soldier now leaned across the
diligence
to look out the small window in the door, though there was a window on his side of the carriage as well.

“We are in a field,” he said in heavily scented English.

The door flew open and a man with a cravat wrapped around the lower part of his face looked in. He held a pistol.

Jane cringed against the side of the carriage, the shock of the gun combining with the strong memories of the last time she had beheld a gun at close range. Vincent sat forward, putting his arm in front of her as though that could shield her in some manner.

In French, the man said, “Out. All of you.”

Vincent went first, though Jane would have held him back if she could. Within moments, she and the other passengers were standing beside the
diligence
. Three ragged men faced them, the one with the gun and two more with rusted sabres. A fourth held the horses, and a fifth stood atop the carriage with another pistol pointed at the coachman.

The German soldier said something in French, but his native tongue so coloured the language that Jane could scarcely understand him. She heard only the word, “Napoleon.”

The ragged man with the pistol replied hotly. The others joined in, also shouting various imprecations at the German. She gathered they were Bonapartists set on taking the
diligence
for their cause and was not surprised that the German did not join his former allies.

Lowering his voice, Vincent said, “Dearest, do you remember your Beast?”

“Yes.” She could not see what their ill-fated
tableau vivant
had to do with the current situation.

He then turned to the soldier and, to her surprise, spoke to him in German. This provoked a furious outburst from the rebel with the pistol, but a nod from the soldier.

The Flemish lady spoke up then, gesturing sharply with her fist at the ruffians who held them. “Napoleon? Feh!” She spat on the ground. Her young charge grabbed her arm and pulled her back all too late.

One of the sabre bearers advanced with his blade raised.

Vincent said, “Jane. Frighten the horses.
Jetzt!
” He and the German sprang to action in the same instant.

Startled, Jane could only stare for a moment, then she gathered herself and stripped off her gloves. With her hands bare, Jane threw the folds of the Beast around her, caring little about artistry in her haste. Raising the arms of the horrible creature, she menaced the horses.

The German clambered onto the top of the
diligence
while the rebel there struggled with his gun. His footing was upset as one of the horses reared, tearing its traces free. The postillion took advantage of this to urge the horses forward. His coachman helped the German subdue the gunman on the carriage while the Bonapartist holding the horses flung himself out of the way of their charge.

Jane dropped her folds of glamour and turned to Vincent in time to see him punch the ruffian with the gun in the nose. The man dropped to the ground. Scarcely had he fallen when Vincent turned to the man with the sabre who had threatened the old woman. Jane grabbed folds of glamour convulsively, as if she could weave some sensible illusion to help her husband from twenty paces.

The remaining sabre-bearer still threatened, so she could at the least remove the old woman and her charge from harm. Jane lifted her skirts and hurried to their side. She wove a
Sphère Obscurcie
to mask them from the rebels’ view. The young girl was crying, but the matron seemed ready to take up a sabre herself. Jane put her finger to her lips. “They cannot see us,” she whispered. They stared at her, uncomprehending, so she repeated it in French and Italian. When this did not quiet the girl, Jane glanced back to see how close the rebels were, and beheld something astonishing.

Vincent had somehow disarmed one of the sabre-bearers and was now fighting the other with the liberated sabre. While Jane had known that her husband was quite fit, she had not realized he had any skill with weapons. Yet Vincent wielded the weapon as though he were well used to it. Indeed, with his superior height and reach, it took but moments before he had reached past his opponent’s guard to strike him in the upper arm. This drawing of first blood did nothing to ease Jane’s fears.

When the
diligence
thundered back down the road, Jane nearly cheered, but stopped herself for fear of giving their position away. The German soldier jumped down and ran towards Vincent with the captured pistol in hand.

The German shouted something, and the remaining rebel dropped his sabre. Vincent picked it up and gestured to the man to kneel. In short order, he bound the man’s wrists with his cravat. Vincent stepped back and turned. “Jane?”

“Here, love.” She dropped the fold which was hiding them and her husband heaved a sigh of relief.

“Cleverly done, Muse.” He trotted across the field as the coachmen and the soldier secured the other rebels. A spot of blood flecked his sleeve.

“Are you hurt?” Jane hurried to meet him. Only now that the events were over did she have time to realize how very real the danger had been.

“Eh?” He stopped and noticed the blood for the first time. “No. It is the other fellow’s. I am afraid it will be a bother to get out.”

Jane pressed herself against him, trembling. “Never take such a risk again. You could have been shot.”

“Nonsense.” Vincent pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “They were using ancient wheel-lock pistols. They take a few seconds to spark, and these guns displayed some rust, so it seemed unlikely they would spark on the first rotation. There was no danger of them getting a shot off. It was perfectly safe.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

As he explained more about the mechanisms of guns, Jane shook her head and embraced him tighter. What she had really wanted to know was how her artist husband knew about weapons.

*   *   *

The
diligence
was delayed
by a half day to deliver the captured rebels to the local authorities, so they did not cross into Belgium until very late on the second day. They arose with dawn the next morning and set off as the sun started to warm the winter fields. They arrived in Binché a few hours later as the village clock struck ten, bells chiming as if celebrating the Vincents’ arrival. The sun painted the stucco walls of the village a pale red-gold that belied the chill of the season. Passing through into the town proper, the Vincents were charmed by the neat houses and tidy window box gardens which crowded the streets. The chaise set them down at the carriage post outside the A l’Aube d’un Hôtel near the centre of town. Mr. Vincent hired a boy to run to M. Chastain’s to let him know that they had arrived. In short order, one of M. Chastain’s students drove up with a wagon, and the Vincents were whisked—if bouncing over cobblestones can be called whisking—to the Chastain home.

The large front gates opened onto a courtyard faced on three sides by independent buildings. The grand staircase of the one at the back clearly marked it as the home proper, while the one to the right exuded the unambiguously ripe smell of a stable. A long single story building to the left with large windows and expansive skylights would have seemed well suited for an orangery if it had only been filled with trees. Instead, the windows exposed endless banks of disjointed glamour pressed against each other with neither rhyme nor reason. Young men and a few women toiled, faces tight with concentration, on these objects of curiosity.

No sooner had the Vincents alighted than a tall man with a full crop of iron-grey hair burst out of the laboratory. His aquiline nose bent as he beamed in delight, throwing his arms wide. “David! I am so happy to see you!”

Jane started. It had been so long since she had heard anyone call her husband by his assumed Christian name that she was quite unused to it. Her surprise at that was quickly supplanted by new astonishment as Vincent broke into a full smile.

“Bruno!” Her taciturn husband bounded across the yard and met M. Chastain with open arms. They pounded each other on the backs as if they were schoolboys, then parted and took the measure of each other. “You are old.”

“You,” M. Chastain poked a finger into Vincent’s stomach, “are older. And rude. You must present me to your wife, you great lumbering fool.”

Still smiling—no,
grinning
—Vincent brought him to Jane. “Jane, may I introduce Bruno Chastain. My wife, Jane Vincent.”

“How do you do.” Jane dropped a curtsey.

M. Chastain held out his arms, shaking his head. “We do not stand on ceremony here! You are family.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned close, kissing her on both cheeks before she could think of a response. “Welcome. David is like a brother to me, and you, a sister.”

Jane had met Frenchmen before, but they had always belied their reputation for effusive displays, seeming only a little more enthusiastic than her native Britons. Jane sometimes wondered if that was because they had modified their behaviour to match that of her country.

From the door of the main house, a woman called,
“Bonjour, Bonjour, bienvenue! Je suis si heureuse de vous voir ici. Bruno, faites-les rentrer avant qu’ils ne prennent froid.”
Then she hurried down the steps, delicate features glowing with welcome. Standing on her toes, she barely came up to Vincent’s chest, but this did not stop her from clasping his face and pulling his head down to kiss him on both cheeks. Vincent did not appear to be surprised by this.
“Laissez-moi vous regarder. Oh, vous ressemblez en tous points à la description de Bruno. J’ai déjà l’impression de vous bien connaître.”