Of Noble Family (20 page)

He stopped by the driver with the whip and held out his hand.

The driver glanced over his shoulder to a wagon that stood at the edge of the dusty field. A man uncoiled from the shadows. Slender and blonde, with a light linen coat, Mr. Pridmore took a sip from a canteen and set it upon the bench of the wagon before advancing to speak to Vincent.

Jane could not hear them, and she ground her teeth in frustration. That they were arguing was clear enough, and that the substance of their argument was the whipping was obvious as well, from the way Vincent gestured at the driver.

Meanwhile, the young man who had been whipped had dropped forward to rest upon his knees and bent elbows, head touching the ground. This was intolerable. She knew well how many months it had taken Vincent to recover from his ordeal, and that was with the attention of Lord Wellington's personal physician. She could not imagine that Dr. Jones, no matter how much care she took, would be able to be so thorough, given the circumstances in which she had to work. Likely the man would be put back into the fields tomorrow, judging by the healing stripes on the backs and shoulders of the other men. Would she have seen the same on the women if they were not covered?

Jane's stomach turned at the thought. Well, she knew how to nurse a man who had been flogged, and if she could do nothing else, she could at least provide some immediate relief. She reached into the blanket they had brought and pulled out her shift. It would mean doing with only one on board the ship, but their passage to Jamaica would not be long enough for that to be an inconvenience.

She forced aside the question of whether they would be allowed to continue on their way. With the
Verre Obscurcie
, she and Vincent could easily elude pursuit—they need only continue walking to town. It would make taking ship more complicated, but not unreasonably so. She hoped. Be that as it may, she could not sit idly by while she had power to affect things. It may not make any difference to anyone but this man, and then only as long as they remained, but if that were Vincent there …

 … and it had been, once.

Jane stood, and familiar grey spots swam across her field of vision. Slapping her free hand against the trunk of the tamarind tree, Jane waited for the dizziness to pass. In only a moment, she felt steadier, so she walked out of the
Sph
è
re Obscurcie.
When she stepped into the sunlight, the heat became a tangible force, pressing against her dark dress and folding the hot air around her face. She swallowed and continued on. She had reached the verge of the field before anyone was mindful of her presence.

A scrubby woman with two fat braids hanging out from under her kerchief saw Jane first. A dark scar at the corner of her mouth disfigured her deep brown complexion and twisted as she frowned at Jane. The braided woman glanced away to where Mr. Pridmore and Vincent argued.

Vincent fairly growled. “I made it very clear that I did not want to see any more whippings occur on the estate.”

“If you had stayed at the manor house, you wouldn't have.”

“You are not a child. My intent was clear.”

“No. But I am in charge of managing the estate. Your
father
approved of my methods.”

The woman with braids stared openly at Jane as she slipped past the taller driver. The driver made a grunt of surprise and stepped back a pace, as if uncertain what to do with the white woman who had suddenly appeared in their midst. She knelt by the young man who had been whipped. The damage to his back was worse when viewed at close range, and worse too than her memory of Vincent's wounds. Not for the number of strokes, but for being fresher.

At least,
these
marks were fresher. They were laid over older scars that made it very clear that this was not his first time being whipped, nor even his second. Jane had to swallow hard at her rising gorge. Blood ran freely from the rent skin of his back. The flesh beneath was raw and bright red. The wounds shifted and stretched wider with each pant.

Jane looked up to the woman with braids. “Will you bring me some water?”

Again, the woman looked to Mr. Pridmore, but made no effort to move.

“What the devil—Hamilton, what is your wife doing?”

As calmly as she could, Jane tore a strip from the bottom of her chemise. “I am seeing to these wounds, since no one else was.”

“Those wounds are of his own making, and—”

Vincent cut in. “That, they are not.”

“Of course they are. He broke the rules, knowing full well the consequences.”

“Gentlemen! I need water.” Jane lifted her head and glared at Mr. Pridmore. “If you will tell me where to find it, I will fetch it myself.”

“There ain't none.” The woman's voice startled them all. The woman with the braids had stepped a little forward from the other workers.

“Sukey!” The tall driver snapped his whip so that the tip just touched her bare forearm, leaving a stripe. “Don't talk to the master without leave.”

“I wasn't talking to the master, I was answering the la—” She cut off with a cry as the whip caught her again.

“Stop!” Jane staggered to her feet and stepped in front of the man. The fields pitched around her, greying at the edges. Jane fixed her gaze on the horizon and pulled on the resources that she used to keep from fainting when working glamour. Her stomach heaved as if she were on the ship still, but she would
not
faint. “I asked a question, and Sukey answered me. You do
not
have leave to … do not have leave to use the whip. You do not…”

She did not faint, but she did vomit, with a force that bent her double. The driver stepped back as her sick spattered his shoes. Strong arms braced her shoulders as she was ill a second time.

“Jane!” Vincent ran to her. His hands replaced the ones currently holding her. As Jane straightened, Sukey stepped back and gave something like a curtsy. Vincent's features were tight with fear. “Are you—”

“Only hot and angry,” Jane interjected before he could ask if the baby was all right. Marshalling a smile, Jane squeezed his hand and tried to appear calm. “May I have your handkerchief?”

He fumbled in his pocket for it. “Mr. Pridmore, please send a messenger to the house to ask for the carriage, and another to fetch the doctor.”

“At once, Mr. Hamilton.” His tone had lost its mocking edge and presented only an earnest concern. “Julian, house. Smart Martin, doctor. Thomas and Sukey, make up a litter under the wagon for Mrs. Hamilton so we can get her out of the sun.”

In moments, the field workers jumped to their assigned activities. Two of the younger boys dashed off in opposite directions on the road. Vincent had Jane in his arms and was halfway to the wagon before she could protest. She twisted around to look behind them. “What about the man who was whipped?”

Vincent's hands tightened, and he made his small whine of distress. “Muse, you are not well.”

“I was not
whipped
.” Raising her voice, she said, “Mr. Pridmore. Please, let him into the shade at least.”

Mr. Pridmore stared at her, and then he sighed. “Against my better judgement, because it distresses you so. Thomas and Sukey, when you're finished with the litter, drag Octavio into the shade, but not too close to Mrs. Hamilton. There are limits, madam, on what is acceptable on Antigua. It would be easiest for everyone if you and your husband learned that this is not England.”

Jane hardly needed to be told that. Still, she held her tongue. She had at least won the point of having Octavio tended to. That it had taken being ill gave her a better appreciation for her mother's methods, though she still did not like them.

When Vincent had set her down in the shade of the wagon, she caught his hand. “Vincent … would the tamarind tree not be better?”

“I think this has more shade.”

“Yes, but … for later.”

He sat back on his heels and studied her with that perfect and almost indifferent calm. “We are going back to the house as soon as the carriage arrives.”

“Truly, Vincent. I have walked farther than this so many times.”

“But not in this heat.”

And not while with child. “But—”

“No. I know what you are going to suggest, and no.” His cool composure cracked for a moment as a line of concern appeared between his brows. “Please, Muse. As you yourself said, we will find another way to leave. But we cannot do it this way.”

 

Fourteen

A Faint Hope

Jane had not intended to fall asleep. As she awoke, it took her a moment to identify that what she was hearing was horses and a carriage. A cool breeze fluttered around her forehead and against the bare skin of her throat. Her head rested on something soft, but she still lay on dusty ground. Jane opened her eyes, feeling a little more like herself. She lay under the wagon.

Octavio lay face down in the dirt in the shadow at the front end of the wagon. Flies buzzed over the bloody cloth stuck to his back, but, thanks to her shift, they could not reach the wounds themselves. On her other side, Vincent sat in the dirt. He had removed his coat and his cravat. His coat … that was the pillow beneath her head. Vacantly, he stared into the ether as he worked glamour that was no doubt the source of the cool air. He was breathing rapidly but held his mouth open to reduce the sound.

Lord Verbury's carriage slowed to a stop by the field. Someone got out of the carriage and strode towards them. “How is she?”

Frank had come with the carriage? Jane lowered her hands and tried to raise herself to her elbows, but Vincent caught her shoulders. “Overheated.”

She tried a joke to lighten his mood. “I am not a china cup.”

“Today you are.”

“Do you need any assistance?” Frank asked.

“No, thank you.” Vincent slid his arms under her neck and knees and pulled her out from under the carriage. Holding her close to his chest, Vincent stood, and the full brunt of the sun hit them.

Jane's head throbbed and she turned her face into Vincent's chest. His waistcoat was soaked through with sweat. He carried her to the carriage with Frank at his side. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of course.” His frown was nearly as deep as Vincent's. “I understand Mr. Pridmore has sent for the physician.”

“She should see Octavio, too.”

Frank grimaced. “I will get word to Dr. Jones, but Lord Verbury's physician will attend to you.”

“I would rather have Dr. Jones, too. Please.” Even as Jane protested, she knew that it was too late to keep her condition a secret, but she did not want to be examined by anyone connected to Lord Verbury. “It was only the heat.”

Vincent said, “Please follow his advice. I would like to ensure that you experience nothing worse.”

Jane's protestations were effectually stopped at the carriage door. Frank climbed in first and helped Vincent get her settled on one of the benches in a prone position. She sat up, though it was clear from Vincent's frown that he would prefer for her to lie upon the bench. As the carriage began to move, the breeze stirred through the open windows. Jane sighed a little at the air. Even filled with dust as it was, the effect was invigorating.

Frank removed the stopper from a bottle and poured her a copper mug of lime juice.

“Please drink this, slowly.” He handed it to Jane, who sipped it. No liquor could taste so perfect. Frank poured another and handed it to Vincent. “You as well.”

“I am not—”

“I have seen enough Europeans come to Antigua for the first time. Please trust that I am familiar with the effects of heat and how to counter them.” Frank settled back in his seat. “What I should like to know is what prompted your walk today. You were en route to St. John's, I presume?”

Vincent studied his lime juice, rubbing his thumb against the metal. He tilted his head to Jane and raised a brow in question. They would have to bargain with Frank. It was not possible that he could still be ignorant as to her condition. Jane sighed. Vincent compressed his lips and nodded in agreement.

He faced Frank. “I found the coldmonger last night.”

“Found the…? I thought you knew.” He turned to look at Jane. “So then … you
are
with child?”

Jane was too tired to dissemble. Her expression must have been answer enough, because Frank sat back in his seat with a huff of surprise. “Well … this changes things. I thought that, as a glamourist, you must be aware, and were engaging in some subterfuge.”

Vincent frowned with confusion, then his face cleared and he nodded. “Ah. You believed we were feigning Jane's ‘delicate condition' because my father thinks she is barren.”

“Indeed. The incident in the counting room seemed to be a performance for my benefit.” Frank's nod was a mirror of Vincent's as he ordered information into new piles. “May I inquire what you have done with my daughter?”

“Your—Louisa is
your
daughter?” Jane had been certain that she was Lord Verbury's. Perhaps she had not needed to be so suspicious of the maid. “We tied her up. In the orange grove.” The shade would surely keep her from feeling the same effects of the heat that Jane had.

“Thank you.” He leaned out the window of the carriage. “Jove! Stop the carriage in the orange grove, please.”

When Frank settled back in his seat, Vincent leaned forward. “What does my father know?”

“I said nothing about Mrs. Hamilton's expectant condition or your plans for departure. So he still believes she is barren.”

Jane swallowed. “But you sent for a doctor.”

“Ah … so that is why you wished for Dr. Jones.” Frank tilted his head to the side. “She has examined you, correct? Or have I missed my guess in why you requested a doctor for Amey?”