Authors: Mary Robinette Kowal
Tears pricking her eyes, she forced herself erect and made her way out into the sunlit street. The day, so bright, so pleasant, seemed painfully at odds with the events, and yet there were those residents of Binché who were rejoicing at the news. The conversation from the dinner party when they first arrived came back to her, and she recalled Mme Meynard saying,
We have been passed back and forth between France and the Netherlands for almost as many years as there have been people living here.
And here Jane saw the proof of that, for half the town rejoiced that their Emperor had returned, and half the town despaired. It was only with the greatest difficulty that Jane did not run back to the Chastains’, where she knew at least
they
did not support Napoleon. She had no such faith about their neighbours.
Mme Chastain met Jane in the foyer of the home, her hand held to her breast. “Thank heavens. I have been so worried for you.”
“You have heard, then.” Jane tugged her gloves free.
“Yes. Colonel de Bodard just came with the news.”
“I heard only that Napoleon was returned to France, nothing more.”
“Come into the parlour.” Mme Chastain took Jane by the arm. “You are as pale as death.”
“I am only a little frightened.”
They went to the parlour, where M. Chastain had gathered with his students and the household’s senior staff. Colonel de Bodard stood at the mantel with the room’s attention fixed upon him. Gone was the gentle chevalier who had comforted Jane at the dinner table. He stood now in the Belgian uniform, a dark blue jacket with red epaulettes at the shoulder. Jane scanned the room, growing cold as she realized that Vincent was not there. He had gone to Brussels, and would be on the road even now. He might not know that the Ogre was out of the box.
Jane put a hand on her middle, as if it would reassure their child.
Anne-Marie pressed a glass of Madeira on her, and offered Jane her seat. M. Chastain paced the room with one finger hooked over his nose and the other hand tucked behind his back. “Those of you who wish to go may, but I think the danger is not great.”
“But I heard Napoleon was gone to Paris,” M. Archambault said.
“Yes, but King Louis XVIII has sent General Ney to stop him. He will do so, and then we may all rest easy. Remember, Napoleon can have no great number of men, and those that he has are all deserters, not the steadiest sort in a fight.” Colonel de Bodard left his place by the fire and came to Jane’s side. “Mme Vincent, how are you taking it?”
“I am only piecing together what has happened, and perhaps more frightened than I should be.” The scent of the wine turned her stomach. Jane swallowed against bile and set the glass on the side table.
“Napoleon landed at the beginning of the month and is marching toward Paris. No shots have been fired, and garrison after garrison has surrendered to him. This sounds astonishing, but remember that King Louis is still in Paris, and has the army to back him. The Belgian army has been called up and we will join forces with the British to help oppose Napoleon.”
“What if the French army surrenders?” Mme Chastain touched her husband’s arm. “They might already have done so, and we will not know for another week, as slow as the mail service is.”
“Do not alarm yourself over things that shall not happen. You might as well be alarmed that the sun will land in our courtyard.” M. Chastain snorted. “I, myself, am not surprised to see him returned. He has never kept his bargains.”
A small hand tugged at the corner of Jane’s dress. Miette stood by her chair, prism held tightly in both hands the way another child might clutch a doll for comfort. “Did you fetch my ribbon?”
“No, dear. I am sorry, but I could not.” Jane recollected the scene in the notions store and wondered how much worse it would be if more was at stake than a bit of frippery. Was Vincent safe? She took Miette by the hand and stood. “But you shall have your choice of ribbons from my collection.”
It was not good to keep the little girl here amid so much worry and Jane was glad of an excuse to escape the atmosphere herself. She kept up a constant chatter as they went above stairs, trying to drive out any sense of unease from the both of them. Her mind, though, sought after Vincent at every minute.
In her apartment, she pulled out the bandbox which held her millinery supplies and settled down at the table with Miette. Without self-consciousness, the little girl climbed in her lap to see into the box better.
The weight and warmth of Miette’s small form settled Jane, helping her focus past the concern for her husband. They sorted through the box, putting aside those ribbons too large to fit through the small brass ring at the top of the prism, until they settled on three: one red, one white, and one green. Jane could not help but see the symbols writ on the red and white ribbons, so she steered Miette toward the green one and helped her thread it through the ring. Then they stood at the window in the sun and admired the rainbows that Miette scattered about the room.
When that amusement faded, Miette tilted her head up, curls falling back from her cheeks. “Will you make me a glamour?”
“I am afraid I cannot, my dear.” Jane cast about the room for some other activity which might suit to amuse a little girl. She had no toys, only books and art supplies. “Shall I read to you? Or we can do drawings.”
“Why not?”
“Well…” Jane hesitated, uncertain as to the propriety of explaining such things to a child. “The doctor told me that I should not. I listen to my doctor’s advice. Would you not do the same?”
“No.” Stoutly, she shook her head. “The doctor tells me to drink nasty tonics. I hate him.”
Masking her smile, Jane crouched next to Miette in the window. “But you feel better after, yes? Sometimes we might not like what the doctor tells us to do, but it is only for a little time, and then we are well again.”
“Are you sick?”
“No…” Jane rested her hand on her stomach. Though she had yet to begin to show, the changes were apparent to her. “I am increasing.”
“A baby!” Miette’s delight at this news was all too clear. “May I hold her when she comes?”
“Of course.”
The sound of a horse trotting into the courtyard below pulled Jane to her feet. Vincent had returned, his mount lathered in sweat.
Sixteen
The Writing Desk
Jane took the marble stairs as quickly as the slick soles of her slippers would let her. Miette was not far behind, though the child could have no idea why Jane was in such a hurry. They reached the foyer just as Vincent strode inside, dust clinging to his coat and sweat making a map of the dirt on his face. Jane collided with him in an embrace in the centre of the hall. She cared not a whit for who saw them, only that he was safe and present.
“I take it you have heard the news.”
Jane stepped back so she could see her beloved. “The town is uneasy.”
“I am not surprised.” Vincent wet his lips and rested his hand on Miette’s shoulder, crouching down to be on eye level with her. “Will you fetch your father for me?”
As the little girl scampered away, Jane asked, “Did something happen on the road?”
Vincent shook his head, rising to his full height again. “Give me but a little time.”
“Vincent—” Jane cut herself off as M. Chastain came hurrying down the hall. His face had as much worry on it as she felt.
Her husband pushed her gently toward the stairs. “I will be up in a moment.”
Before she could protest further, Vincent had left her and gone down the hall to meet M. Chastain. They had a hurried and whispered conference, during which M. Chastain occasionally turned his gaze past Vincent to Jane. She shivered at the bleakness in his face.
After only a few minutes, Vincent returned to her, his long legs eating the space between them. The tails of his coat flapped as he walked. Without a word, Vincent took her by the arm and led her upstairs. She could feel him curtailing the length of his stride to match hers. No sooner had they set foot in their apartments than she said, “Will you tell me what happened to you today?”
“I was on the road to Brussels. It seemed to me as if the traffic were heavier than usual.” He pulled aside the curtains by the window, looking first on one side then on the other. “I quickly learned that Napoleon had landed some two weeks ago, and was proceeding to Paris with no resistance.”
“But General Ney…”
“Will not stop him.” Vincent paced restlessly to their bedroom, peering into the room and then behind the door. “I have asked M. Chastain to arrange passage for you on the next ship to England.”
“Passage for me? What of you?”
“I will stay and study with M. Chastain. There is no need for you to stay as well.”
“Nor is there need for me to flee. We are in Belgium, not France, and we are perfectly safe here.” She did not mention the incident at the notions shop nor remind him of the events on their trip to Binché. “M. Chastain is not sending his students away.”
“None of his students are my wife, nor are they carrying my child.”
Anger rose in Jane, and she knew it stood out like a red badge upon each of her cheeks. “I will not be sent away like I am an object. If you feel secure in staying here—”
“I do not!” Vincent stopped and wrapped both hands in his hair, pulling his head toward his chest. “I do
not
feel secure in staying here, but I must. Please, Jane, for the love you bear me, please go because I have asked.”
Her breath was but shallow, and silence stood tense between them. “What are you not telling me, Vincent? Why must you stay?”
He groaned and paced in a circle away from her. “Why must I stay … why indeed?” Vincent stopped at the window and faced her, posture rigid with tension. “I am here as a spy for England. Somewhere in this town is a stronghold of the Bonapartist movement with plans to assassinate King Louis XVIII. With Napoleon on the move, it is all the more vital that I be here. Jane … any Briton who stays in Belgium is in danger, but if
we
were discovered, we would be shot. I can take that risk for myself, but cannot ask you to do the same.”
Jane set her hands into fists so tight that her nails bit into the palms. She had to clench her jaw to keep the rage from spewing forth.
Vincent took a step back, and Jane had a moment to wonder what colour her face had turned. “Jane, I am sorry. I promised you a honeymoon and—”
“Do you think me so feebleminded that I am worried about a
honeymoon
? I am angry because you do not trust me. Do I not love King and country as much as you?”
“Yes, but—”
“What is more, you have lied to me. Methodically, since the day this charge was first laid upon you.”
He shook his head. “I never spoke a word of falsehood to you.”
“Lies of ambiguity and omission are every bit as great.” Jane’s entire body shook with anger. “What am I to think? That you have no confidence in my discretion? That you see me as weak, without the fortitude to even grasp that secrecy might be necessary? Tell me true: if I were a man, would you have had these thoughts?”
“No! It is not that at all. I was charged to tell no one.”
“I am your wife!” Jane found she could say no more.
She left him to go into their bedchamber. If he could not understand the very real breach of trust he had committed, then no words of hers, especially words spoken in anger and haste, would make him see it. Her hands shook so much that she had to cross her arms and clench her elbows to stop them from trembling. Jane paced back and forth in the room, trying to drive the fury from her body with activity.
On one of her returns, Vincent stood in the door. His broad shoulders drooped, and his hands twisted together in supplication. “Forgive me?”
“Why.” She stopped her pacing.
“Because you are right. I should have either told you, or told the Prince that I could not accept the charge.”
Jane waited.
“I thought only to protect you.”
“By keeping me in the dark? How does that protect me? It is like not telling a child that a fire will burn, in order to protect him from the heat. What if I exposed you unknowingly?”
“And what if you exposed us both by an alteration in your behaviour?”
“Do you really think so little of me as that?” Jane took two furious strides closer. “You might recall that we ladies are trained from girlhood to give no hint of our feelings, lest we stray into an impropriety. That I am so open with you is only because of how deeply I trust you.”
He had no response to that, and stood with his head bowed. When he spoke again, his voice was very low. “Is there no explanation I can offer to make it clear that I meant no harm?”
“I know that you intended no harm.” Jane made an effort to calm herself so that she did not immediately refute her own assertion that she could govern her conduct. “That does not lessen the hurt I feel because you did not trust me. Vincent, I need you to understand the substance of my anger. Our marriage depends on mutual trust and respect, and at this moment I do not have any faith that you feel either for me.”
Vincent grimaced and spread his arms to grip the doorway. He clung to it, veins standing out on the back of his hands, as a drowning man might cling to shipwreck. “On more than one occasion you have claimed that I do not trust you. First with glamours, now with this. What must I do to convince you that you are mistaken?”
“Act as though you trust me.”
With an almost animal snarl, he released the door and stalked into the other room.
Jane closed her eyes, swaying. She had pushed him too far. Even if every word she uttered had been justified, a wife could not speak so to her husband.
“Actions.” Vincent stood again in the doorway. He held his battered writing desk. “Sit with me, and I will explain all.”
Now that she had won her point, Jane doubted the wisdom of her course. “What of the Prince Regent’s command?”
“I am not married to him.” Vincent tried for a smile and succeeded only in curling his lips. “Please, Muse. I have no gift with words.”