‘I confess, I am not.’ Jane clenched her hands as she spoke and quickly acquainted him with the situation in which she found herself. ‘My hope is that on one of your deliveries you might have come across some information about where they are holding my husband. If you have, I do not ask you to do anything except to let me know.’

When she had finished, he whistled, then resettled his cap. ‘If I do hear anything, you may be certain that I will tell you.’

‘Thank you. I go to Brussels tonight, but I hope to be back tomorrow.’

He promised to meet her whether he had news or not. It was not much, but Jane forced herself to be content with this small bit of progress.

TWENTY

To Brussels and Back Again

The journey to Brussels passed in tense and uncomfortable silence. Along the road on either side stretched encampments of British and Prussian soldiers, a grim reminder of the coming war. At first glance, the ranks of redcoats inspired a sense of confidence, but closer inspection revealed the soldiers as the motley crew they were. Alternately, the tall rye fields and the rows of stately orchards lent a sense of pastoral tranquillity which did not quite negate the military presence. Each rise in the road showed some new evidence to make them fret.

Having attempted to dissuade Jane from her course of action, the Chastains seemed bent on giving her no signs of approval. They did prevail upon her to at least stay over with them rather than applying to Mr. Gilman’s residence so late at night. Road weary and dusty as she was, Jane had to acknowledge that it was the wisest course. There was nothing which Mr. Gilman might do that night, and, though she chafed at waiting even that long, the morning would come soon enough.

At the earliest practical hour, Jane made her way to the Gilman home carrying a small travelling case which contained a change of clothes and the glass Sphère Obscurcie. She was let in without delay and received by Mr. Gilman in his breakfast room. He set aside his serviette and rose as she entered. ‘My dear Mrs. Vincent!’ Drawing out a chair, he beckoned her to sit. ‘Please, you are quite pale. What is the matter?’

His tone, so thoroughly alarmed on her behalf, undid half of Jane’s resolve. Her hands trembled, and she had to clench them in her lap to keep the tremors from showing. With her eyes low to hide the incipient tears – Jane would not give way to them when there was so much to be done – she said, ‘My husband has been taken by the French army.’

‘Good God.’ He sat heavily in the chair next to hers. ‘When. How?’