As Anne-Marie did so, Jane set the easel down, but not the satchel, and began to pace. The cloud cover meant that she would not be able to use the glass Sphère Obscurcie, but she had no intention today of doing more than seeing how Vincent fared and how he was held.

After much grumbling, the stable master harnessed the horse to a dogcart phaeton, complaining the whole time about how it was a saddle horse, not a cart horse. Jane ignored his complaints and drove out of the Chastain estate as soon as she feasibly could.

When Jane was growing up, her father had let her take the reins on occasion, but she had never driven for any distance on her own. By the time she arrived at the farm at Quatre Bras, her shoulders ached. She stopped the wagon at the base of a low hill overlooking the farm and tied the horse to a tree. Taking up the easel and satchel, Jane climbed to the top of the hill and set up her paints.

She quickly sketched in the scene in pencil, always seeking signs of Vincent. The farm was spread across a rising countryside, rich with tall fields of rye, which stood nearly as high as a man’s head. Thick stone walls surrounded scattered out buildings, a remnant of the days when every settlement was fortified against the armies that had rampaged across the region. French soldiers dotted the grounds, mostly in idle activities such as smoking and dicing. The only show of any real discipline came in the form of a soldier who marched on the far side of one of the out buildings, mostly out of sight save for the close end of his circuit.

Since that was the only military activity evident on the farm, it seemed likely that Vincent was being held there.

Beyond the walls of the farm on that side rose a small prominence which might afford a prospect on the front of that building. Jane packed away her paints, satisfied that the rough sketch she had done showed enough of this side of the farm to serve for planning purposes. She had, as yet, no idea what she would do, but trusted that the solution would become apparent with enough study.

The second rise she tried offered less visibility, as it was thickly wooded. This gave Jane the opportunity to abandon her pretence of painting, but also meant there were sections of the yard that she could not see. The guard continued to march back and forth, and after some consideration, Jane realized that he was not guarding the door to the out building, but rather a trellis in front of it. The troops’ wash had been thrown over the trellis to dry, though from the grime visible even from her distant aspect, it appeared as though none of it had been washed.