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Chapters (30)
  1. Cover
  2. Glamour in
  3. ONE
  4. TWO
  5. THREE
  6. FOUR
  7. FIVE
  8. SIX
  9. SEVEN
  10. EIGHT
  11. NINE
  12. TEN
  13. ELEVEN
  14. TWELVE
  15. THIRTEEN
  16. FOURTEEN
  17. FIFTEEN
  18. SIXTEEN
  19. SEVENTEEN
  20. EIGHTEEN
  21. NINETEEN
  22. TWENTY
  23. TWENTY-ONE
  24. TWENTY-TWO
  25. TWENTY-THREE
  26. TWENTY-FOUR
  27. TWENTY-FIVE
  28. Author’s Afterword
  29. Glamour Glossary
  30. Reading Group Guide

The wash shifted and Jane dropped to her knees, breath rushing out of her. What she had taken for stained clothing was Vincent.

TWENTY-THREE

Champagne and Rope

Jane stood on the hill, watching, for hours. She could not see him well, but she would know Vincent anywhere, by the line of his shoulder, by the shape of his head, by the movement of his arms. Toward evening, Lieutenant Segal arrived and, by his gestures, ordered Vincent to be untied from the trellis.

Two soldiers grabbed him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. When they let go, he staggered and fell heavily to his knees. Through a break in the branches, she now had a clear line of sight to him. His shirt hung in tatters, and his back bore lines of burnt umber crossed in a welter of dried blood.

Jane moaned, and had to press her hand to her mouth to keep more sound than that from escaping.

They jerked him to his feet again and Segal shoved a paper in front of Vincent. He bent his head over it, scarcely moving otherwise, and nodded.

Segal beckoned another officer forward. When that man stood in front of Vincent, her husband lifted his hands and the group of them vanished.

Curses carried up the hill. Moments later, the group reappeared. Vincent had fallen to his hands and knees and was retching on the ground. Lieutenant Segal drew back his boot and kicked Vincent hard in the side.

Jane shouted.

As her voice echoed down the hill, the officers lifted their heads as one toward the woods where she stood. Segal sent two of them racing toward the hill, and Jane’s hiding place. She grabbed the easel and satchel, spinning and carrying them a few feet down the slope.

There was no chance she would outrun the men, and if she could not risk riding a horse, she could risk a fall still less. Jane knocked the easel over and grabbed the paint closest to hand, smearing it on the canvas. She dropped to her knees, hoping first that they would not see her, and second, that if they did, her subterfuge would be convincing. Cursing those few French oaths she knew, Jane mopped ineffectually at the paint with a rag as the soldiers came crashing through the brush.

‘You there! What are you about?’

Jane sat back on her heels with a cry of surprise, keeping the timbre of her voice as low as she could. Then she coughed.

Still coughing, she gestured at the spoiled painting and endeavoured to appear annoyed.

‘Did you shout?’