Jane caught the blanket as it fell and pulled it over them. A hand pressed her shoulder and the wagon creaked as Anne-Marie crouched beside her. In a low voice, she whispered. ‘I do not want you to think that I betrayed you again. I had thought to endear myself to the camp to tend M. Vincent in your absence. God speed, madame.’

Her hand lifted, and the wagon shook as Anne-Marie hopped down. Muffled in the dark, Jane lay scarcely breathing, moved beyond all measure by Anne-Marie’s words. Then the tail-board latched shut and they rolled into motion.

TWENTY-FOUR

Into the Rye

Through the blanket, sun and shadow alternated in dappled patterns that gave hints of their whereabouts. When the sun predominated, Jane pushed the blanket off and peeked out. They were on the road to Binché, but to Binché they must not go. The soldiers would almost certainly think to look for them in the wagon and the Chastain house. Though Jane had thought that possibility was a natural misdirection, it had only been desirable when the plan had them travelling to Brussels.

She was not sure how long Anne-Marie’s change of heart would last, but was grateful for it. Nor did she wish to chance what the driver would do upon seeing them, and for both reasons thought it prudent to take their leave. Jane pressed her mouth to Vincent’s ear. ‘We need to get off the wagon.’

He wiped his hand over his face and nodded. Moving with as much care as they could, they unhitched the tail-board and let it lower. The driver sat with his shoulders bowed and his head bent to his chest, as if trusting the horse to find its way back to town.

They swung their feet over the tail of the wagon and jumped down to the dirt road. Jane staggered and nearly fell as she landed, and had she been in skirts, she surely would have. Catching Vincent’s hand, she pulled him to the side of the road and into the tall field of rye.

He stopped her when they were well into the field. ‘Muse, I do not think I can go much farther.’ His voice cracked with weariness.

Jane squeezed his hand with compassion. It was possible that Vincent might be able to remain where they stood until she fetched him. The rye was close to harvest, and stood nearly a man’s height. If one crouched down, it would be enough to hide him or her from the road, for which Jane was grateful, because she doubted her ability to handle another glamour. Jane ran her hand across her middle as if she could reassure their child that this trial would be over soon. ‘Would you stay here, then? I have a dogcart phaeton waiting for us not too far away. Let me fetch that and then we can be on our way to Brussels.’