The surgeon carried her away into the hospital tent as if there might yet be something that could be done, but Jane knew the damage had already occurred. She only lacked the knowledge of which of her actions had caused it. Had it been the glamour? The run through the fields? Their precipitous flight in the carriage and the jolt as they went off the road? Or was it woven from some combination of these threads? There was even the possibility that she, like her mother, was prone to trouble and might have lost the child regardless of circumstances, but Jane thought it unlikely that she could escape reproach so easily.

Beneath all of this guilt lay another, deeper layer of shame, for one of the first thoughts to go through Jane’s mind after apprehending that she had miscarried was that she could, at last, work glamour again.

The surgeon hastily erected an enclosure around her to protect her from the prying eyes of the men who worked in the tented hospital. Vincent was denied entry as the surgeon went about his business. For that, Jane was thankful, as it saved her from his disappointment.

The surgeon, used to dealing with soldiers, was perfunctory in his manner, but thorough for all that. There was nothing to be done for her child, and yet Jane submitted to his ministrations with her eyes closed while around her began the sounds of war.

Jane lay on a camp bed, curled on her side in the borrowed dress of a captain’s wife. Where had once been life, a dull ache filled her from hip to bosom. Vincent pushed his way past the curtain that they had shielded her with. The deep sadness in his face was in no way masked by the evidence of his ill-treatment. Even bruised, the way his brows bent down and the corners of his mouth dipped broke the last reserve of Jane’s strength.

Her eyes burned and her throat knotted. She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in her hands rather than confront him.

‘Oh, Muse.’ The chair by the side of her bed creaked with Vincent’s weight. ‘Jane, I—’ His voice broke and he rested a hand on her shoulder.

Jane could not bear his touch, but neither could she speak past the palpable guilt that clogged her throat. His ragged breaths told her all she needed to know of how he bore the news.

Vincent stroked her shoulder. ‘Jane, please forgive me.’

This plea opened her eyes. ‘Forgive you? This is none of your doing. Every person of sense implored me to take ship for England, but I would not. The guilt in this is entirely mine.’ She rolled on her back, away from his hand, and put her arm over her eyes.

‘If we had left when Napoleon first marched . . .’ The seat creaked as Vincent shifted. ‘Reason told me to go then, but my pride kept me here.’