“Have I?” Jane adjusted her fichu to try to let in more air.
“Indeed.”
“I will own that I am hot. Truly, I do not understand how gentlemen can wear coats in weather such as this.”
Vincent chuckled. “I made the same argument several times as a child, but have been convinced that propriety requires it. One does become accustomed. Somewhat.”
“I remain dubious.”
“As well you should.” He took her free hand and tucked it over his arm. “There is a grove of palms not far ahead. We can rest there.”
“I am perfectly well.”
He patted her hand. “I remain dubious.”
For all of her protests, Jane found that she leaned upon Vincent’s arm more than she had intended. By the time they reached the palm trees, she was deeply grateful for the shade and did not protest that she was well. They stood at the edge of the grove, looking around them for anyone who might notice them appear. The road was thankfully empty. Nevertheless, Vincent wove a Sphère Obscurcie around them after they had settled under one of the trees.
Jane abandoned all dignity and lay down with a groan. “I am terribly sorry, but I suspect I shall have to stop more often than I would like.”
Brushing a sweat-damp strand of hair from her cheek, Vincent frowned. “Are you certain you are equal to this?”
“Equal, yes. Pleased, no.” She caught his hand and kissed it. “Only give me a quarter hour to cool myself and we can begin again.”
* * *
As promised, a quarter hour’s time restored much of Jane’s spirits. When they set off, the sun did not seem as oppressively hot as it had previously. A gentle breeze stirred the air and gave surprising relief. Jane reminded Vincent that she had also been walking with Louisa before they reached the orange grove, so she had really gone farther than he thought before wanting a rest. This seemed to prove true as they continued on. Aside from stepping off the road once when a carriage passed, and a second time to make way for a gang of enslaved Africans on their way from one field to another, they made good time down the hill.
At the base of the hill, however, they lost the breeze. With each step, Jane felt heavier. The air burnt her lungs. She took Vincent’s arm when offered and leaned upon him. Her back ached, and her stomach felt uneasy. One part of her consciousness was turned inward, feeling for any signs of distress. Each flutter of movement from the baby assured her, but still her pace lagged as they went, and they had not even reached the Greycroft property line yet.
At last, Vincent stopped and wove a sphere of silence around them. Until the world quieted, Jane did not recognise that she had been hearing voices. Rubbing the sweat from her brow, she lifted her head. Cane fields surrounded them.
On the left side of the road, a group of field slaves worked. Sweat gleamed on the bare shoulders of the men and stuck the dresses of the women to their bodies.
Vincent indicated a tamarind tree by the side of the road. “It is not ideal, but I see no other opportunity for some distance. Shall we stop?”
“Please, yes.”
He pressed her hand where it held his arm, and undid the silence surrounding them.
Vincent directed her to the tree and wove a Sphère Obscurcie to mask them in the shade, followed by a silence. Jane dropped heavily to sit in the tree’s shadow. Scant though it was, she welcomed the break from the direct sun. Across the road, men and women worked in the full sun. Surely, she could tolerate sitting in the shade.
Vincent stood over her, frowning. “Should we turn back?”
“And climb that hill? Absolutely not.” Jane rubbed her stomach, which seemed to have grown just on their walk. The skin was tight and itched as sweat rolled down it.
“Is anything hurti—”
“I am perfectly well, Vincent.” Her voice was more cutting than she had intended. In truth, he looked to be in little better shape than she. Sweat dotted his brow, and his cravat had wilted into a sad knot. Jane drew her knees up, though she had to spread them wider than was modest to accommodate her stomach. She rested her arms upon her knees and let her head drop forward to rest with a sigh. If she had reckoned on how much hotter it would be without the parasol, Jane would have asked Louisa to bring two bottles of the lime juice. Her stomach was a little uneasy, and some lime juice would have settled it. “I am only hot. Give me a quarter hour and I shall be refreshed.”
“Of course.” The brittle grass crackled as he settled beside her. “Take all the time you need.”
With her eyes closed, Jane could pretend it was cooler. If she could only sit here for a few minutes, then she would be equal to another half hour of walking. Jane concentrated on her heart and her breathing, trying to slow both, as she would if she were working glamour. Slow, deep breaths would cool her quickest.
Beside her, Vincent sucked in a sharp breath. In the glamoured silence, the fabric of his clothing hissed as he rose quickly.
“Vincent?” She lifted her head.
He had stopped on one knee and was staring across the road with his jaw tight. “Just rest, Muse.” Then he flinched, and his breath hissed out in a high, thin keen of protest.
Jane followed his gaze and uttered her own exclamation of horror as one of the gang drivers brought his whip down. It struck a slender young man, leaving a crimson line across his dark shoulders. Blood already flowed from two previous lines. If the youth cried out, Jane could not hear it. The other field workers continued on with their tasks, stooping, twisting, and driving cane shoots into the ground. Their heads stayed bent as they worked.
The driver’s hand rose again.
“Stop him!”
“Then they will know we are here.” Vincent’s voice was as tightly controlled as she had ever heard it. “Look away, Jane.”
“I have seen a man flogged before.” The scene brought back too-sharp memories of watching through the trees as Napoleon’s men flogged her husband. She had been unable to stop them. In the silence, the arc the whip made was almost like a piece of glamour unfurling. Jane could not look away as it painted another bloody line. They could stop this. “We will find another way to leave.”
Vincent needed no further urging. He was on his feet and out of the Sphère Obscurcie’s influence as if a spring had been released. His chest expanded, and she could see the force of his bellow as all of the people in the field turned to look at him.
One of the drivers, a thickset man with shoe-leather skin beneath a tall straw hat, shouted at the field slaves and they ducked back to their labour. Vincent strode across the dusty road, coattails flaring. Even damp and disordered with heat as he was, his colour and clothing made him an incongruous part of the scene.
He stopped by the driver with the whip and held out his hand.
The driver glanced over his shoulder to a wagon that stood at the edge of the dusty field. A man uncoiled from the shadows. Slender and blonde, with a light linen coat, Mr. Pridmore took a sip from a canteen and set it upon the bench of the wagon before advancing to speak to Vincent.
Jane could not hear them, and she ground her teeth in frustration. That they were arguing was clear enough, and that the substance of their argument was the whipping was obvious as well, from the way Vincent gestured at the driver.
Meanwhile, the young man who had been whipped had dropped forward to rest upon his knees and bent elbows, head touching the ground. This was intolerable. She knew well how many months it had taken Vincent to recover from his ordeal, and that was with the attention of Lord Wellington’s personal physician. She could not imagine that Dr. Jones, no matter how much care she took, would be able to be so thorough, given the circumstances in which she had to work. Likely the man would be put back into the fields tomorrow, judging by the healing stripes on the backs and shoulders of the other men. Would she have seen the same on the women if they were not covered?
Jane’s stomach turned at the thought. Well, she knew how to nurse a man who had been flogged, and if she could do nothing else, she
could at least provide some immediate relief. She reached into the blanket they had brought and pulled out her shift. It would mean doing with only one on board the ship, but their passage to Jamaica would not be long enough for that to be an inconvenience.
She forced aside the question of whether they would be allowed to continue on their way. With the Verre Obscurcie, she and Vincent could easily elude pursuit—they need only continue walking to town. It would make taking ship more complicated, but not unreasonably so. She hoped. Be that as it may, she could not sit idly by while she had power to affect things. It may not make any difference to anyone but this man, and then only as long as they remained, but if that were Vincent there …
… and it had been, once.
Jane stood, and familiar grey spots swam across her field of vision. Slapping her free hand against the trunk of the tamarind tree, Jane waited for the dizziness to pass. In only a moment, she felt steadier, so she walked out of the Sphère Obscurcie. When she stepped into the sunlight, the heat became a tangible force, pressing against her dark dress and folding the hot air around her face. She swallowed and continued on. She had reached the verge of the field before anyone was mindful of her presence.
A scrubby woman with two fat braids hanging out from under her kerchief saw Jane first. A dark scar at the corner of her mouth disfigured her deep brown complexion and twisted as she frowned at Jane. The braided woman glanced away to where Mr. Pridmore and Vincent argued.
Vincent fairly growled. “I made it very clear that I did not want to see any more whippings occur on the estate.”
“If you had stayed at the manor house, you wouldn’t have.”
“You are not a child. My intent was clear.”
“No. But I am in charge of managing the estate. Your father approved of my methods.”
The woman with braids stared openly at Jane as she slipped past the taller driver. The driver made a grunt of surprise and stepped back a pace, as if uncertain what to do with the white woman who had suddenly appeared in their midst. She knelt by the young man who had been whipped. The damage to his back was worse when viewed at close range, and worse too than her memory of Vincent’s wounds. Not for the number of strokes, but for being fresher.
At least, these marks were fresher. They were laid over older scars that made it very clear that this was not his first time being whipped, nor even his second. Jane had to swallow hard at her rising gorge. Blood ran freely from the rent skin of his back. The flesh beneath was raw and bright red. The wounds shifted and stretched wider with each pant.
Jane looked up to the woman with braids. “Will you bring me some water?”
Again, the woman looked to Mr. Pridmore, but made no effort to move.
“What the devil—Hamilton, what is your wife doing?”
As calmly as she could, Jane tore a strip from the bottom of her chemise. “I am seeing to these wounds, since no one else was.”
“Those wounds are of his own making, and—”
Vincent cut in. “That, they are not.”
“Of course they are. He broke the rules, knowing full well the consequences.”
“Gentlemen! I need water.” Jane lifted her head and glared at Mr. Pridmore. “If you will tell me where to find it, I will fetch it myself.”
“There ain’t none.” The woman’s voice startled them all. The woman with the braids had stepped a little forward from the other workers.
“Sukey!” The tall driver snapped his whip so that the tip just touched her bare forearm, leaving a stripe. “Don’t talk to the master without leave.”
“I wasn’t talking to the master, I was answering the la—” She cut off with a cry as the whip caught her again.
“Stop!” Jane staggered to her feet and stepped in front of the man. The fields pitched around her, greying at the edges. Jane fixed her gaze on the horizon and pulled on the resources that she used to keep from fainting when working glamour. Her stomach heaved as if she were on the ship still, but she would not faint. “I asked a question, and Sukey answered me. You do not have leave to … do not have leave to use the whip. You do not…”
She did not faint, but she did vomit, with a force that bent her double. The driver stepped back as her sick spattered his shoes. Strong arms braced her shoulders as she was ill a second time.
“Jane!” Vincent ran to her. His hands replaced the ones currently holding her. As Jane straightened, Sukey stepped back and gave something like a curtsy. Vincent’s features were tight with fear. “Are you—”
“Only hot and angry,” Jane interjected before he could ask if the baby was all right. Marshalling a smile, Jane squeezed his hand and tried to appear calm. “May I have your handkerchief?”
He fumbled in his pocket for it. “Mr. Pridmore, please send a messenger to the house to ask for the carriage, and another to fetch the doctor.”
“At once, Mr. Hamilton.” His tone had lost its mocking edge and presented only an earnest concern. “Julian, house. Smart Martin, doctor. Thomas and Sukey, make up a litter under the wagon for Mrs. Hamilton so we can get her out of the sun.”
In moments, the field workers jumped to their assigned activities. Two of the younger boys dashed off in opposite directions on the road. Vincent had Jane in his arms and was halfway to the wagon before she could protest. She twisted around to look behind them. “What about the man who was whipped?”
Vincent’s hands tightened, and he made his small whine of distress. “Muse, you are not well.”
“I was not whipped.” Raising her voice, she said, “Mr. Pridmore. Please, let him into the shade at least.”
Mr. Pridmore stared at her, and then he sighed. “Against my better judgement, because it distresses you so. Thomas and Sukey, when you’re finished with the litter, drag Octavio into the shade, but not too close to Mrs. Hamilton. There are limits, madam, on what is acceptable on Antigua. It would be easiest for everyone if you and your husband learned that this is not England.”
Jane hardly needed to be told that. Still, she held her tongue. She had at least won the point of having Octavio tended to. That it had taken being ill gave her a better appreciation for her mother’s methods, though she still did not like them.
When Vincent had set her down in the shade of the wagon, she caught his hand. “Vincent … would the tamarind tree not be better?”
“I think this has more shade.”
“Yes, but … for later.”
He sat back on his heels and studied her with that perfect and almost indifferent calm. “We are going back to the house as soon as the carriage arrives.”
“Truly, Vincent. I have walked farther than this so many times.”
“But not in this heat.”
And not while with child. “But—”
“No. I know what you are going to suggest, and no.” His cool composure cracked for a moment as a line of concern appeared between his brows. “Please, Muse. As you yourself said, we will find another way to leave. But we cannot do it this way.”
Fourteen
A Faint Hope
Jane had not intended to fall asleep. As she awoke, it took her a moment to identify that what she was hearing was horses and a carriage. A cool breeze fluttered around her forehead and against the bare skin of her throat. Her head rested on something soft, but she still lay on dusty ground. Jane opened her eyes, feeling a little more like herself. She lay under the wagon.
Octavio lay face down in the dirt in the shadow at the front end of the wagon. Flies buzzed over the bloody cloth stuck to his back, but, thanks to her shift, they could not reach the wounds themselves. On her other side, Vincent sat in the dirt. He had removed his coat and his cravat. His coat … that was the pillow beneath her head. Vacantly, he stared into the ether as he worked glamour that was no doubt the source of the cool air. He was breathing rapidly but held his mouth open to reduce the sound.
Lord Verbury’s carriage slowed to a stop by the field. Someone got out of the carriage and strode towards them. “How
is she?”
Frank had come with the carriage? Jane lowered her hands and tried to raise herself to her elbows, but Vincent caught her shoulders. “Overheated.”
She tried a joke to lighten his mood. “I am not a china cup.”
“Today you are.”
“Do you need any assistance?” Frank asked.
“No, thank you.” Vincent slid his arms under her neck and knees and pulled her out from under the carriage. Holding her close to his chest, Vincent stood, and the full brunt of the sun hit them.
Jane’s head throbbed and she turned her face into Vincent’s chest. His waistcoat was soaked through with sweat. He carried her to the carriage with Frank at his side. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Of course.” His frown was nearly as deep as Vincent’s. “I understand Mr. Pridmore has sent for the physician.”
“She should see Octavio, too.”
Frank grimaced. “I will get word to Dr. Jones, but Lord Verbury’s physician will attend to you.”
“I would rather have Dr. Jones, too. Please.” Even as Jane protested, she knew that it was too late to keep her condition a secret, but she did not want to be examined by anyone connected to Lord Verbury. “It was only the heat.”
Vincent said, “Please follow his advice. I would like to ensure that you experience nothing worse.”
Jane’s protestations were effectually stopped at the carriage door. Frank climbed in first and helped Vincent get her settled on one of the benches in a prone position. She sat up, though it was clear from Vincent’s frown that he would prefer for her to lie upon the bench. As the carriage began to move, the breeze stirred through the open windows. Jane sighed a little at the air. Even filled with dust as it was, the effect was invigorating.
Frank removed the stopper from a bottle and poured her a copper mug of lime juice.
“Please drink this, slowly.” He handed it to Jane, who sipped it. No liquor could taste so perfect. Frank poured another and handed it to Vincent. “You as well.”
“I am not—”
“I have seen enough Europeans come to Antigua for the first time. Please trust that I am familiar with the effects of heat and how to counter them.” Frank settled back in his seat. “What I should like to know is what prompted your walk today. You were en route to St. John’s, I presume?”
Of Noble Family Page 15