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?”
Vincent studied his lime juice, rubbing his thumb against the metal. He tilted his head to Jane and raised a brow in question. They would have to bargain with Frank. It was not possible that he could still be ignorant as to her condition. Jane sighed. Vincent compressed his lips and nodded in agreement.
He faced Frank. “I found the coldmonger last night.”
“Found the…? I thought you knew.” He turned to look at Jane. “So then … you are with child?”
Jane was too tired to dissemble. Her expression must have been answer enough, because Frank sat back in his seat with a huff of surprise. “Well … this changes things. I thought that, as a glamourist, you must be aware, and were engaging in some subterfuge.”
Vincent frowned with confusion, then his face cleared and he nodded. “Ah. You believed we were feigning Jane’s ‘delicate condition’ because my father thinks she is barren.”