‘I am afraid I cannot, my dear.’ Jane cast about the room for some other activity which might suit to amuse a little girl. She had no toys, only books and art supplies. ‘Shall I read to you? Or we can do drawings.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well . . .’ Jane hesitated, uncertain as to the propriety of explaining such things to a child. ‘The doctor told me that I should not. I listen to my doctor’s advice. Would you not do the same?’

‘No.’ Stoutly, she shook her head. ‘The doctor tells me to drink nasty tonics. I hate him.’

Masking her smile, Jane crouched next to Miette in the window. ‘But you feel better after, yes? Sometimes we might not like what the doctor tells us to do, but it is only for a little time, and then we are well again.’

‘Are you sick?’

‘No . . .’ Jane rested her hand on her stomach. Though she had yet to begin to show, the changes were apparent to her. ‘I am increasing.’

‘A baby!’ Miette’s delight at this news was all too clear. ‘May I hold her when she comes?’

‘Of course.’

The sound of a horse trotting into the courtyard below pulled Jane to her feet. Vincent had returned, his mount lathered in sweat.

SIXTEEN

The Writing Desk

Jane took the marble stairs as quickly as the slick soles of her slippers would let her. Miette was not far behind, though the child could have no idea why Jane was in such a hurry. They reached the foyer just as Vincent strode inside, dust clinging to his coat and sweat making a map of the dirt on his face. Jane collided with him in an embrace in the centre of the hall. She cared not a whit for who saw them, only that he was safe and present.

‘I take it you have heard the news.’

Jane stepped back so she could see her beloved. ‘The town is uneasy.’

‘I am not surprised.’ Vincent wet his lips and rested his hand on Miette’s shoulder, crouching down to be on eye level with her. ‘Will you fetch your father for me?’

As the little girl scampered away, Jane asked, ‘Did something happen on the road?’

Vincent shook his head, rising to his full height again. ‘Give me but a little time.’

‘Vincent—’ Jane cut herself off as M. Chastain came hurrying down the hall. His face had as much worry on it as she felt.

Her husband pushed her gently toward the stairs. ‘I will be up in a moment.’

Before she could protest further, Vincent had left her and gone down the hall to meet M. Chastain. They had a hurried and whispered conference, during which M. Chastain occasionally turned his gaze past Vincent to Jane. She shivered at the bleakness in his face.