‘If any man among us can, it is the Duke of Wellington.’ Vincent tapped the paper with his forefinger. ‘I do not wish to paint a pleasant picture. Gilman says that we have 67,000 troops here. With the Prussians and the Dutch we nearly match Napoleon’s numbers, but not his strength. Wellington is short of heavy cavalry, and though our men are better equipped than Napoleon’s, his are all veterans of at least one war and are fiercely loyal to him.’

He could offer her no better comfort than that he thought Wellington could hold the line. Jane tried to be content with that, but her fears often outpaced her rational mind. She tried to hide her concerns from Vincent, for she was sure that many of them derived from her situation: though she had only just begun to show, she was daily aware of the fact that she was increasing.

As the season began the turn into summer, Jane faced an interesting choice. Vincent had gone into town with M. Chastain that morning to prepare a glamour. The bourgmestre wanted elaborate festivities on the occasion of William of Orange’s coronation as the monarch of the newly formed United Kingdom of the Netherlands. While M. Chastain likely needed little aid with his students in force, Vincent had hoped to get a sense of who held what beliefs while there.

To occupy her time, Jane sat in the parlour sewing a christening gown for her child, in the company of Mme Chastain and some of the other ladies of town. Mme Meynard had been reading the novel Amélie de Mansfield by Sophie Ristaud Cottin to them. They had just reached the point when Amélie was contemplating throwing herself into the river when the reading was interrupted by Yves Chastain. Or, rather, Yves entered in an entirely decorous manner; his younger brother Luc followed him, protesting loudly about some ill.

‘Luc, quiet yourself.’ Mme Chastain lowered the fringe she was working on and gave her son such a glare that he was silent in an instant. ‘Now. What is the trouble?’

‘I want to go too, and Yves says I must stay home.’ His lower lip stuck out to an alarming degree.

Mme Chastain applied to her elder son. ‘Go where?’

‘My chums and I are going to the celebration in town.’ He pointed at Luc. ‘He is too little to keep up.’

‘I am not.’ Luc stamped his foot.

‘You are not impressing me with your maturity. Pray, do not stamp indoors.’ Mme Chastain tapped her finger against her crocheting needle. ‘As your father is doing the glamour, I will confess that your interest surprises me. You have shown little interest in his work before.’

Yves winced. ‘But there will be fireworks.’

Mme Meynard laughed. ‘You see how jaded one becomes living with a master glamourist. What are fireworks but colour and light?’

‘They go boom!’ Luc said, in all earnestness. ‘Please, Mama, please. Please.’