When she arrived at the gates of the Chastain home, the building was dark and shut up. A solitary paper blew across the courtyard, which had so lately been full of life. Jane felt all the weight of the day press down against her, and she would have sunk where she stood were it not for the sight of Mathieu La Pierre seated on the front steps of the main house.

Jane hurried across the courtyard, breathless now as if she held the strands of a massive glamour in her hands. Mathieu rose as she came up the steps. ‘Pardon, madame. They said you had gone, but I was sure you were coming back.’

‘Oh, thank you, Mathieu. You are too good to wait for me.’

‘I wish I had better news.’

Jane’s knees gave way and she sat abruptly on the stairs. ‘Vincent?’

‘They have left town. I think they have taken him to Charleroi, because that is the route that Napoleon will take to reach Brussels, but am uncertain about anything more precise than that.’

‘Thank you.’ Jane nodded, staring out the gates at the opposite side of the courtyard, her thoughts already focused on obtaining transportation to Charleroi.

‘Please, madame. It is not good for you to sit outside. Let me help you indoors.’ Mathieu’s face was so pinched with concern that Jane let him draw her upright solely to set his mind at ease. She offered him some of the funds which Mr. Gilman had so lately tendered to her, but Mathieu refused them. ‘I should be ashamed if I did. You and your husband are great artists and should not be so used.’

Before she could protest, Mathieu La Pierre touched his cap and took his leave.

The housekeeper appeared not long after Mathieu had left and gave her a candle to carry upstairs, mouth bent down with disapprobation. Jane affected not to notice, treating the housekeeper with more courtesy than her ill temper warranted. If she were to be here alone, then she would need every aid she could garner.

The long, winding stairs to the upper floors seemed to have lengthened in her absence. Jane hauled herself up, one hand on the banister. The house echoed with ghosts, her every footstep bouncing back to her and making her aware of how empty it was. With more than a little relief, Jane pushed the door to her apartment open, ready to collapse in her bed without undressing.

By the window stood Anne-Marie.

TWENTY-ONE

A Question of Innocence

Jane and Anne-Marie stared at each other, both sheet white. The pallor of Anne-Marie’s face made the bruise under her right eye stand out in a livid purple. It was a bruise such as the heel of a shoe might make.

Anne-Marie ventured a smile. ‘Madame, I thought you had gone with the others.’