Jane nodded and transformed the cough into wheezing. Fumbling at her breast pocket, she drew forth her pocket handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth. The smell of the oil paint tickled the back of her throat and Jane bent double, coughing in earnest now, until her throat was raw. Straightening, she pulled the handkerchief from her mouth and let it fall open to show the spot of red paint. ‘Pardon,’ she whispered.

The soldiers took a step back, the soiled handkerchief and her blotched face evidently painting a clear portrait of disease. One of them said, ‘You cannot paint here.’

Jane nodded to show she understood and pressed her other hand to her chest as if trying to gather the resolve to speak. Her heart thudded against her palm. They stood over her but did not press her to speak, nor did they come too close as she gathered her supplies and started down the hill. Not until she was at the bottom did they leave their station. Without further incident, Jane reached the phaeton and clambered onto the bench seat. There she began to shake.

If they had not believed her to be a consumptive painter and she had been captured, there would be no one to speak for Vincent. Only the two letters to Skiffy and Vincent’s father gave any hint of their circumstances, and none at all of their whereabouts. She was a fool, and more than a fool, to attempt a rescue of her husband alone, but neither could she leave him. Jane saw little alternative but to make an attempt.

She would first, however, write to Mr. Gilman and apprise him of what she had learned so that there might be at least one person who knew where they were. As she drove back to Binché, Jane pondered what she had seen. It would not do to leave Vincent there for long, and yet she must wait for a sunny day. It served her then to lay her plans carefully so that they might have a chance of escape.

Thanks to Mr. Gilman, Jane had funds, but had few other resources beyond that. The man’s dress she had adopted allowed her to walk through the streets of Binché without comment, which made her errands easier, but she was hampered by her voice, and being a consumptive artist only afforded her so much latitude in avoiding conversation. In the week following Vincent’s capture, Jane had done her best to make Henri Villeneuve a fixture in the environs. She purchased a second easel, some sailcloth, three blankets, a Claude glass, and two of the Gilles masks. The evenings she spent locked in her bedchamber at the Chastain home, working on her handicrafts.