Outside the tent, a company marched past, feet tramping the earth in perfect rhythm. A horse whinnied in the distance.

Vincent cleared his throat. ‘You had no choice, in any event. We would have been discovered had you not masked us. I wish I had been equal to it, but your quick action saved us both.’

‘I know!’ Jane dropped her arm and the empty bitterness inside made her wish to expose all her flaws so that he truly understood her culpability. ‘I know I had no choice, but what does it say of my sensibility that my first sensation upon realizing the miscarriage was one of relief? What woman can see such gruesome evidence and think, “Thank god?” Yes, husband, know that your wife values glamour more than our child.’ Jane dug her nails into the flesh of her brow and groaned.

Vincent pulled her hands away and held them tight. ‘Jane, look at me.’ She would have counted every fibre in the cotton ticking rather than obey that request, but he said her name again, with more force. ‘Jane. Do not torture yourself this way. To have had this passing thought is not unnatural and does not mean it is the whole of your reaction. That it repulses you tells me clearly that the greater part of your emotion is grief.’

Jane searched his face, beneath the bruises and the dark stitches over his right eye, for any sign of insincerity. Instead, she saw love.

The guilt, which she had held within her and cradled to her bosom like that lost child, broke into grief. As the first sob took her, Vincent pulled her to his chest, stroking her hair. ‘Jane, Jane . . . You will always be my muse, whether you are doing glamour, or a mother, or solely my wife. I shall honour you and keep you all the days of my life.’

Jane clung to him and wept until her lungs ached. Vincent held her until exhaustion took them both, and they slept, leaning against each other for support.

In the days that followed, the love which Vincent bore for her, and she for him, sustained them both. As Wellington clashed with Napoleon, the Vincents retreated to Mr. Gilman’s home in Brussels until recovery from their trials was sufficient to allow them to sail for England. Jane’s parents received them at Long Parkmead, and though Vincent had feared reproach for his part in Jane’s miscarriage, Mrs. Ellsworth showed rare compassion and tenderness, mourning for them without a word or implication of censure.