‘Charles, she is too tired. Are you not too tired? I know I would be, if it were me.’

‘No, truly I am not.’ Grateful for an opportunity to silence her mother’s conversation, Jane signalled their borrowed footman to clear the table. ‘Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?’

At one point, she had thought that the expense of renting a pianoforte in London had been needless, as she had not had freedom to play it more than a few times toward the beginning of their stay here. Now, though, she silently blessed Vincent for insisting that she not give up her music.

Lifting the cover, Jane stroked a few random notes from the pianoforte to refamiliarize herself with the instrument. Vincent had brought her sheet music for an étude by Beethoven but she had yet to try it. Opening the music upon the stand, Jane followed the suggestions on the score to enhance the simple, pleasing tune with a fold of colour which hinted of birds flying amidst a whirl of blossoms. As she continued, Jane realized how long it had been since she had taken time to play or to create a glamour for pleasure rather than purpose. Her fingers were no longer as accustomed to the keyboard as she might wish, but she could not help but be pleased by how easily these simple glamours came. Jane wondered if she might create more elaborate images with her music with practice. How could she give that up to have a child?

Bringing the étude to a close, Jane was gratified by her family’s approbation. ‘Wonderful!’ ‘How we have missed that!’ Even Mrs. Ellsworth seemed to have forgotten her objection to the glamour.

The rest of the evening passed in simple conversation, but Jane could never fully enjoy it. Her attention was split, noting Vincent’s silence, and how he only ventured to speak if someone directed a comment at him.

Thankfully, her family seemed not to notice, but if the pattern continued, surely they would. The initial pleasure that Jane had felt at welcoming them to dinner transformed into relief that their visit would be so short.

The following morning, Jane rose with the intention of visiting her family before their mutual journeys separated them. Vincent declined the opportunity to accompany her, saying that he wanted to paint the Battersea Bridge and catch the morning light. After the fiasco of the previous evening, Jane could hardly blame him for wanting to escape under the thinnest pretence.

When Jane arrived at her family’s hotel, her father was in the front parlour. She stopped in the doorway to admire the tranquil scene. Sunlight came in through the tall windows of the parlour and made the room gleam as though a coat of liquid glamour had gilded every surface. Mr. Ellsworth’s silver hair became spun gold, and his rosy cheeks promised cheer. He held a newspaper off to the side, reading it as he sipped his tea.