Passing behind his chair, Jane bent down to kiss him on top of his head, noting that either his hair had thinned since she had last been home, or she had remembered a younger version of her father. He lowered his paper, beaming with delight. ‘Good morning. How did you sleep?’

‘Well, thank you.’ Helping herself to a cup, Jane settled into the chair next to him.

‘No Vincent?’

‘He is out painting.’ Jane busied herself with doctoring her tea.

‘Is he well? I noticed he was very quiet last night.’

‘We had been very busy these past few months. I think he is simply fatigued.’

‘I see.’

Silence rested between them and Jane recognised the quality of it from her father. He was waiting for her to explain further. But what could she say that would not make everyone involved more self-conscious and uncomfortable? Her father, earnest as he was, would take it upon himself to engage Vincent, when that would do no more good than bringing a racehorse indoors and trying to teach it to dance. But perhaps she could explain that much. ‘He is . . . You must remember that he is an artist, and something of a hermit besides. Do not read too much into his silence.’

‘Your mother is concerned.’

Jane almost dropped her cup. ‘Why?’

‘Because you have not – that is to say, you and he . . .’ He sighed and looked around the room to see if other guests had joined them. ‘The lack of grandchildren. It weighs on her.’

Jane stared at him, vexed that he would bring up the topic again. ‘Papa. We have only been married these three months, and you must allow that we have been busy the whole while.’

‘Yes.’ He shifted in his chair and tugged at his waistcoat. ‘I think the fact that your mother was . . . we . . . well, her confinement began shortly after we were wed.’

Jane frowned and tilted her head to the side, counting the difference between her birthday and their anniversary. ‘But I was not born till you had been married some three years.’

Her father studied his tea, stirring it with care, though there was no need. ‘She had some difficulties. You were her third confinement, and so she worries. She worries that you will also have difficulties, and worries the more that . . . that marriage might not be what you had expected.’

To have this conversation with her father was almost more than she could bear, and yet she was thankful that it was not her mother, who would go on about her concerns and take no comfort in anything Jane had to say.

‘There is nothing to worry about.’ Jane set her cup down, the taste bitter in the back of her throat.

‘Jane, I—’ Her father broke off as she stood.

‘Yes, Papa?’

‘He does love you?’

Cold and heat alternated in Jane’s spine at the insinuation of the question. ‘Yes. And I love him. Good morning, sir.’