‘Nonsense.’ Vincent pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. ‘They were using ancient wheel-lock pistols. They take a few seconds to spark, and these guns displayed some rust, so it seemed unlikely they would spark on the first rotation. There was no danger of them getting a shot off. It was perfectly safe.’

‘How could you possibly know that?’

As he explained more about the mechanisms of guns, Jane shook her head and embraced him tighter. What she had really wanted to know was how her artist husband knew about weapons.

The diligence was delayed by a half day to deliver the captured rebels to the local authorities, so they did not cross into Belgium until very late on the second day. They arose with dawn the next morning and set off as the sun started to warm the winter fields. They arrived in Binché a few hours later as the village clock struck ten, bells chiming as if celebrating the Vincents’ arrival. The sun painted the stucco walls of the village a pale red-gold that belied the chill of the season. Passing through into the town proper, the Vincents were charmed by the neat houses and tidy window box gardens which crowded the streets. The chaise set them down at the carriage post outside the A l’Aube d’un Hôtel near the centre of town. Mr. Vincent hired a boy to run to M. Chastain’s to let him know that they had arrived. In short order, one of M. Chastain’s students drove up with a wagon, and the Vincents were whisked – if bouncing over cobblestones can be called whisking – to the Chastain home.

The large front gates opened onto a courtyard faced on three sides by independent buildings. The grand staircase of the one at the back clearly marked it as the home proper, while the one to the right exuded the unambiguously ripe smell of a stable. A long single story building to the left with large windows and expansive skylights would have seemed well suited for an orangery if it had only been filled with trees. Instead, the windows exposed endless banks of disjointed glamour pressed against each other with neither rhyme nor reason. Young men and a few women toiled, faces tight with concentration, on these objects of curiosity.

No sooner had the Vincents alighted than a tall man with a full crop of iron-grey hair burst out of the laboratory. His aquiline nose bent as he beamed in delight, throwing his arms wide. ‘David! I am so happy to see you!’

Jane started. It had been so long since she had heard anyone call her husband by his assumed Christian name that she was quite unused to it. Her surprise at that was quickly supplanted by new astonishment as Vincent broke into a full smile.