Only Miette remained, standing on one foot, with her forefinger tucked in her mouth and her eyes wide. Through all of this, Mme Chastain gripped Jane’s arm, only gradually relaxing her hold. ‘Bruno, I think we have left our guests on their feet long enough.’

Spreading his arms wide, M. Chastain turned to them, his face lighting up suddenly. ‘Of course! Come, we have some excellent wine and cakes laid by. Unless you are tired and wish to take a rest until dinner?’

Seizing this opportunity, Jane made her apologies. The day had been long, she claimed, and the fatigue from the road made her only too grateful for an opportunity to recline. In truth, her nerves were shaken by what she witnessed. Never had her father struck her or Melody, and certainly not in front of company. She could not discard the very real expression of fear that all three children had borne or Mme Chastain’s trembling.

They were led up the stairs and to their rooms, which were well appointed and lacking the extremities of glamoured ornamentation which overlay the ground floor. The suite afforded them a sitting room and a bedchamber, both with the large windows common to the rest of the house. When the door was at last shut and they were alone, Jane removed her bonnet and dropped with relief into the armchair by the fire.

‘Muse, are you well?’ Vincent knelt at her feet to help her off with her boots.

‘Fatigued some, but more shocked – I know M. Chastain is your friend, but, truly Vincent, I am genuinely shocked by what I saw.’

‘The glamural in the front hall was something to behold.’ Chuckling, he set her right boot by the fire and settled his attention on the left.

Jane stared at the top of his head, thinking back. Had he not been in the hall when the incident with the sword had happened? No, no, he had been standing just beyond M. Chastain. She had attributed his composure to good breeding, but was it possible that he had not noticed? ‘I refer to his manner with his children.’

Vincent raised his gaze from the laces of her boot, surprise writ large on his face. ‘His manner? How did it seem to you?’

‘Overly harsh. There was no need to strike a child for so minor an offence, and Mme Chastain gripped my arm as if she were afraid he would do more.’

‘Ah.’ Vincent rocked back on his heels, still holding her boot. ‘Ah. And what does it say about me, I wonder, that I did not notice.’ He turned the boot over, running his thumbs along the sole as if measuring its thickness and weight. ‘My father would not have been so gentle.’