Swallowing her next question, Jane allowed him the change of topic. They had time enough to come to an understanding, and she was loath to push him into subjects about which he was so clearly uncomfortable, but at the same time, she desired nothing more than to know about every part of his life. Rising, she padded across the floor, thankful for the thick carpets that graced the room and protected her from the chill. Sliding her arms around his waist, Jane embraced Vincent from behind, trying to offer what apology she could for resurrecting painful memories. He placed his hands on hers, tracing the line of her fingers. Leaning her head to the side, Jane rested her cheek against his back and felt his breath through her body. She would be content if the world consisted of nothing but this connection between them.

His chest tightened with an inhalation. ‘Did you understand why Bruno was so angry?’

‘In truth, no. Acting like a deposed monster seems a small infraction.’

‘In this region, the Bonapartists are still quite present, and want to put Napoleon’s son on the throne. Bruno is his cousin on the distaff side, and has always loathed the little emperor.’

The door to their room opened and a pretty serving maid entered, head bowed. ‘Excusez-moi. Mme Chastain m’a envoyée pour vous aider.’

Releasing her hold on Vincent, Jane let him greet the girl, and soon understood that she was there to help to unpack their luggage. Despite his ease with the language, Vincent hovered in the background, more in the way than not, until Jane sent him down to watch the students and their exercise in the yard. Though she was wild with curiosity herself, she truly was fatigued from the journey, and the simple act of settling in would do much to soothe her.

Practising her uncertain French, Jane ventured to ask the girl’s name, ‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’

‘Anne-Marie, madame.’ She shook out Jane’s dove grey dress and hung it on a peg in the wardrobe.

Jane put Vincent’s writing desk on the table by the window, checking to make certain his ink-pot had not opened in transit. Feeling like a schoolgirl, she then asked, ‘De quelle region êtes-vous?’

‘Paris, madame.’ Refolding each of Vincent’s shirts with precise care, she placed them in the bureau.

‘Avez-vous—’ Jane stopped, trying to puzzle out if one asked ‘Have you lived here long?’ or ‘How much time . . .’ as she laid her watercolour supplies on the table next to Vincent’s desk.

Anne-Marie pulled Vincent’s blue coat out of the trunk, knocking the bandbox with his collars to the ground. The lid came off and the starched white collars rolled across the floor like snakes made of paper. ‘Oh! I am so sorry.’