‘Thank you.’ Far from feeling jubilant, a hollowness began to develop under Jane’s breastbone. To have been restricted from working glamour for a week had been trial enough. Stopping for the length of her term seemed impossible. ‘My mother will be pleased.’

‘But not your husband?’

‘Yes.’ Jane forced a smile, while in no way certain how Vincent would feel. ‘Of course. But my mother has been daily expecting grandchildren, so this news will please her no end.’

‘Madame, I must remind you that you are to undertake no glamour or other strenuous exercise until after your confinement. Plenty of fresh air, simple walks and hearty meals are my prescription for you. The nausea, I am afraid, may worsen before it improves, but you must try to eat anyway, for the sake of your child.’

Jane listened to his instructions but could think of nothing other than the proscription against glamour. ‘No glamour at all?’

‘None.’ On that he was quite firm and unsmiling, as if he knew what a temptation it would be for her.

Nodding and smiling by rote, Jane endured the rest of his call and thanked him for his aid, the whole while wondering how she would explain it to Vincent. Which led rapidly to wanting to know where he was. When the doctor left, Jane dismissed Anne-Marie as well, saying that she wished to take a nap. In truth, the moment the door closed and Jane was alone, she curled onto her side and clutched a pillow.

What was she to do? Her entire life, Jane had been a plain girl with nothing to make her stand out except for her skill at the ‘womanly’ arts, and chief among those was her glamour. She could still paint, yes, and play music, to be certain, but always she had enhanced both of those with glamour. The art form had given her an unparalleled satisfaction.

And glamour was what had made Vincent fall in love with her.

Jane pressed her mouth to the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. There was more to their marriage than glamour, but working together on it had comprised the majority of their time since wedding. She would love Vincent just as fiercely without glamour for the keenness of his mind, but – and this was where Jane nearly came undone – but she had nothing else to set her apart.

She was plain. Her nose was too long, her complexion too sallow. She had no grace in her carriage. Jane was clever, yes, but many women were clever. Her doubt in her own merits, the utter disbelief that any man could find her of interest, came back with full force.

And what if Vincent did not want a child?

What if, in one stroke, she had gone from a source of interest to a burden?