‘I deeply regret that I was away and left you to these unhappy thoughts.’ He lifted her chin. ‘Jane, it is only for a few months. Less than a year. It will give us time to talk about the theory of our glamour in glass. And when your confinement is finished, we shall have a better start.’

‘We shall have a child then, Vincent. I am not certain what I will be capable of after.’ Jane had seen women broken by childbirth, and knew more than a few who had not survived their first laying in. But by her husband’s open countenance, she could tell that these morbid thoughts had not occurred to him. Perhaps among men, such womanly concerns were never spoken of and he had no reason to know and to fear them.

‘I have great faith in you.’ Vincent stood and pulled Jane to her feet. ‘I want only for you to be happy and well.’

Jane leaned against him. ‘Then I will do my best at both.’

ELEVEN

The Lamb Lies Down

The requisite letter was sent across the Channel to inform Jane’s parents of the prospect of a grandchild. Vincent did not bother sending a similar letter to his father, but wasted no time in telling the entire Chastain household the happy news. Jane rather wished that he had not, for the whole of the house became deeply solicitous of her comfort to a degree that oppressed her. When she went to the parlour, she must have the best chair. At meals, the menu seemed clearly calculated to appeal to her uncertain appetite, for – as the doctor had predicted – her nausea grew worse and Jane spent a portion of each morning performing indelicate functions.

She was thoroughly unhappy.

Though Jane tried to find solace in music, the pianoforte seemed barren without the addition of colour and light. In some regards, needlework gave her greater comfort than anything else, because she did not notice the lack of glamour as keenly when she worked.

Into such comparative tranquillity, one of the servants entered with the mail borne on a silver tray. The majority of those letters went to M. Chastain, but one found its way to Vincent who grunted in some surprise.

‘Jane.’ He held the letter closer, as if doubting the address. ‘Do you know a Mr. Gilman?’

Lowering her embroidery hoop, Jane considered her acquaintances, but could think of no one with that name. ‘I am afraid not.’

‘Well he sends you his particular compliments.’ In response to Jane’s raised eyebrows, Vincent continued, ‘Mr. Gilman says, “Even if your wife’s famed wit and beauty were not enough, I would be remiss in not paying my respects based on what I have heard of her talents.”’

‘Whoever Mr. Gilman is, he surely has proven himself unknown by that.’ Her ‘beauty’ could at best be considered plain. ‘I cannot account for it.’