‘Madame. They are French.’ Coming from a military man who had undoubtedly fought under Napoleon, his disregard of borders should not have surprised Jane, particularly in a nation that had so recently belonged to France. ‘Have you no defence to offer for your countrywomen?’

Jane opened her mouth to provide a list of arguments and then closed it again, remembering the dinner at the Prince Regent’s which marked the last occasion on which she had spent any time with ladies of society. Save for Lady Hertford, none of the ladies had shown much in the way of sense, and she could not imagine putting forward the Prince Regent’s mistress as model of English virtue. Turning her mind to her own family, she again faltered. Her mother was unlikely to provoke admiration, save for her sense of fashion and her concern for her daughters. In Binché, despite the impertinence with which Mme Meynard arranged these conversations, Jane had seen more sense displayed than in most of her companions at home. ‘No. They are, by and large, insipid and concerned only with fashion. This is, perhaps, why I suspected insincerity from you, though I owe you my gratitude.’

‘Then, madame,’ – he offered her a bow and held out his hand – ‘allow me to greet you again, and know that you have my full admiration for your wit and your honesty.’

After a moment, Jane placed her hand in his. He kissed the back of it very gently, and Jane could not doubt his sincerity.

When she returned to the Chastains’ home, Jane practised French with Anne-Marie, who was wild to hear about the French officers. Jane found it not at all surprising that she had already met young Lieutenant Segal and was quite in raptures about him. It seemed that he had been making the rounds of Binché society without regard for social distinctions. He was quite the favourite, and Jane was forced to admit that she could understand why, for his manners were appealing even if the content of his remarks was impertinent.

Her mind still troubled by their conversation and the way in which she had been unable to defend her countrywomen, Jane retreated to the drawing room and the pianoforte. In many ways, the solitary pursuit of music best suited her temperament, and Jane applied herself to it in an effort to make up for the deficiency of glamour accompanying it. She tried to see it as a blessing that she could focus on but one aspect of performance, but in truth she missed the glamour too much to be content with mere sound.

She finished playing an air by Rossini, one which she thought the Prince Regent might enjoy, recalling as she did his fondness for the composer. She then leafed through the pages toward the beginning, in search of a passage which had troubled her.

‘That was very pretty.’ Vincent said from the door.