Jane turned, surprised at how much her heart sped at the sight of her husband. She could not help but compare him to Lieutenant Segal, who might have more elegance to his carriage, but had none of Vincent’s strength. ‘How long have you been back?’

‘Since the coda.’ He came in and sank into the chair closest to her, weariness evident in the sag of his shoulders. ‘Play it again?’

Jane did, letting her attention drift from the page to her husband’s face. He listened with his eyes closed, brows drawn a little together in concentration. As she played, his tension slackened and slowly, slowly, his head tilted forward until his chin rested on his chest. Jane kept playing long after he had clearly fallen asleep and begun to snore. She could not suppress a smile at this. Her husband had the tiniest snore in the world, more like a small cat than a barrel-chested man. It pained her to see him so tired, but she had no way to relieve his fatigue if he insisted on making the ride to Brussels so often.

Bringing the music to a close, Jane let the notes fade from the room until the only sound was the faint wheeze of Vincent sleeping. It was impossible, seeing him so reduced by fatigue, to have anything but tenderness in her heart toward him. Her husband stirred and lifted his head, his eyelids still heavy. ‘That was lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ Jane did not point out that he had slept through the most of it. ‘Shall I ring for some dinner for you?’

‘No, thank you. I have already eaten.’

‘Were you in Brussels today?’ When she had woken, he was already gone from the house, as had been common these past few weeks.

‘With Mr. Gilman.’

‘I take it he needed the sheep adjusted again?’ It seemed as though once a week, Mr. Gilman sent a message asking for the number of lambs to go up or down.

‘Yes. Well.’

‘Have you thought of suggesting a random braiding of lambs so that the number appears to rotate?’

‘Even if—’ Vincent rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. ‘That would not work with the Chastain Damask.’

‘Of course.’ She perused the pages of her music, pretending that ordering the score took more attention than it actually did. She was uncertain why she still felt the need to offer opinions on the subject when Vincent clearly had no interest in her thoughts.

‘Forgive me.’ He pinched his eyes shut in a wince. ‘I am tired and irritable today.’

‘If you . . . if you wanted to stay the night in Brussels, I should not object. It would make me easier to know there was one less fatigue weighing on you.’