Jane helped him with the other sleeve, trying to mask her hurt. Of course, if he needed to go to Brussels then she would only slow him down. Of course, that was entirely sensible. And yet she felt that only part of the truth had been spoken. In each of these instances where she had the sense of omission, she could not name the elements which built her unease. That he had not looked at her when he had spoken could be no great reason for alarm, for what could be more natural than to look at one’s coat while donning it?

And yet . . . and yet.

‘Jane? What is the matter?’ Vincent took her hand and rubbed his thumb across the back.

She concentrated on the blunt shape of his thumb, and the way the weather had reddened his knuckles. ‘I miss you.’

‘But I am here.’

‘Yes.’ She struggled out of her melancholy state and resolved to have this conversation with him in earnest when he returned that evening. The foyer was not the place for confessions. ‘And now you must be on your way. I should not want you to be any later in your travels than necessary.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you.’ Vincent took a step away, and paused as if he wanted to say something more, then shook his head. ‘I will see you this evening.’

As Vincent strode out the door, Jane took herself to the parlour. M. Archambault and M. Bertrand sat by the window, poring over a book, each with a steaming cup of coffee beside him. Their gestures and the snippets of conversation that burst from them from time to time indicated that they studied some obscure bit of glamour history.

Mme Chastain sat by the fire and smiled as Jane entered. ‘How are you, my dear?’

‘Well enough, thank you.’ Jane pulled her chair closer and took up her work basket, rather wishing she could sit nearer to the students so she might overhear their conversation, unbecoming as eavesdropping might be.

Peering over the edge of her embroidery frame, Mme Chastain tutted. ‘I think you are not eating enough, am I right?’

‘Perhaps.’ Jane shook her head. ‘Is it . . . do you enjoy being a mother?’

Mme Chastain took another few stitches in her tapestry. ‘I think there is only one acceptable answer to that question. But the truth of the matter is that there are days when I do and days when I wish that my life were somewhat more my own.’ She lowered the frame. ‘But to answer the question you did not ask, yes, it is worth every ache and pain and worry. For me. Not all women are the same, I think.’