Jane bit her lip and bent her head to her embroidery once more. Her own mother had been so much the invalid while Jane was growing up that it had often fallen to Jane to act as mother to her younger sister. Her bond with her mother had been strained by the fact that Jane could not trust her as a source of comfort. She loved her mother, yes, but she had little respect for her beyond what was due by filial duty.

As Jane was pondering this, Mme Chastain caught her eye and nodded to the door. Yves stood there, his hands in his pockets and his head dipped in a modest manner. His left cheek was tucked in as though he were chewing upon it. Mme Chastain raised her eyebrows and cocked her head as if to say, ‘behold,’ then bent her head to her embroidery, ignoring her son’s presence.

After some minutes spent thus, neither in nor out of the parlour, Yves fixed his shoulders and sauntered in, affecting nonchalance. ‘Good morning, Mama.’

‘And to you as well, my dear.’ She tilted her head to accept a kiss upon her cheek without appearing to take her attention from her embroidery, though Jane could not help but notice that her stitches had slowed.

Yves leaned over her chair, his brown hair tousled in the most stylish manner. ‘That is very pretty.’

‘Thank you. The window seat needs some attention, and I thought to replace the covering. It will have the view from the Roman walk when I finish.’ She smiled up at her son. ‘Do you approve?’

‘Approve!’ He clutched his hand to his breast. ‘Mama, you could doubt my approbation? Of course I approve. You are the cleverest of mothers.’

Jane tucked her tongue into her cheek to keep from smiling at his excessive flattery. Mme Chastain had no such compunction. ‘And how many mothers have you with which to compare me?’

He lifted his hand and ticked off names. ‘There is Giroux’s mother, who cannot embroider. And Mme Meynard, who has not seen her son in five y—’

‘Hush.’ Mme Chastain narrowed her eyes at her son. ‘I will not have you speak ill of her. You know well why their son was sent away.’

‘You would have kept me though, would you not?’ Yves sobered and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘No matter what.’

She patted his hand, her face softening with such obvious devotion that Jane’s heart ached to witness it. ‘Yes, my dear.’

‘And no matter how wicked I was, you would still love me?’

Her eyes narrowed and she glanced at Jane. ‘Why do I suspect that you will apprise me of some wickedness in a matter of moments?’