‘No, thank you.’ Jane fumbled in her work basket for a scrap to staunch the bleeding of her finger. M. Archambault and M. Bertrand also knew? ‘I have not taken my excursion today. This will be as good a destination as any, if you would but give me the direction.’

Mme Chastain nudged Yves. ‘You have been there before, with M. Vincent, have you not? Would you show Mme. Vincent the way? And then when you return, I will help you with your accounting.’

Yves bit his lower lip and then nodded. ‘I should be delighted.’

With that settled, Jane took only long enough to put aside her work basket and – though she did not wish to delay for a moment – go upstairs to fetch a bonnet and wrap. If Vincent had related the particulars of his whereabouts to the rest of the household, then it must be that she had misread his silences due to her own anxiety. He had nothing improper to hide. Clearly he had taken on an additional commission and, given her frequent concerns for his fatigue, had elected to not tell her so as to keep her from worry. She would have words with him about this omission, which would not do. Jane paused as she tucked the letter into her reticule, struck by wondering if Vincent had taken on this other task because she was increasing. She had not considered that he might fear lacking the means to provide for their child.

Yves met her at the front door, very erect and with his brown hair carefully tousled in the current fashion. He bowed quite correctly. Jane had to stifle a smile at his transparent efforts to appear in the best light, perhaps in hopes that she would make a favourable report to his mother about his maturity.

The day had not yet grown warm, making Jane glad that she had brought a wrap with her. A light breeze carried the scent of the baking district toward them, and Jane was afflicted with the uneasy sensations of hunger and nausea. Some of the nausea she thought she could attribute to a nervous state, rather than her general condition.

The houses grew smaller and the streets narrowed as they directed their course into an older and poorer part of town than Jane had yet visited. On more than one occasion, refuse filled the gutters, and she found herself wishing for the crossing sweepers of London to clear the path.

Yves cleared his throat. ‘Mme Vincent, if you should wish me to deliver the letter for you, I would be glad to do so.’

‘Thank you, Yves. But Vincent is gone so much from the house that I confess that I would take a smaller excuse than this to see him for some few more moments.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded with a sagacity beyond his years. ‘Marriage.’

‘Indeed.’ They walked some blocks farther in silence.