The Maçons spoke small pleasantries and invited Jane to sit. The sofa, which appeared to be covered in deep green satin, creaked under her, and she could feel the loose threads which lay under the glamour on its surface. Jane suspected that Vincent had executed this one. The work was flawless, and did not match the other, more obvious, glamours which adorned the neat but worn room, such as the unabashed sprays of reds and blues surrounding a faded portrait of Napoleon, as if banners clung to the wall. A shaft of light illuminated a hair wreath over a side table, and seemed to cast a silhouette of a young man on the wall. Though the glamours had no finesse or delicacy in their execution, they were nevertheless charming.

When Mme Maçon’s granddaughter pressed them to stay for tea, Vincent shook his head. ‘I am afraid I need to be on my way. Thank you, ladies. I will see you next week.’

When they were outside, Vincent offered his arm. Jane found herself hesitating before taking it. She chided herself for . . . well, she was hardly sure how to categorize her thoughts or fears.

‘You do not need to walk back with me. I know you must be on your way.’ She gestured to his horse, which lifted its head to greet them.

‘I should be nothing more than a hardened blackguard if I let my wife walk out to deliver a letter and then did not escort her home.’

‘But it was not my intent to delay you.’

Vincent sighed and untied his horse. ‘Jane, you have allowed me to leave Mme Maçon’s earlier than I might otherwise have left, so the very small detour in seeing you home will do me no great harm. I am rather more worried about you.’ He offered his arm again. ‘You gave me quite the turn, appearing like that. I thought something had happened.’

Blushing, Jane accepted his arm, understanding in a rush how it must have seemed to him. The fear she had seen on his face was not of being discovered, but fear for her. ‘I am sorry.’

‘There is nothing to apologize for. I am glad to see you, and glad to have a moment with you in the daylight. I have quite neglected you.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and, with the horse trailing them on his far side, they walked back through the streets of Binché.

‘May I ask what it is you were discussing with Mme Maçon?’

‘Oh . . .’ He wrinkled his nose in thought. ‘She is self-taught, and has some different ideas of colour and how it works in glamour. Nothing exciting, but a fresh perspective. I thought it might be useful.’

‘Is it?’

‘Somewhat.’ He pointed with his chin. ‘Is that Madame Meynard?’