No matter what his response was, I feared I might not be able to manage my reaction, so I hadn’t dared to read it among my fellow passengers. I didn’t want to weep—either with relief or desperation—in front of strangers.

Yet, what if the response was positive? I could use it to bolster my argument with Holst.

See? Prominent French artists are arranging an exhibit and including Vincent. Surely The Hague should do the same, or risk people thinking the esteemed gatekeepers here do not know great art when they see it.

A servant pushed past me, loaded with baggage. “Out of the way!” he shouted at the half a dozen street children who were hacking wrinkled newspapers. Then to me: “Excuse me, madam.”

I moved aside, shifting my heavy bag from one hand to the other. One thing was certain, I could not read the letter whilst standing on a corner, for the same reasons I could not read it on the train.

Especially, if it was another rejection. I might curse out loud. I wished I could ask Theo how he had handled being rebuffed over and over. He had managed, always, to stay strong. He had never lost his faith.

I missed him so much, my soul ached. Thinking of him brought to mind the perfect place to read the letter. I lurched into action and immediately bumped into a man who was stepping around me since I’d been standing still. “Oh, pardon me.” Then I raised my gaze to his face. “Janus?” I blinked at the Bussum village carpenter. “What are you doing here?”

He snatched his hat from his head, color tinting his cheeks. “I am p…picking up tools. I snapped my b…best carving gouge last week.” We took advantage of a lull in traffic and crossed the street. He had a rolled-up newspaper tucked into his pocket, and it kept catching on his sleeve, so he switched it to the other side. “Where is Wil?”

“Anna is watching him for the day.”

A coach thundered past behind us. I had to duck a lady’s parasol; Janus had to stop to allow a young boy and his coal cart to pass by.

“Too many p…people,” Janus muttered. “You came to talk to that Holst fellow?”

I patted my carpet bag. “I brought him a couple of small paintings.”

“From the ones I framed?”

Heavens, no. Frames would have made the weight unmanageable.

“The one with the sprig of almond flowers in a glass, and Gauguin’s portrait.” To better remind Holst that well-regarded artists in France considered Vincent their equal. Now, if I could add a favorable letter from Gauguin to that. “Theo always talked to people in person.” Yet all this time, I had been sending letters and drawings and paintings in my stead. No wonder I’d received so many rejections. I was determined to change that. “He always said rapport was important.”