Did he want me to be … grateful? I couldn’t quite tell. There was a small part of me that felt for him, even after I had seen the dirty blanket and the straw and the rust-coloured droplets that spattered the warehouse floor, but try as I might to give him the benefit of the doubt, in everything he said there was some parallel to the Leopard Lady and all I could think of was how much worse her situation was than his. He was separated from his mother, but the Leopard Lady was likely being debased in front of her son. Much as he pleaded poverty, Vincent was safe and warm and comfortable in Crillick’s house. His mother might miss him but she knew he was safe. The Leopard Lady didn’t have that luxury when it came to her little boy.

At last, the carriage appeared, rolling along the path just as the rain eased and the sun came out. There was a weak rainbow in the distance and the driver was full of apologies. He’d got lost on his way back, he said, but Vincent brushed away the excuses as he handed me in, climbing up beside me and rapping on the roof to signal we were ready. I shivered, my dress soaked through. Wordlessly he handed me the picnic blanket.

‘My mother was a slave, you know.’

I felt him flinch. I waited for shock, sympathy, questions, anything, but after a few moments of silence I realised he refused to ask me anything more. Typical Vincent. When something was too painful he just didn’t want to know. Briefly, he squeezed my hand, then withdrew to the far side of the seat and trained his gaze on the view beyond the window. We trundled back through the park and I gave my body up to the rocking motion of the carriage, concentrating on the clip clop of the horses’ hooves, and the large wheels on the gravelly road beneath us. There were nine long miles until we were back in Westminster, and I knew this was the last time I’d ever be alone in Vincent’s company. It was over between us.

XXII

A Place to Stay at Holborn