“What would be best,” she pronounced finally, “is if the British and Americans killed each other off entirely, and let us return to our own ways. What do you say to that, miss?”

Jennet sometimes wondered if her face might crack from the effort of hiding her feelings, and thought that Mme. Poiterin would actually like to see that happen. It seemed to be her goal.

The oddest thing of all, Jennet had decided quite soon, was that Madame seemed unable to take the threatened English invasion seriously. It mystified Jennet that a woman who prided herself on her political acuity and good business sense would refuse to entertain the idea that anyone might try to impose their will on her, or to take something she called her own. Jennet, who had been raised on a steady diet of Scottish history, could have told Madame something of the way the British treated the people they defeated, but she also understood that this was not a discussion, but a lesson. If she wanted to be accepted as a Poiterin she must take on the opinions and positions that were presented to her, and make them her own.

Jennet wondered if Honoré might be able to convince the old lady that she needed to make plans in case the worst should happen and the city was overrun, but she had seen Honoré very rarely since she came to Louisiana, and he was never present when she paid her long afternoon calls at Larivière. It was a surprise, and an unsettling one, to find him in the parlor a week after Titine’s disappearance, his legs stretched out before him and a coffee cup balanced on the silk brocade vest over the flat plane of his stomach. He pretended surprise when she came in, and then played the concerned and loving husband, bringing her pillows she did not want and coffee she would not drink.

Madame was not taken in, either, and she pursed her small pale mouth in displeasure. Jennet could not tell if Honoré’s purpose was to anger her, or if he simply didn’t care about her mood. Another possibility presented itself, far more frightening: Honoré was here because of Titine’s disappearance. Maybe he had learned something and was just waiting for the opportunity to give her bad news; perhaps he knew exactly what had happened to Titine, because he had made it happen. She thought of Piero Bardi’s head sitting on top of her trunk in an abandoned shack, and she shuddered.

“Are you cold?” he asked her. “Can I get you a rug for your lap?”

His grandmother tsked at such a bold question, but Honoré ignored her. He wanted to know how Jennet fared, if she was comfortable in her new home, whether she required anything from town that he could get for her.

“Have you had word from your family?” he asked, and a shower of gooseflesh rushed up Jennet’s back at the expression on his face.

“Of course she has not,” his grandmother said sharply. “You know there has been no post from Europe. It is most inconvenient, this embargo.”

“I fear you must miss your brother and mother, my dear.” Honoré persisted in speaking to Jennet directly, and his grandmother in answering for her.

Titine was dead, and Honoré had killed her; of that Jennet was suddenly quite sure. What she could not know was how much information had been forced from her before she died. Jennet pinched the flesh between her thumb and first finger until her vision cleared and she could control her breathing.

“Why should she?” Mme. Poiterin was saying. “She has her son. She has you, or will have you, if it turns out her good behavior is not a ruse. It is the way of civilized society: A young lady forsakes her mother for her husband’s family.” She sniffed delicately, as if remembering her own mother.

“Grand-mère,” he said. “Has my dear Jennet not been tested enough? Surely it’s time to acknowledge the marriage.”

Jennet dropped her head in fear that her expression would give away too much, but Mme. Poiterin, who was just as surprised, turned all her attention in Honoré’s direction. Her round cheeks flushed with color and her eyes narrowed.

“You talk of this matter as though it were nothing more than a dinner engagement,” she said. “Shame on you, Honoré. If you had gone about this marriage properly to start with none of this would be necessary. As it is, you will wait until I am entirely satisfied that Lady Jennet will be a suitable wife and mother to your son.”

Mme. Poiterin had started calling her Lady Jennet in a dismissive tone. Jennet might have objected, but she found her title much preferable to being called Honoré’s wife.

The old lady was saying, “I will admit she has proved to be biddable, if perhaps a bit simpleminded. Père Petit reports that she is repentant, though sometimes I believe I still see a hint of rebellion in her expression. However, if things go on as they have, we will be able to have the banns read starting next month, and celebrate the wedding Mass early in the new year.”

Honoré didn’t try to hide his irritation. “You forget, Grand-mère, we are already married.”

“So you say,” said his grandmother. “But I have yet to see your marriage lines.” She looked at Jennet when she said this, and Jennet returned her gaze evenly. It was an odd circumstance that Honoré had constructed for himself. He could not produce the marriage lines, because no such document had ever existed. She had wondered for some time why he didn’t simply forge something to show his grandmother—it seemed like something he would do without hesitation—and then realized that he hadn’t yet decided where the greater advantage might be, in a real marriage or a false one. No doubt it had to do with his claim on her family’s money, and his grandmother’s, both of which he would keep, if he could manage it. Her son was nothing more than a chip in this game of chance.