“Aunt Livingston thought you might like to see a familiar face,” said Rachel. “And I wanted to tell you about the parade, and oh, I haven’t even thought to tell you about the speech the general gave on the Place d’Armes. Even Mme. Derilemont was impressed, and you know what she thinks of Americans.”

Jennet’s plate was empty before Rachel came to the end of her story of what had transpired on the Place d’Armes.

“And I have messages to deliver. My mother has sent your things, and wants to know what else you might need or want, and Hannah is back from the Bayou St. John and needs to speak to you.”

Jennet would have liked to have heard that particular bit of news first, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be irritated with the girl. “I was hoping she would come straight here.”

Rachel got up suddenly and went to look out on the garden.

“Rachel.”

The girl turned back, all her happiness gone, and in its place an expression of supreme discomfort.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Rachel began in a tone that made it clear that there was in fact something amiss. “It’s just that my aunt Livingston has very specific ideas about callers.”

Jennet swallowed and put down her fork. She took a moment to settle the baby on the floor with a piece of dried toast, and to right her clothes.

“Is it Hannah she objects to, or the hour?”

“I’m not sure,” Rachel said. She looked so unhappy that Jennet understood exactly what she hesitated to say. Mrs. Livingston’s kind welcome didn’t extend to half-breed, half-blood sisters. Rachel could come and go as she pleased, but Hannah could not.

Jennet looked down at her son, who was rubbing his face with the toast as if it were a washcloth. This was all for his sake, after all. It was worth any price to keep this child safe until they could take him home. Hannah of all people knew that.

And still, the relief that Jennet had felt on waking was gone, replaced by resentment and guilt. Hannah, who was worth ten of Mrs. Livingston, was not welcome here. There must be some compromise, and Jennet would find it.

“I will speak to your aunt.”

Rachel let out an audible sigh of relief. She said, “I came here straight from the Place d’Armes, but she’s still out. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you as soon as she’s home again. Now, I’m supposed to ask which gown you want to wear to tea this afternoon, so it can be brushed and pressed.” And at Jennet’s look of confusion: “You remember, my aunt invited us to tea this afternoon? And she included Hannah in that invitation, at least.”

“I had forgot,” Jennet said. “I suppose half the ladies will be coming to examine Hannah to see if she wears scalps on a belt around her waist.”

Rachel frowned. “I think you do my aunt a disservice—”

“No doubt I do,” Jennet said. “She has been the very soul of generosity, and deserves to be treated in the same way. Forgive me.”

But Rachel, who was indeed very young and sometimes thoughtless, was also her mother’s daughter, and she had a conscience. Jennet wished she had kept her worries to herself.

There was a soft knock at the door and the nursemaid came in for the baby. She was a woman of at least forty, with a round, pleasant face the color of molasses and eyes the exact same shade. With a deep laugh she scooped the baby from the floor and parted him from what was left of the toast. He responded by grabbing onto her nose and launching into a loud and impassioned speech.

“You two are getting along very well,” Jennet said. “Thank you very much for your kind attentions, Jeanne.”

The nursemaid looked surprised at being thanked, and she ducked her head. “Such a strong boy, so handsome. He demands admiration, and I supply it.”

Rachel got up to follow Jeanne out. “What shall I tell the housekeeper about your gown?”

“It’s not as though I have a dozen to choose from,” Jennet said, thinking very briefly of the beautiful gowns that had been made for her at Giselle’s insistence, now sitting in a trunk in Mme. Poiterin’s house, never to be retrieved. She could feel no real regret for the lost finery. The three simple gowns Julia Savard had found for her were all she needed or wanted.

“The blue?”

“Certainly,” Jennet said. “Whatever you think will suit best.”

It wasn’t until the early afternoon that Mrs. Livingston returned home, and then she disappeared into the back of the house to consult with her housekeeper.

Jennet retired to the lady’s small but elegant drawing room to wait. She found it impossible to sit still with a book, and so she went to retrieve her tarot cards from the basket of things that had been delivered from the rue Dauphine, and began to lay them out on a table by the window that looked over the rear garden.

The noise in the hall was the first indication that something was wrong. She heard the butler’s alarmed voice, and the unmistakable sound of a cane on the polished wood floors. The door opened abruptly.

The butler’s name was William. He had come with Edward Livingston from New-York, a spare, quiet, dignified free man of color with exacting manners. Now he was agitated, and barely in command of his emotions.

Alarmed, Jennet rose, but before she could think to ask what might be wrong, she saw for herself. A pulse began to hammer at her temples and wrists and elbows.

“You will let me pass,” said Mme. Poiterin in heavily accented English. “Or I will buy you from your master just to have the pleasure of watching the flesh being whipped from your bones.”