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That bitch is about to give birth to another bastard, his brother had written him, and he honestly didn't know what to make of it.
Memories of the brief encounter they'd shared in Rouen came to the front of his mind; there was a small chance that the child was actually his own, and he wasn't sure whether or not he hoped that that was the case.
It would mean saying goodbye to a future with Valentine, but then he'd always been reluctant about ruining her reputation and renouncing his own principles.
He needed to talk to his wife, try and settle things between the two of them. That was where his duty lay after all.
Sylvia looked so pale and fragile in the middle of her bed, and he felt an unfamiliar pang of affection stir inside his chest.
"Your mistress will be wondering where you are," she murmured somewhat bitterly. "You'd better go back to her."
"My brother wrote me," he started hesitantly, but she promptly shook her head.
"It's not yours, if that's what you're worried about," she lied easily - and yet he knew it was a lie.
He leaned forward to brush away a lone tear that was lingering on her cheek, and just like that he decided he'd come home at last.