She settled the baby more securely. Mrs. Scott glanced at the child, then back at her. “You know, I was cook at Westford Castle when Her Grace—God rest her soul—brought the young master into the world. He was a fine big baby, too. Screaming andkicking. So strong from the start.” Her voice mellowed. “And I’ll tell you, because no one else will—this boy looks just like him.”
Jane’s smile faltered. She looked down at George’s face—his furrowed brow, his slightly crooked mouth—and something fluttered in her chest. “Does he?” she murmured.
“Oh, aye,” said Mrs. Scott, nodding. “Though Her Grace wouldn’t have known. Proper fine lady she was. Wouldn’t feed the child herself. Wet nurses and nursemaids for everything. Wouldn’t touch him unless he was bathed, swaddled, and silent. I’d wager she wouldn’t have recognized him among a row of other babies.”
Jane blushed. She hadn’t meant to, but the heat crept up her throat regardless. She wasn’t a proper lady—even by Mrs. Scott’s standards. “I see.”
The older woman blinked, then let out a groan. “Oh, blimey. I didn’t mean nothing by it. I wasn’t saying—You’re a fine lass, you are. And you’ll make a fine Duchess, when the time comes.”
Jane looked back at the child and said nothing. Mrs. Scott caught herself again, lips pursed. “Well. Few could be worse than the one who’s got the title now.” She winced. “Forgive me. I forget you’re now noble yourself, my lady.”
Jane half-laughed. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Scott. You can speak freely with me. I’ve never found offense in the truth.”
Mrs. Scott nodded once, satisfied. “Her Grace—his lordship’s mother, I mean—was a great lady. Proper to the bone. Never raised her voice, never slouched, never cried in public. But she never hugged the boy, either. Not once, far as I saw. Wouldn’t let him sit on her lap, wouldn’t kiss his forehead when he was ill. She’d send for a servant, or a doctor, but wouldn’t go herself.”
Jane swallowed. “And William?”
Mrs. Scott nodded slowly. “Loved her to pieces. Thought the sun rose on her silk gowns and perfect manners. After she passed—God, he was still a boy—he didn’t leave his room fordays. Wouldn’t eat. I made all his favorite cakes—black treacle, almond spice, anything he’d ever asked for. Left them by the door. And he’d eat them, eventually, but he wouldn’t come out.”
A dull ache bloomed in Jane’s chest. Mrs. Scott’s tone softened. “He idolized her. Thought she was the model of everything a woman should be. And maybe she was, in her way. But she wasn’t a mother, not really. Not the kind who teaches a child how to love.”
Silence settled for a long moment. Little George had finished feeding and dozed, lips slack, one fist curled tight against his cheek.
Mrs. Scott watched them both. “So if that boy of hers doesn’t know how to act right—if he says the wrong thing, or holds himself stiff when he ought to bend—well. It’s not that he doesn’t feel. It’s that no one ever showed him how.”
Jane traced a thumb gently along George’s brow. “And you think he loves me.”
Mrs. Scott smiled. “I don’t think it, my lady. I know it.”
Jane didn’t answer. Her throat was too tight.
Mrs. Scott rose with a low grunt, brushing her palms on her apron. “Eat your pie before it goes cold. And mind an old woman’s words—I’ve known that boy since the day he screamed his way into the world.”
* * *
The carpet in the drawing room was thick and sun-warmed, and the baby—laid out on a soft blanket near the hearth—was kicking his legs furiously. His eyes were wide open, dark and glassy, not yet settled into any fixed color, and his small fists beat the air as if testing it for the first time. Jane knelt beside him in her dressing gown, hair half-up, a ribbon forgotten in it. She leaned close, grinning, and pressed a kiss to his round little tummy.
“You are a menace,” she informed him gently. “An absolute terror. But I suppose we’ll have to keep you anyway.” The child answered with a gurgle and a fresh wave of flailing limbs.
Lady Charlotte was sprawled across the settee with lazy elegance, watching the scene with something very near awe. “I swear, he is the most intelligent young man I’ve met all week. Papa introduced me to an earl’s heir yesterday who tried to eat a wax apple.”
Jane laughed. “George hasn’t tried to eat anything yet that doesn’t come from me. It’s early days.”
Charlotte lifted her teacup and offered a regal nod in the baby’s direction. “Promising start.”
Mrs. Radcliff, seated more primly in the armchair near the window, seemed not quite to know where to look. Her discomfort was not disapproval—merely the awkwardness of a woman unused to conversation being conducted from the floor. She cleared her throat delicately and folded her hands in her lap.
“My dear,” she began, “I hope I do not intrude—”
“You brought scones,” Jane said. “You could intrude for hours.”
“—but I come with news,” Mrs. Radcliff continued, a faint smile touching her lips. “You may recall the article you shared with me last month, the comparison of Lucan and Byron—”
Charlotte interrupted. “The one full of doomed heroes and theatrical sighs?”
“The melancholy of dying ideals—how both poets captured the grandeur and futility of lost causes,” Jane corrected dryly, still focused on George’s flailing hands. “Though yes. Also doomed heroes.”
“Well.” Mrs. Radcliff gave a modest incline of her head. “I shared it with Mr. Colborn—editor of the London Review. He’s very impressed.”
