Was this Lady Charlotte’s way of reminding her not to chase any scholarly ambitions? It was, after all, none of her concern how she chose to spend her free time.
Charlotte caught her rebellious look and gave a small, playful shrug. “Once you have read it, I can provide more materials. I am in correspondence with a number of people of letters in London, though I rarely visit myself. I prefer the freedom I have here. No eyes watching, no wagging tongues.”
It was true, Jane thought. Westford Castle was not London, but nor was it solitude. There were neighbors, families with daughters not yet out, widows who came for tea, and respectable couples who exchanged calls. Charlotte was not friendless—but she was, Jane suspected, a little restless.
Charlotte closed her hands behind her back, surveying Jane with wry amusement. “Well, my dear, we shall discuss this further another time. For now—do try to find something more fashionable than Cicero to read.”
With that, she swept out, leaving Jane standing in the silence once more, the Dream of Scipio open before her and Gisborne’s teachings heavy in her hand.
* * *
Jane held Gisborne’s book as though it carried the Black Death. She brought it up to her room, knowing it too well already; but if her ladyship intended to quiz her on its contents, she had better refresh her memory. To her mind it was trite, a waste of hours better spent in real study. She had no intention of shaping her life by rules of feminine gentility, least of all now, when she was forced into service. If she must live as a governess, she would damn well fill her days as she pleased. Yet outright refusal of Lady Charlotte’s recommendation was impossible.
That evening, after dinner, she withdrew to her quarters. Winter brought short days, and with Christmas approaching Lady Margaret was more easily distracted. Still, the child had managed to recite an Aesopian fable—one Jane had taught her—so that, when her parents were back at the estate, she might impress them with her progress.
She set about her small evening ritual—loosening her dress, unpinning her hair, and preparing for bed. Then her glance fell on the volume resting on the commode, its neat binding seeming almost to mock her. She sighed, sat down, and at last opened it.
The title-page was as expected:An Enquiry into the Duties of the Female Sex, by Thomas Gisborne.
She turned a few pages—And froze.
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, by Mary Wollstonecraft.
Her heart jolted. She stared at the words as if they might vanish under her gaze. No. No—this couldn’t be. She flipped back to the title-page, read it again. Gisborne. Respectable. Unyielding.
Then forward again—Wollstonecraft. Unmistakable. A misbinding? A joke? A secret? She touched the paper, half-expecting to smudge the ink. But the print was firm. Defiant. Real. Had Lady Charlotte known?
She began to read. In every line her heart leapt. Here, set down in clear words, were her own thoughts: the folly of empty accomplishments, the injustice of confining women’s minds, the call for true education. She nodded, breath quickening, as if someone had reached into her soul and given voice to all she had longed to say.
The embers in the grate glowed faint, her candle burned low, yet she could not close the book. For the first time she felt she was not alone. And this could not be accident. Lady Charlotte had placed it in her hands by design.
* * *
Early the next day, Jane found Lady Charlotte in the morning room, where tall windows overlooked the frosted grounds and a sumptuous Persian carpet softened each footfall. A small fire hissed in the grate, its warmth just enough to blunt the chill. Charlotte reclined with one leg drawn indolently upon the sofa, a china cup in hand, the latest issue ofThe Examinerlying open across her lap. Her fair hair was neatly parted, with little sign of vanity in its arrangement.
She looked up at Jane, brows raised. “Miss Ansley. Where is your charge? Still lingering over breakfast?”
Jane curtsied. “Yes, my lady.”
Charlotte’s gaze sharpened as she took her in. “Oh, goodness—what has happened to you? You look as though you have not slept.”
Jane colored, hesitating. “I… was reading last night. The volume you gave me.”
Charlotte gave a short, amused laugh. “Gisborne kept you awake? What a marvel. Or—” she leaned slightly forward, eyesnarrowing with mischief—“did you discover what Gisborne was not meant to contain?”
Jane’s cheeks flamed, and she looked away.
Charlotte’s chuckle deepened. “Ah, I thought so. You must know—I keep a notorious bunch of improving works. Whenever you find a duplicate in the library, look closer. One is harmless, the other most assuredly not. I thought it divine justice to smuggle my favorites inside sermons for good conduct. Thus you will find Macaulay’sLetters on Educationtucked into Fordyce’s insipidSermons to Young Women. And Hays’sEmma Courtneywaits there as well, together with poor Maria in Wollstonecraft’sWrongs of Woman. Better reading, I think, than all the tracts of meek virtue in Christendom.”
Jane shifted, torn between gratitude and unease.
Charlotte regarded her more steadily, her smile thinning. “Your late father, I suspect, would roll in his grave to see you armed with such radical ink.”
The words struck sharp; Jane’s fingers worried at the fabric of her gown. “Perhaps he would, my lady.”
“Never mind,” Charlotte said, with a careless wave of her hand. “Fathers are not consulted in the afterlife. And if it is temptation you seek, there is Lord Byron.Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. That one I keep openly, though my father loathes contemporary poets. Dangerous men—all sighs and seductions. Not fit for an unmarried woman.” Her eyes glinted as they lingered on Jane. “But perhaps you wish to be tempted.”
Jane’s breath caught; her cheeks burned hotter. She had never thought books might conceal more than abstract philosophical teachings. What hidden snares might Lord Byron’s poetry hold?
