She froze. “What?”
He turned on her, his gaze fever-bright. “I see you walk with him, I see you laugh with him. He speaks of you as though you were Minerva herself. Plato, philosophy—what is it you give him that makes him so enthralled? Your wit? Your charm? Or perhaps he’s tasted your ‘divine ascent’?”
Jane’s mouth fell open, aghast. “You—how dare you—”
He pressed on, crueler still. “Do you dare to deny he lingered outside your door this very night? What was the occasion then? Your favors?”
Jane went scarlet. “How can you mean such a thing?”
“You play the innocent well. But you’re nothing more than a ruined, fallen woman. Tell me—does he know how sweetly you yield when a man drives into you? You spread your thighs for me; why not for him?”
She stared at him, stunned. Then her voice came, cold with disbelief. “You accuse me of this filth, and still you bed me—stillyou take your pleasure in me. Then it matters nothing to you if your lies are true. What makes you any different from Ravensby, who would rut with any woman he could get his hands on?”
The words landed like a musket shot. He flinched, but pride held him fast.
“I see now why you’ve been friends,” Jane spat.
He didn’t speak. He dragged on his clothes in silence, his movements violent, graceless. At the door, he stopped, his voice rough, torn. “Damn you, Jane.”
He slammed it behind him. The silence seemed to ring. Jane did not move. The candle guttered. Slowly, she drew the blanket over herself, though it could not shield her from the sting of his words.
“Fallen woman,” she whispered into the empty room. The phrase tasted like ash, burning in her mouth.
At dawn, word spread through the house: Lord Blackmeer had left for London. No explanation. Only the echo of hooves fading into the mist.
Chapter 20
Lord Blackmeer departed before sunrise. No carriage, no escort—only his bay stallion waiting at the steps, steam rising from its flanks in the cold. His greatcoat was thrown carelessly across the pommel. He gave the steward a few brief orders—that his trunks were to follow him to London—then mounted and was gone. The sound of hooves faded into the mist, leaving only silence behind.
By breakfast, the household had its tale. No farewell, no explanation, only the assumption of urgent military business. What else could summon a man of his rank so abruptly?
Charlotte, however, was not content with rumor. Before noon she asked Mr. Harding, in that calm tone that admitted no evasion, whether a letter had come from Horse Guards. The butler bowed and replied truthfully: none had. She said nothing further, but the knowledge settled in her mind like a stone.
The hunting party disbanded soon after. Crofford left first, rambling on about the start of pheasant season and his prized pointers. Fovargue and his wife followed, quiet and efficient in their departure. Only Beaufort remained. For a fortnight he stayed on at Westford Castle, walking the grounds with them, attending Margaret’s lessons, waiting—as if William might ride back through the gates at any moment. At last, he sent a letter to London. When no answer came, he too departed.
Jane felt nothing at his leaving. Polite, admiring, deferential though he was, Beaufort had never touched her heart. It was William’s absence that hollowed her days. Yet Charlotte,watching her grow paler and more silent, decided it must be Beaufort who had left the wound.
By the fourth week after Lord Blackmeer’s departure, the estate had settled back into its old rhythm, as though he had never disturbed it. News arrived that the Duke and Duchess would not return that autumn. She was to make her round of country house parties, and he remained in London, detained by affairs of state.
Routine returned. The breakfast tray came at the same hour each morning, though Jane’s appetite had faded. Margaret bent day after day over her copybook, writing out passages from Addison with grave concentration while Jane watched, correcting only when the pen strayed. They walked the gardens as before, when weather in November permitted, but Jane now kept to the paths, letting the child run ahead. Her faint smile never quite reached her eyes.
In William’s absence, Charlotte turned to her work with renewed vigor. Her writing desk was never empty—letters to protégées, verses to correct, accounts to balance. When her pen paused, she turned her attention outward, most often to the neighborhood. Mrs. Hughes and her daughters came for tea with numbing regularity, and though Charlotte received them graciously, her patience wore thin.
It was on such a day, during one of these polite visits, that Margaret tugged at her sister’s sleeve and whispered, “Charlotte, why does Miss Ansley never smile anymore? What can I do to make her glad again?”
Charlotte answered gently, but her eyes lingered on Jane—ashen and motionless across the table, her lips pressed tight against unspoken thoughts. She said nothing then, unwilling to deepen the child’s worry. Yet later, as she sat once more at her writing desk, penning a note to a young poet in town, thequestion returned. The image of Jane remained fixed in her mind, more stubborn than any line of verse.
* * *
Rain lashed against the tall windows, rattling the panes when the wind struck. The schoolroom smelled of chalk and damp wool; the air was heavy from the fire that burned low in the grate. Margaret bent over her work, lips moving as she whispered her dates, the scratch of her pen merging with the steady drum of falling drops.
Charlotte entered quietly, her skirts brushing the floor. She paused at the hearth, warming her hands, before drawing a chair beside Margaret. With absent fondness she smoothed the child’s hair, her eyes already settling on Jane.
“This weather ruins one’s spirits,” she said, listening to the thunder roll. “Gray skies, damp shoes. One begins to feel shut in.”
Jane looked up from the essay she was marking. She managed a tired, dutiful upturn of her lips. “Yes, my lady.”
“You are pale again,” Charlotte observed. “Too many hours in this room will make a hermit of you.”
