Jane blinked at the sudden concern. “Margaret thrives...”
“That is not what I mean.” Charlotte’s tone was gentle, but left no room for evasion. “You already read more than most scholars. But a mind like yours should not only absorb—it should respond. Reflections, perhaps. A treatise.”
Margaret set down her pen at once. “Miss Ansley already writes so much—pages and pages!”
Charlotte smiled, though her gaze never left Jane. “Not that kind of writing, dearest. I mean her own thoughts, in her own voice. There are circles in London that would value such work. I could see it placed.”
Jane’s breath caught. “You are too kind, my lady. I hardly—”
Charlotte raised a hand. “You have been too quiet since our guests departed. We all feel the emptiness, but it weighs on you more than you admit. Work is the surest remedy for melancholy. Better to write than to drown in silence.”
The warmth of the words pressed against the ache already lodged in Jane’s chest. She rose quickly, gathering Margaret’s copybook. “Forgive me, I must take Lady Margaret to her dinner.” Before Charlotte could reply, she was gone, Margaret skipping beside her.
Charlotte sat back, listening to the dull patter against the glass. Surely Jane could not have formed so deep an attachment as to be nursing a broken heart. For all her sharp mind, she was still a reverend’s daughter, raised in a quiet village, knowing little of men or the wider world. It was only natural that someone should turn her head. A pity, of course—given her station, nothing could come of it.
* * *
The days shortened. November slid into December, the rain unending, the cold growing worse. Fires burned from dawn till night, yet the rooms of Westford Castle felt airless and still, a permanent chill permeating every corner.
Jane moved through them as if underwater. She rose later each morning, her limbs heavy, her thoughts slow. Some mornings she barely reached the washstand before the sickness came—sharp, choking, gone as quickly as it struck. When it passed, she rinsed her face in freezing water, the sting of it biting her cheeks.
By the time the breakfast tray arrived, she was composed again. A smile ready, her voice calm. She poured tea for Margaret, listened to the child’s chatter about ponies and tales of knights, nodded in all the right places. The smell of food turned her stomach, but she endured it. Margaret should never see.
In the afternoons, the schoolroom grew quiet. Jane no longer paced as Margaret read but sat instead by the fireplace, shawl wrapped tight, her tone soft and frail when she corrected a line. Once, Margaret looked up from her book and frowned.
“You’re always tired now, Miss Ansley. Are lessons too much for you?” Jane bent and kissed the child’s golden head. It was answer enough.
The days blurred together. Schoolwork continued, meals passed untouched, nights stretched long and stifling. She told herself it was grief—what else could it be? Yet her hands trembled, her breath caught for no reason, her pulse thundered in her ears. Perhaps she was ill. The strain, the cold, the sleeplessness. Her body was only failing under the weight of it.
But the signs persisted. The heat in her cheeks that came and went. The strange tightness in her chest. The dull ache low in her back. The faint flutter low in her belly when she lay still too long.
That night, she undressed slowly. The fire was nearly out. She moved like a wraith through the dim, draughty room, placing her shoes by the hearth, folding her gown over the chest at the foot of the bed. When she unfastened her stays, her hands stilled at the laces. She turned slightly in the mirror.
Her shift caught the candlelight. There—just there—was the faintest curve beneath the linen. High. Barely visible. But new.
She stared. A silence fell inside her, sudden and deep, as if the air itself had been drawn away. Her hand rose and rested on the gentle swell. Firm. Real.
No. Her mind recoiled. Not possible. She pressed harder. The shape did not yield.
She grasped for explanations—missed courses, exhaustion, despair—but each one collapsed beneath the truth forming in her chest. The sickness. The dizziness. The soreness in her breasts. It was him.
She staggered back from the mirror, clutching the washstand as the blood pounded in her ears. The sound of water tapping against the window seemed far away, the whole world falling silent around the single pulse of her heart.
His words came back to her, clear as if he stood in the room.Fallen woman.
Now there was no refuge from it. No denial left. She pressed her palms flat to the wood, head bowed, breath harsh in the stillness. Something in her wanted to scream, but no sound came. She was ruined—utterly, irrevocably—and it was his child that proved it.
Chapter 21
The road to Westford Castle was hard with frost, the air brittle, the trees bone-white under a pewter sky. The carriage moved steadily, pulled by two black geldings, the harnesses creaking as muscles shifted under their glossy coats. Inside, silence stretched between father and son, unbroken for miles.
At last, the Duke of Westford spoke. “You’ll court her.”
“So you’ve said.” William didn’t look up. He sat angled toward the window, gloved hand resting against his mouth.
“She arrives by week’s end. With her parents. You’ll be attentive. Walk her through the gardens, ask about her schooling, listen while she stammers through whatever pleasantries she’s rehearsed. It doesn’t matter what you say—only that you’re seen.”
“She’s eighteen,” William said flatly.
