The thought burned. And with it came another, unbidden: Beaufort’s laughter in the library, his easy admiration, his words at White’s—I don’t know what I should have done without her… she keeps a man on his toes.
Heat surged in William’s chest. He saw, in a flash, Jane’s sharp wit turned toward Beaufort—her eyes shining, her smile freely given. It twisted like a knife. He had never asked his friend, never sought the truth; he had only assumed the worst, and the thought consumed him still.
His jaw clenched, his grip tightened on his knee. Across from him, Lady Caroline shifted, startled by the sudden shadow in his face. Fear rippled through her. She regarded him briefly, then looked down at her teacup, tracing its rim with renewed concentration.
William forced a breath through his teeth, mastering himself. With a bow of his head to Lady Caroline, he rose and excused himself into the broader company. The soft din of chatter washed over him. He tried to appear calm—a thin cover for the tempest inside.
It was not long after, as he lingered near a cabinet of porcelain figurines, that he caught Caroline’s voice, pitched low but clear to her companion.
“He is comely,” she murmured, “but I think I should be afraid to be his wife. Mama says he was once a very bad man. Yet it seems killing Frenchmen wipes a slate clean these days—why, they even made that Anglo-Irishman a duke for it.”
Her companion tittered, casting a nervous glance toward William. Caroline only lowered her tone further, though it still carried. “I think I should tremble at a husband’s rights. He is so very tall, and I dread his temper. But Mama says once a man has his heir, he is content to leave his wife in peace. Perhaps that would be enough.”
The words slid through the hum of conversation, striking deep. William gave no outward sign. The thought of himself reduced to such a husband made his blood rise hot—welcome for duty, tolerated only for the act to beget an heir. Jane had met him with fire, demanded from him as much as she gave—never timid, never resigned. With her, there was no thought of enough.
Chapter 28
The library was hushed in the winter light, the cold pooling beneath the high, coffered ceiling. Jane bent over her papers at the great oak table, her neat hand steady as she shaped another page of her essay—a comparison between Byron’s storm-tossed heroes of passion and the figures of ancient tragedy, proud warriors bound to fate and honor.
On the rug before the fire, Lady Margaret sat cross-legged, a small book open across her knees—the child’s version of the Iliad Jane herself had written out for her. The letters sprawled large on the page, carefully inked, though the names still daunted her.
“Miss Ansley,” she said at last, her little brow furrowed, “how do you say this one? Ag… Agamem…?”
“Agamemnon,” Jane supplied gently, smiling up from her paper.
Margaret mouthed it once, then again, triumphant. “Agamemnon. But the spelling is horrid.”
“That is the Greeks for you,” Jane teased. “They liked to make everything more difficult than it need be.”
Margaret gave a vigorous nod and went on reading—only to falter a few lines later. “But… this is cruel,” she said in dismay. “He is to kill his daughter? Just to make the ships sail?”
Jane set down her pen. “So the story says. The gods demanded it, and Agamemnon prepared to yield.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “But the maiden,Iphigenia, was spared in the end. At the last moment the goddess Artemis whisked her away, and a stag was slain in her place. Much as Abraham was stayed from slaying Isaac.”
Margaret exhaled, her shoulders relaxing. “How very strange, though. All this misery—because the goddesses quarreled over who was the prettiest.” She shook her head gravely. “I should not want to be Aphrodite. I would rather be Athena. Clever, like you.”
Jane’s lips softened into a smile. “I am not so very clever, darling.”
“Yes, you are,” Margaret insisted, tucking her curls back with solemn importance.
Before Jane could answer, the door opened. A footman entered with a silver tray balanced carefully in his hands.
“A letter for you, miss. From Southampton.”
Jane reached for the letter with a slight tremor. She broke the seal, unfolded the page, and as her eyes moved down the lines, the color drained from her face bit by bit.
Margaret, watching closely from the hearth, set her book aside. “Miss Ansley?” she said uncertainly. “Are you well, Miss Ansley?”
But Jane’s breath had grown shallow. The words blurred; the library swam. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her, her pulse thundering in her ears. She made to rise, then faltered—her knees buckled, and the letter slipped from her fingers as she crumpled to the carpet.
“Help!” Margaret’s shriek rang out. “Help, please!” She fled into the corridor at a run, colliding headlong with Charlotte, who was even then coming in search of them.
In an instant Charlotte was inside, stooping to Jane’s side. The governess lay pale and still, her dark hair spread against the rug. Beside her the letter lay open, its lines stark upon thepage. Charlotte snatched it up, even as a footman appeared at the door.
“Salts,” she ordered, her voice sharp as a razor. “At once. And send for a physician.”
When the servant had gone, she turned back to Jane, but her gaze fell again upon the letter. She read. The words bit hard.
Southampton, 20 January
