My niece,
It is with grief and no small indignation that I take up my pen. The report of your condition has reached me, and I cannot disguise my astonishment. You have not only cast away your own honor, but in so doing have tainted the prospects of your sisters. What man of sense will now look with favor upon a family whose eldest daughter has so disgraced herself? You have made their orphan’s portion heavier than it was already.
Do not think Southampton will offer you refuge. My house is closed to you. You will not cross its threshold again, lest you drag further shame upon those who have shown you nothing but kindness.
I require you to send me the name of the man responsible. I will see if he may be compelled to act, though I hold little hope. I will apply to His Grace, the Duke of Westford, under whose roof you’ve been placed, to see whether pressure may be brought. Should all such efforts fail, I will not press the matter further in public, for I will not expose our name to ridicule. In such a case, you must contrive for yourself as best you may. If honest employment is denied you, there remain other means by which women in your predicament seek their bread. At least the rest of us will be spared the sight of it.
As for the unfortunate creature you are soon to bring into the world, I advise you to leave it where such children are commonly left. It will be better so—for the child, and for you. I doubt you could rear it with dignity, burdened as you are with disgrace.
Whatever the outcome, you must understand: you have destroyed not only yourself, but the hopes of your family.
Your uncle,
Robert Bailey
Charlotte’s fingers shook as she lowered the page. A tightness spread through her chest that was almost pain. To write such words to a girl of such dignity—to cast her off as though she were filth. Charlotte’s throat burned with fury.
Jane lay before her, pale and still, her brilliance silenced for the moment. All that wit, that courage, that quick mind Charlotte so admired—dismissed, condemned, lost. It was a crime to waste such a soul.
She pressed the folded letter tight in her fist. No, she thought fiercely. This shall not be her end. Not while she had strength, not while she had means. She looked down at Jane again, grief twisting into resolve. She would save her—for herself, for the child, because Jane Ansley deserved to be saved.
* * *
Jane had been carried to her chamber, the curtains drawn and the fire banked high. By the time her senses returned fully, the physician was already at her side, his questions quiet, his manner brisk but not unkind. She answered as best she could—yes, the sickness had eased after the early months; no, she felt no unusual pains; yes, she tired easily, but less than she had feared.
Then came the greatest mortification. At his request, she loosened her stays, and he pressed with practiced firmness upon her abdomen, gauging what her own body already told her. Sheflinched, heat rising in her cheeks. No man but William had ever touched her there, and to endure a stranger’s impersonal hand made her flush with discomfort. He, however, noted nothing but the clinical.
“Over four months along,” he said at last, satisfied, and turned to gather his things.
Now he stood at the door, his hat tucked under his arm, speaking low to Charlotte.
“All is well enough, Lady Charlotte,” he said—soothing, almost brisk. “She is in good health, and the child grows as it should. At this stage, the swelling tends to be slight, especially in a first confinement. There is no cause for concern. As she reports nothing save the sickness of the early weeks, I see no reason the birth should not be safely managed.”
Charlotte inclined her head, pressing a folded note into his palm—more than his usual fee. Her voice was even, though edged with steel. “You will keep this matter private, sir. Until arrangements can be made, we cannot risk idle tongues. You will speak of it to no one.”
The physician tucked the money away with a bow. “Of course, my lady. You may trust me. More often than not, such cases are settled quietly. And I daresay the gentleman will do his duty by the young lady.”
Charlotte’s lips thinned. “That will be all.”
When the door had closed behind him, she turned back to the bed. Jane lay half-raised against the pillows, her fingers twisted in the coverlet, her eyes refusing to meet Charlotte’s. She shifted, as though she might turn her face to the wall, but Charlotte crossed to her and sat down firmly at her side. She reached for Jane’s hand.
“Please, my dear Miss Ansley,” she said softly. “Do not feel ashamed.”
Jane’s throat worked as she blinked against the sting of tears. “I am so sorry, my lady,” she whispered. “I had hoped—I thought—my uncle would be more understanding. He was always so kind, and I did not wish to place you in such a dreadful position. Forgive me.”
“Hush.” Charlotte’s tone left no room for apology. She smoothed her thumb across Jane’s knuckles. “You are not the first young woman to taste forbidden fruit. Though”—her brow arched faintly—“you might have been wiser to guard against consequence.”
At that, Jane’s composure broke. She covered her face, weeping openly. It wasn’t as if she’d known how to prevent it. And hadn’t some women tried for years without conceiving?
“But,” Charlotte went on, her voice steady, “it is not all your fault. At least not entirely. The man who did this bears greater blame.”
Jane sobbed harder, her hands still shielding her.
Charlotte’s gaze softened. “My dear… I know something of it myself. My betrothed, Andrew, sought glory—an immortal name—when he answered General Wellington’s call to arms against Bonaparte. I was scarcely older than you, foolish and certain we would be wed when he returned. In the last days before he sailed, I gave myself to him. He died within weeks of the war’s beginning. I was fortunate not to conceive, yet the deed had been done. I could not bring myself to confess my indiscretion to my father, and so I remained here. If I have never married, it is less from love of my poor Andrew than from loathing of that confession.”
She gave a small, bitter smile, then leaned closer. “So you see, you have an ally in me. And I have a way to help you.”
Jane lowered her hands, her eyes swollen with tears. “He will never marry me,” she whispered brokenly.
