The lamps had long since been extinguished in the east wing. Only a single candle burned low in the guest chamber, its wick sputtering in the brass candlestick on the mantel. Jane lay in the quiet, one hand curled protectively over her stomach, the other fisted in the coverlet. The pain had dulled to a throb now—a lingering ache that had started as a cramp sharp enough to steal her breath.
Charlotte had insisted, before leaving her to rest, that she summon a servant if it returned. That she would call a physician. But the pain had eased, and Jane could not bear the thought of more fuss. It was likely the carriage ride—too long, too jostling—and the shock of seeing them together. William and Lady Philomena, seated too close, too familiar, with the easy intimacy of those well-suited to each other.
Her fingers spread over the slight swell beneath her nightdress. It was no longer so easy to hide. Five months, nearing six. She would not be able to pass for slender much longer. Another week, perhaps two, and the guessing would begin.
The boards creaked in the corridor. She stilled.
Soft, hesitant footsteps approached. Then came the faint rattle of a key in a nearby lock. A pause. One door opened and closed. Then another. And then—hers.
The handle turned, and the door opened a fraction before stopping. She shut her eyes. Stillness settled again.
She could hear his breathing now, low and careful. William stepped inside. She felt the air shift, the tension that always came with him. She didn’t move, only kept her breaths even, her eyes closed.
He lingered near the door, then crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, with the hush of a shadow. His hand came to rest lightly on the coverlet. She felt it near her hip, then rising—hesitating.
The backs of his fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light. He touched her as if to reassure himself she was truly there, truly breathing. He trembled. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. She could feel the pull of it in the air between them, the ache in his silence. But he didn’t. His hand fell away. Slowly, he rose.
She did not open her eyes until she heard the door close again. When she was sure he was gone, Jane lifted her fingers to her face. The place where he had touched her still tingled with warmth.
“That was your father,” she whispered, barely more than sigh. Her palm returned to the curve of her stomach. “And I am certain—if he knew you—he would love you so very much.”
She blinked back tears, her voice steadier now, speaking not to the room, but to the life she carried. “But I will love you more. For the both of us.”
* * *
Jane stood at the washbasin, twisting her hair into a low knot with fingers that trembled more than she liked. The glass showed a pale face and tired eyes, but she set her jaw and pinned the last strand into place. Charlotte would come soon. There was no more time to fret.
Her dress for the day was a soft gray wool, the bodice high and discreetly gathered—chosen carefully, like every piece she hadworn in recent weeks. It still concealed her shape, but only just. The buttons strained when she exhaled too deeply.
In the adjoining room, she could hear Charlotte’s voice directing the maid, light and precise. “No footman. We won’t need one. Have the carriage wait two streets over.”
Jane sat at the edge of the bed and pressed her hand to her middle. The child was quiet this morning—thank God. But her own heart was not.
Today was the first doctor’s visit. At least, that had been the excuse given to the butler. In truth, they were going to South Kensington, to the townhouse of a woman Jane had never met, but whose name had been whispered with reverence by Charlotte. Mrs. Radcliff.
Jane had not asked how much the woman knew—only that Charlotte trusted her. And that, at present, was enough. Just barely.
The door opened without ceremony. “Ready?” Charlotte asked.
Jane rose. “As I’ll ever be.”
Charlotte gave her a once-over, eyes narrowing at the telling swell pressing faintly against the gown’s front, but said nothing. “Come along then.”
* * *
The Kensington townhouse was narrow but dignified, its red brick softened by ivy and the brass knocker polished to a muted gleam. No liveried footman waited at the door—only a plain maid in a clean apron who curtsied once and stepped back to admit them.
Charlotte swept inside without waiting to be announced. “We’re expected,” she said lightly, unbuttoning her overcoat. Jane followed with a slower step, her pulse thudding in her throat. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and parchment.
They were led into the morning room, modestly but tastefully appointed—bookshelves lining one wall, a pianoforte on the other, and sunlight filtering through sheer muslin curtains. There were no grand chandeliers or gilt frames. Only calm, civilized order.
Mrs. Radcliff rose from her writing desk at once. “Lady Charlotte,” she said, offering both hands with a warmth that was quiet, never cloying. “You are as punctual as ever. And this must be Miss Ansley. Lady Charlotte has spoken of you often. And favorably.”
Jane curtseyed, uncertain what to make of her. “Mrs. Radcliff. I’m very grateful for your time.”
“Think nothing of it. Any friend of Lady Charlotte’s is welcome here.” Mrs. Radcliff’s voice was low and evenly modulated, with the kind of serenity that made people feel braver than they were. Her gown was of dark plum merino, neat but unadorned, and her graying hair was twisted in a simple chignon. She did not look like a woman who hosted poets. And yet the room was full of subtle indications—a stack of unbound pamphlets, a partially annotated manuscript, the unmistakable smell of ink.
“Do sit down,” she added, gesturing to the chairs by the fireplace. “I’ve asked for tea. And something stronger, if needed.”
