Charlotte hesitated. Then, softly: “I admire you, you know.” Jane raised her head. “I don’t think I could bear it. Not with the whole house watching. The servants guessing. And no word from the man who put me in this position.”
Jane’s expression did not change. “It is not their gaze I fear.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed. “It’s his silence.”
A pause. Then, Jane said quietly, “Whatever he decides, I’ll accept it.”
Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “Even if he does nothing?”
Jane met her eyes, calm and steady. “Then I’ll raise the child myself. In some corner of the country where no one knows my name. With or without his support.”
Charlotte smiled faintly. “No. You’ll always have my support.”
Outside, the rain eased. A coal cracked in the grate.
“Do you think he’ll do nothing?” Jane asked, barely above a whisper.
Charlotte didn’t answer right away. “He won’t marry anyone else.” Jane’s throat worked. “That’s all I can say for certain,” she added.
“Just hope he doesn’t fancy himself another Prince William and demand an army of little FitzClarences from you,” Charlottesaid dryly as she crossed the room and touched Jane’s shoulder gently. “Rest. Please. If not for your sake—for the child’s.”
Jane inclined her head. “Thank you, my lady.”
Charlotte left her seated at the escritoire, the pen poised again above the page—like a woman who refused to stop building a future, even as her own hung suspended.
* * *
It was nearly noon when Lady Charlotte entered her brother’s study without knocking. The door clicked shut behind her, soft but firm. William stood by the window, arms folded, staring into the pale, gray light beyond the glass. He didn’t turn.
“If you’re here to ask after Margaret,” he said coolly, “I believe a new governess needs to be hired soon.”
Charlotte’s voice was measured. “Margaret is fine. When Miss Ansley is not with her, she’s teaching herself mythology and declaring Diana a fierce protector of women. One wonders why she thinks the need is so great.”
He said nothing. A log cracked in the grate, loud and sudden.
“I’ve just come from Miss Ansley’s room,” Charlotte added. “She was writing. Again.”
Still, he didn’t move.
“She gets up, she eats, she teaches Margaret. She writes essays on Byron and translates bloody Juvenal when she cannot sleep. She is calm. Composed. Serene, even.” Charlotte stepped forward. “But it is not strength, William. It’s stillness. Like ice before it cracks.”
At that, William turned. He looked haggard. There were shadows under his eyes, tension in the set of his jaw. He had shaved, but poorly. The buttons of his cuffs were misaligned.
“She has made no demands of you,” Charlotte said. “She hasn’t wept. She hasn’t begged. She hasn’t said your name to me once. But you must know that every day she wakes in that room is a day closer to the truth being visible to everyone.”
“I know that,” he said curtly.
“Do you?” Charlotte shot back. “Because she is six months gone, nearly seven, William. The dresses don’t hide it anymore. The staff are not fools, and the longer you let this linger, the worse it becomes.”
“I told you,” he said, voice sharp, “she is to stay where she is.”
“And for how long?” Charlotte’s tone rose, but not in shrillness—only in suppressed outrage. “Until she delivers your child in the guest room of our townhouse? With the undermaids whispering behind the door and the entire ton ready to tear her apart the moment she steps out?”
William raked a hand through his hair. “And your solution is what? Take her back to Norfolk? Hide her in the stables? Or marry her off to another man the moment I turn my back?”
She flinched but didn’t deny it.
His tone darkened. “No. She stays. She is ill. That is the story. Find someone else to take Margaret’s lessons. Let Jane rest.”
