Then, suddenly, her breath caught. Her hand went to her belly. Her face twisted in pain.
He rushed forward. “Jane—what is it?”
She doubled over with a groan. “A cramp—just… give me a moment—”
Panic flared in him like lightning. “I’ll call the doctor.”
“The servants—”
“They’ll be back at noon. I’ll go myself if I have to—just stay there. Don’t move.”
She lay back, eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallow and quick. William stood frozen, hand trembling as he poured her a glass of water. The world felt fragile. He had never been so afraid.
When the physician finally arrived and examined her, his verdict was swift: the cramp had passed, the baby was strong. She needed rest, calm, and food.
By the time the servants returned, William had gone. And Jane, sitting alone in the bed with the cold tray untouched, stared at the door he had closed behind him.
* * *
The knock came late in the afternoon, soft but insistent. Mary, smoothing her apron with nervous hands, stood at the front door for some time before opening it.
Lord Blackmeer.
He looked worn. Not unkempt—he had never been that—but something in the rigid line of his shoulders suggested that sleep had not found him easily these past days. His cravat was tied too tightly. He held his gloves, the knuckles white where his fingers gripped the leather.
“I wish to see Mrs. Strathmore,” he said.
Mary hesitated. “The mistress is unwell, my lord.”
“I know that.” His tone was low, tight. “But I will not stay long.”
She glanced behind her, uncertain. Then: “I’ll inquire.”
Jane’s voice, from the stairwell, came calm and clear. “No need, Mary. He’s not to be admitted.”
Mary turned back, unsurprised. William went still.
“I will not see him,” Jane said again. “Not today. Not tomorrow. He can stop coming every day—it’s been almost a fortnight.”
There was silence. Mary cast him an apologetic glance before quietly closing the door.
William stood motionless on the step, as if uncertain what had struck him. But after a moment, he turned and walked away.
* * *
He came again the next day, this time with Charlotte in tow. The carriage pulled up quietly before noon. Inside, Charlotte fussed with her gloves as if trying to decide which hand she might throttle him with first.
“You look worse than usual,” she said tartly. “Have you been prowling about like some ghost haunting the halls of Westford House? You could at least moan properly.”
“I’ve been occupied. There’s a war brewing, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Occupied? Please. I hardly think you’re plotting your stratagems, General, when you pace the house until dawn, glowering at shadows and frightening the servants—only to drink yourself unconscious in the study. That’s not strategy. It’s self-pity.”
He ignored that. “You’ll speak to her?”
Charlotte gave him a look. “If she lets me in.”
* * *
