Charlotte exhaled and folded herself into the guest chair with theatrical resignation. “I do hope you’re making progress. Even though you know I patron half of them—you won’t win me any friends by stripping the modern poets of their supposed originality.”
Jane’s mouth curved slightly. “Well, I think I need to remind the world that Lucan already wrote the tragedy they think they invented.”
She gestured toward the essay draft. “This one compares Byron and Lucan—how both disdain authority, embrace futility,dramatize loss. Their empires are already collapsing before the poems begin.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “Sounds uplifting.”
Jane smiled faintly. “It is, in its own way. At least they don’t expect gratitude for doing what decency demands.”
Charlotte chose not to comment. “You have a great deal of material to work with.”
Jane turned another page. “His lordship was kind enough to send the books I needed. He also instructed the steward to deliver anything further I might require from the Westford Castle library. I’m grateful for that.”
Charlotte arched a brow. “His lordship, is it?”
Jane’s eyes stayed on the draft. “I have no wish to be improper.”
“Mmm,” Charlotte said, gaze lingering.
Silence stretched. Jane dipped her quill again—but she wasn’t writing. The nib stilled above the parchment.
Charlotte’s voice came gently. “Oh, Jane. You’ve seen the Morning Chronicle, haven’t you?”
Jane did not look up. “I read only the literary sections these days.”
“Well, it’s in the front. The Iron Duke has been in Brussels since early March. Everyone knew what was coming.” Charlotte shifted. “My brother’s brigade departs in two days.”
At last, Jane’s eyes lifted. “Is it certain?”
“It’s printed. There’ll be a full parade through the city. The Gazette confirms it. They’ll march out from Horse Guards, down Whitehall and along the Strand, then through Fleet Street and across the bridge before heading down to Dover. You’ll hear the drums from this very street.”
Jane said nothing, but what little color remained drained from her face. Charlotte leaned forward slightly. “He’s leaving, Jane.”
Jane’s hand still hovered above the page, trembling now. Where the quill touched, a blot of ink had begun to pool—spreading slowly, blooming across the parchment like muddied water. She did not seem to notice.
Charlotte watched her carefully. “He’ll be safe. Don’t look like that. If the French haven’t managed to kill him thus far, I doubt they’ll manage it now.”
Jane’s eyes moved at last—wide, dark, and suddenly very young. “You can’t know that.”
Charlotte waved a hand. “Oh, come now. He’s a major general. And a duke’s heir. Wellington isn’t about to put him at the front with the boys in red. He’ll have a horse, a telescope, and a map. Probably some over-dramatic staff officer to hold his gloves.”
Jane’s breath shook, just slightly. “He has scars, Charlotte. From the war. He got them somehow.”
Charlotte gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Probably his batman nicked him while shaving. You know William—too proud to complain, too vain not to make it sound worse than it was.”
Jane reached for a cloth and blotted the page, but the ink had already spread beyond repair. She stared at it for a long moment, then folded the ruined sheet in half and set it aside.
“It isn’t my concern any longer, is it?” But even to her, the words rang false.
Charlotte’s voice softened. “Isn’t it?”
Jane did not reply. Charlotte sat quietly, folding and unfolding her gloves in her lap. Outside, the bells from a nearby church struck the hour. Inside, the room felt smaller than ever—books, papers, breath, all pressing in.
Jane lifted a fresh page and began to write. Her pen trembled faintly on the first line. Charlotte said nothing more. But she did not leave, either.
* * *
The morning of the departure dawned raw and gray, a thin drizzle clinging to the air. Yet Horse Guards Parade was already thronged when William’s brigade assembled. Soldiers formed ranks, muskets slung, coats brushed to regulation neatness. Drums rolled. Officers on horseback moved along the line, voices sharp over the restless murmur of the crowd.
