London had turned out to see them off. Ladies waved handkerchiefs, children darted forward with flowers, old men tipped their hats. Some cheered, some wept openly. The air smelled of damp stone and horse-sweat, thick with the mingled sounds of farewell.
William rode at the head of his staff, his uniform immaculate, face carved from marble. He acknowledged salutes, accepted blossoms pressed into his horse’s bridle, gave the occasional nod. His expression betrayed nothing, though inside he felt the weight of every eye upon him.
Then, as the column turned past Somerset House and began the long march south, he glanced sideways—just once, no more than habit.
And there she was. Near the front of the crowd, no more than a few yards off, a woman stood with tears streaking her cheeks, a white handkerchief twisted in her fist. Her belly rounded beneath her cloak. Her lips moved soundlessly as if in prayer—or entreaty.
For an instant his chest seized. Jane. He blinked hard, forced his gaze forward again. Impossible. She had cast him out. She wanted nothing of him. His mind was playing tricks, conjuring her out of grief and longing. He could not allow himself to look again.
Behind him the drums struck up. The men cheered. Flowers arced into the air, falling crushed beneath boots and hooves.
Jane stayed rooted where she was, handkerchief raised, though she could hardly see him now through the press of marching men. Her lips shaped the words only for herself, for the child stirring within her.
Come back. Come back and meet your son… or daughter.
But William was already riding on, swallowed by the column, his figure growing smaller as the brigade moved south.
* * *
The crowd thinned slowly, folding into the mist and noise of the Strand as the last ranks vanished from sight. Jane stood motionless, the handkerchief damp in her fist. Her throat ached from holding back sobs. She had not been sure whether he noticed her. Perhaps he hadn’t.
Mary touched her elbow gently. “Mistress—shall we go?”
She nodded once, unable to trust her voice. They made their way back to the hired carriage waiting near the Thames embankment. Inside, the door closed with a hollow thud. London went on outside the windows—vendors shouting, wheels clattering, bells ringing—but she heard none of it.
The tears she’d tried to restrain now came freely. Silent at first, then spilling hot and relentless down her cheeks. She covered her mouth with both hands, her body shaking with the force of it.
She had told herself she could endure his absence. That she could live without him, if she must. But the sight of him riding away—straight-backed, unflinching, half-lost to war—had ripped something open in her she had not been able to deny.
She loved him. For all his pride, for all his cruelty, for all the ways he had wounded her—she loved him with a fierceness that frightened her. And now he was gone.
Her child shifted within her, a small kick beneath her hand. She bent her head, whispering brokenly through her tears: “Come back to us, William. Please—come back.”
* * *
By the time the carriage rattled into Bloomsbury, Jane had mastered her tears, though her eyes were swollen and her head ached with the effort. She allowed Mary to help her upstairs and made some pretense of resting, though her heart beat wild and unsteady with every thought of William riding farther from her with each passing hour.
It was late afternoon when Charlotte appeared, sweeping into the house with her usual air of authority. She found Jane in her study, papers spread across the desk but untouched.
Charlotte shut the door behind her and gave her a long, appraising look. “Mary told me you’ve been crying.”
Jane straightened her notes, keeping her voice calm. “I am well enough.”
“Well enough to look ghastly.” Charlotte came closer, her expression softening. “You mustn’t let yourself become so agitated. Think of the baby.”
Jane lowered her eyes, her hand absently smoothing the curve of her belly.
Charlotte leaned a hip against the desk. “You’ve been working on your essays for months. It’s time we published them. Mrs. Radcliff and I could host a little gathering here—nothing too large. Only women, for now. A salon of sorts. You need something to turn your mind from marching drums and French bayonets.”
Jane’s lips parted in surprise. “A gathering?”
“Why not? You’ve as much wit as any bluestocking in London, and more grace than half the ladies at Almack’s. Let them hear you.” Charlotte reached out and squeezed her hand. “And in the meantime, think of the baby. You must keep yourself well—for both your sakes.”
Jane swallowed hard, overcome by the mixture of tenderness and steel in Charlotte’s manner. For the first time since the morning, she managed a small, true smile.
“Yes,” she said softly. “For the baby.”
Chapter 42
