Charlotte’s gaze snapped to hers. Jane smiled faintly, eyes half-closed. “He may be many things… but he is very pleasing to look at. Tell him, tell him… I loved him very much.” Her lashes fluttered. Her breath shallowed.
The doctor stepped forward sharply. “She needs sleep now. And God willing, she’ll wake again.”
Charlotte leaned forward, pressing her lips to Jane’s temple. “You’ll wake,” she whispered fiercely. “And when you do, you’re going to tell William yourself. And if you don’t, I’ll—”
But she broke off, her throat closing. The child had stopped crying. He nestled into the hollow of Jane’s side, sturdy and pink and infuriatingly alive. Charlotte wiped her eyes and sat beside them in silence until dawn.
* * *
The morning light came pale through the drawn curtains, softer than it had any right to be. Jane stirred slowly, the fog in her mind beginning to lift, though her limbs still felt heavy, her skin slick with sweat.
She was alive. Her breath came shallow but even, and her gaze, when it found the figure seated beside her bed, was lucid.
Charlotte was beside her, slumped in a chair with her head tipped back, mouth parted slightly in sleep. A half-empty cup of tea had gone cold on the side table. Her gown was creased. Her eyes opened the moment Jane stirred. “You’re awake.”
Jane managed a faint smile. “Against all odds.”
There was color in her cheeks again, faint but returning. Her voice, though hoarse, held its usual dry wit.
“You gave us all a fright,” Charlotte said, pressing a cool hand to her forehead. “I was prepared to deliver a very dramatic eulogy. Something tasteful, but devastating.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” Jane shifted slightly and winced. “Is he…?”
Charlotte stood, and a moment later returned with a small, blanket-swaddled bundle. She placed him gently in Jane’s arms.
Jane looked down—and truly saw him. His hair was pale as milk, sticking up in tufts. His face was scrunched, his fists curled tightly against his chest. But his eyes, when they opened briefly, were dark as ink.
“Oh,” she breathed. “He’s beautiful.”
Charlotte let out a sharp laugh. “We’re clearly looking at different babies. I’ve seen plucked geese with more charm.”
Jane smiled tiredly. “I’ll take it personally, Charlotte, if you continue insulting my son.” Then added, “I’m sure Margaret would have appreciated her nephew more than you do.”
“She would,” Charlotte agreed. “He looks just like her little rabbit when it was born. She adored that thing—right up until she left it in the woods to chase a hedgehog, or something equally idiotic. Lost it within the hour. Don’t let that little harridan near him.”
Jane gave a breathless laugh. “God, I wish she were here. My mother, too. My sisters.” There was a pause. “I was thinking,” she said softly, “of naming him Sebastian. After my father. Do you think William would object?”
Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the baby’s blanket with one hand. “That would be lovely. I don’t know if William had any particular wishes, though I don’t see why he would. But the Duke?”
Jane hesitated. “What would the Duke wish?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Oh, Father would prefer something strategically loyal—George, of course. After the King. And the Regent. You know how he is about Court favor.”
Jane didn’t hesitate. “Then George Sebastian it shall be.”
Charlotte arched a brow. “Just like that?”
“I’ve no wish to antagonize the man who holds my son’s future.”
Charlotte grinned. “Now I see why they say you’re clever. I’d have felt snubbed and named the child something hopelessly Greek just to be difficult.”
Jane looked down again, brushing a knuckle gently across the baby’s downy head. The baby stirred, fists curling. She cradled him closer. “Hello, little George,” she whispered. “You look rather like a grumpy old man, all wrinkled up, but I love you awfully much.”
Chapter 43
The courier arrived just after the rain, his cloak plastered to his back, boots caked with mud, and his mare stumbling from the weight of the post bag. William barely looked up from the campaign table. He was expecting dispatches—orders, maps, Wellington’s latest directives. What he did not expect was the pale, private envelope tucked between sheaves of creased reports.
William didn’t wait. He took the folded letter, the parchment gone soft with damp, and turned it over in his hands. Charlotte’s seal—smudged but intact. His heart kicked.
