Chapter 6
Westford Castle had not known such a stir in months.
The household was alive with bustle—maids polishing the great brass candlesticks until they blazed with reflected firelight, footmen hurrying with evergreen boughs to hang in the hall, Cook shouting herself hoarse as she marshaled geese and puddings for the feast to come.
Even the air seemed sharper, as though the house itself were bracing for the Duke and Duchess’s return before Christmas Eve.
Jane stood in the great hall with her charge, Charlotte poised at the girl’s side.
The butler had arranged the household in proper order: servants lined along the walls, heads bowed, the family waiting foremost. Jane—neither servant nor family, visible yet unseen—stood half a pace behind Lady Margaret, her hand resting on the child’s shoulder, smoothing her hair when the ribbon threatened to tumble free.
At last, the sound of wheels on gravel, the stamp of horses, and the doors were thrown open to December’s chill.
The Duke entered first. Jane’s eyes, curious, swept over him.
He was taller than she had expected, his shoulders broad despite his age, just over sixty, his bearing commanding.
The silver in his hair caught the pale light, but she could tell he had been fair once—blond, like both his daughters.
His face was handsome still, lined but strong, with an expression of restrained authority.
Behind him swept the Duchess—young, radiant, her silks trimmed with fur, her beauty only sharpened by the cold air. She moved like a woman accustomed to admiration, but her eyes slid past Margaret as if the child did not exist.
The Duke looked first to his daughters. He inclined his head and offered a few words of greeting, touched with a trace of warmth.
“Charlotte,” he said, his voice even. “You are well, I trust?”
“I am, Father,” Charlotte replied with composure, dipping her head.
His gaze shifted to Margaret, who glanced back and caught Jane’s hand in a fierce little grip. He reached into his greatcoat and drew out a parcel. “For you, Margaret.”
The girl’s eyes lit as she unwrapped the delicate porcelain doll—golden curls, silk gown, painted cheeks. “Thank you, Papa!” she exclaimed, clutching it to her chest.
But the Duke had already turned away, his duty done. His attention rested on his wife—admiring, intent, as though she alone commanded his full regard. He offered his arm, and together they passed down the hall, the Duchess giving only a faint nod to Charlotte and Margaret.
The servants bowed low. Jane curtsied, her face carefully composed, though she felt Margaret’s small hand trembling in her own.
* * *
The next morning Jane resolved to try to speak with Her Grace.
She hovered outside the morning room, where the scent of chocolate and perfume drifted faintly through the half-open door, and the rustle of papers and clink of porcelain broke the silence.
She meant only to speak of Margaret’s progress, of the strides she had made with her reading.
But before she could enter, the butler intercepted her gently.
“If you have any questions for Her Grace, Miss Ansley,” he said with a bow, “you may convey them through me. Her Grace does not need to be disturbed.”
Jane inclined her head, cheeks warm, and withdrew in silence. So much for a mother’s care.
* * *
Dinner that evening was held in the small parlor, bright with holly and candlelight, the table laid with silver and hothouse fruit, the goose carved with ceremony.
At the second course, Margaret drew herself up, cheeks glowing with eagerness. “Papa, Mama,” she announced, “I have prepared something. May I tell it?”
The Duke lifted his eyes briefly from his plate. “Very well. Go on.”
Her little voice rang high and clear as she recited one of Aesop’s fables, word-perfect, her face bright with pride. For a fleeting moment her parents looked at her—the Duke with a curt nod, the Duchess with a faint smile.
But scarcely had she reached the middle when the Duchess, adjusting the fall of lace at her wrist, spoke over her in a tone of languid inquiry.
“I was wondering, darling,” she said to her husband, “whether I might visit the Fitzalans at Bath in February. Lady Fitzalan presses me to join her, and she vows the waters will be quite reviving.”
The Duke’s reply was measured, his eyes still on his plate. “Until Parliament opens in March, you may amuse yourself as you wish. But once the Session begins, I will have you in London. I will not have whispers that you neglect your duty.”
The Duchess’s painted lips curved in a sulky pout.
Margaret faltered, the last words of her fable dying unheard.
Her proud flush drained away, shoulders collapsing in defeat.
Then—suddenly—she snatched a potato from her plate and flung it, a small, desperate missile, before bursting into tears and rushing from the table.
The room froze. The Duke’s brows drew together in cold disapproval. The Duchess sighed, dabbing delicately at her mouth with a napkin as if nothing untoward had happened. “I see our governess has accomplished nothing, save to make Margaret more unruly,” she said with cold disdain.
* * *
Jane found Margaret in the nursery, doll cast aside, her small body shaking with sobs. “They don’t love me,” she cried, burying her face in Jane’s gown. “They never have!”
Jane gathered her close, her fingers brushing through soft hair as the child nestled into her shoulder. “Hush, my darling. Your papa and mama are very busy people, burdened with many cares. They do not show their love as we would wish, but that does not mean they feel nothing.”
Margaret’s sobs only deepened. “They don’t! They don’t care at all!”
Jane held her tighter, her own throat aching. She could not deny the truth—not fully. Yet neither could she allow the child to despair. She whispered to her, steady and low:
“Then listen to me, Margaret. I love you. Truly. And I see how clever you are, how much you have learned. One day, they too will see it. You will astonish them, little one, I promise you. But until then—remember this—you are not alone. You have me.”
Margaret sniffled, clinging tighter, as though Jane’s embrace were the only safe harbor left in the world.
* * *
By mid-January, Westford Castle had fallen quiet again. The Duke departed for London, summoned by business at Court and affairs that could not be neglected, while the Duchess announced she would take herself south to the estate of the Earl of Halebury.
Charlotte had relayed this with a smirk that made Jane uneasy.
“Her Grace was obliged to travel to Italy last year,” she remarked, idly smoothing the fold of her gown, “after extending her stay with Lord Halebury rather longer than propriety might excuse.” The implication was clear enough, though Charlotte never said it outright.
Jane, though hardly worldly, had read enough to piece together the meaning. The thought that the Duchess had gone abroad to hide a birth made her blush hotly to her roots. She had no answer, and Charlotte, clearly satisfied, changed the subject.
* * *
The weeks passed in quiet rhythm. Margaret’s letters grew neater; her temper softened. She began to delight in her small victories. “Miss Ansley, I read it myself,” she’d cry, bright-eyed, each time she conquered a line aloud without stumbling.
Spring crept in. The warmer days drew them outside.
Lessons moved to the terraces and, when the ground dried, into the parkland and woods.
Margaret carried her slate and primer, and Jane carried her own volumes.
Sometimes they worked; sometimes they simply sat companionably beneath an oak, Margaret practicing her reading while Jane sat immersed in her own book.
In the full bloom of a late April afternoon, Jane had brought with her Byron’s poem, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.
As Charlotte had promised, the verse unsettled and entranced her, its restless cadences so unlike the measured calm of the works she was used to.
More than once her breath caught as a line seemed to burn from the page—words of longing, beauty, and desire laid bare without shame.
Heat crept into her cheeks, a quickening in her chest, yet still she read on, compelled as though each stanza unlocked something in her she could not name.
On their walk homeward through the green hush of the woods, they met one of the neighbors, Lord Fovargue, riding back from Westford Castle. His coat was unbuttoned, the breeze ruffling his hair as he reined in with a broad smile. “Miss Ansley! Lady Margaret! Have you heard the news?”
Jane shook her head, surprised.
“Napoleon has abdicated!” he declared. “The war is over! It’s all over London. The courier brought word this morning.”
Before Jane could answer, Margaret let out a small gasp of delight. “Then we have won!” she cried, clutching Jane’s hand.
They hurried back to the estate, Margaret almost skipping with excitement. Inside, they found Charlotte in the morning room, a fresh newspaper spread before her. Her face, usually cool, was bright with animation.
“Listen to this,” Charlotte said, tapping the column.
“They write that at Toulouse General Blackmeer’s command turned the fight—that his composure under fire and his judgment of the field secured the victory.
They call his conduct exemplary, his name spoken with the highest praise.
He is the toast of London, Miss Ansley—my brother, hailed as a hero. ”
Margaret’s eyes shone, though she barely knew her elder brother. Jane had never seen him either, never spoken of him beyond the few mentions Charlotte had let slip. But her heart beat faster, unbidden.
A duke’s heir turned general, a man lauded in triumph—William Strathmore, Marquess of Blackmeer—was returning to England. And whatever peace and quiet they’d known was coming to an end.