Chapter 11
The day had slipped into late afternoon, the air outside warm and mellow, shadows stretching long across the lawns. Lady Margaret had been seen to the nursery after lessons, a tray of milk and biscuits brought up by her maid, her governess finally released from duty for a precious hour.
Jane carried a small stack of volumes against her breast as she made her way toward the library.
The serenity of that vast, quiet room soothed her more than any other corner of Westford Castle.
Over time, returning books had become a small ritual she had come to cherish.
She meant to exchange her finished works for fresh ones, perhaps even linger a while at one of the broad tables to make her notes.
But when she pushed open the heavy door, she halted at once. Lord Blackmeer was there.
He lounged indolently on one of the leather sofas, his long legs stretched, a book resting open on his lap.
A glass of port gleamed red at his elbow, catching the last light slanting in from the tall windows.
His coat was loosened, his cravat tugged free; the faintest air of dissipation clung to him.
He carried himself with the ease of a man who knew his power, and the careless pose did nothing to blunt the force of his gaze.
Jane’s heart lurched. She had never found herself alone in his presence. “My lord,” she managed, her voice thin.
His eyes settled on her, steady, unreadable. There was a heat there she could not decipher, sharpened by the faint glaze of drink. He did not move at once, and the stillness unnerved her.
Flustered, she lowered her head and moved toward the shelves.
“I only came to return these,” she said, striving for composure.
She faltered, weighing whether it was worth the attempt, then pressed on.
“It was never my intention to deceive you. I acted on Lady Charlotte’s judgment.
I had no notion how improper it would seem—and I do not wish you to think—”
“Miss Ansley.” His voice cut across hers, quiet but firm. She froze, looking up.
“It is fine. Clearly it was not your fault. But you are not a puppet, to have your strings pulled by my sister. Not a child to be swayed by your elders.” His mouth curved faintly, though his countenance remained grave. “You might have protested.”
She flushed hotly, fingers tightening against the spines of her books. He was not wrong, yet she had no words to answer him.
William regarded her for a moment, and for an instant, the mask slipped. Not a child, no—not with those lush curves hidden beneath her austere dress. But young still, and hardly worldly. The thought sobered him.
He took a sip, then set his glass aside and leaned forward slightly, softening his tone.
“You are good with Margaret. I see it. We did not have much warmth or tenderness ourselves when we were young, and I think she feels it keenly now. Our governesses were cold creatures, useful for little more than drill and correction. I was sent away to school early enough, but Charlotte…”
His eyes shadowed briefly. “Charlotte had only me for affection, and what little I could give. You at least provide that for Margaret, and I am grateful. Do not think, even for a moment, that I do not care.”
Jane blinked, startled at the gentleness in his tone. She had braced for censure, but this—this was something else.
He gestured toward the volumes in her arms. “So then—what are you reading today?”
Jane hesitated, then drew one forward. “Plutarch’s Lives.” Her voice steadied as she went on. “I was rereading the account of Cicero. His defiance of Mark Antony—how he spoke though he knew it would cost him his life. There is something… stirring in that.”
William’s brow lifted. “Cicero?” He leaned back, regarding her with new interest. “Most would call him a fool. He might have saved himself by silence.”
“Perhaps,” Jane said quickly, her thoughts tumbling out before she could stop them.
She lit up as she spoke, her earlier nervousness gone.
“But then the Republic itself would have been silenced. He believed words mattered—that to speak truth, even when dangerous, was duty. That is why his murder seemed so monstrous: not only because they struck him down, but because they tried to silence what he stood for. And he was right. Octavian became the gravestone over which the Republic was buried.”
Her face warmed, her hands clasping the book tight against her. William studied her, a slow smile curving his mouth. “You defend Cicero admirably.”
“I only think,” she said softly, “that history remembers more of those who spoke, than those who stayed quiet.”
For a moment he said nothing, watching the glow in her eyes, the passion animating her features. A governess, seated before him, discoursing on Cicero with more spirit than many men he had heard in the House of Lords.
“Remarkable,” he murmured, almost to himself.
* * *
The family feast was held in one of the smaller dining rooms, the long table laid not with glittering silver and formal place cards, but with simple dishes Margaret herself had helped choose. She presided at the head like a miniature duchess, flushed with pride.
Afterward they moved to the drawing room, where Margaret, eager to show her accomplishments, sang at the pianoforte while Jane played, then recited a piece of verse Miss Ansley had helped her learn.
“England, with all thy faults, I love thee still
My country! And, while yet a nook is left
Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrained to love thee.”
Cowper’s lines rang bright and earnest in the child’s voice. When she finished, the family applauded; William’s clap was loudest of all. Margaret glowed, darting a look at Jane, who caught her close and pressed a kiss to her hair.
Charlotte leaned toward her brother, murmuring with a faint, puzzled smile, “She mothers the child. It is almost unnatural—to be so warm with one not her own.”
Jane heard. A blush rose in her cheeks. She lowered her eyes, her arms tightening around Margaret as if to shield her.
Inwardly she thought of her own sisters, far away at school under her uncle’s provision, and the pang of missing them mingled with pity for little Margaret, who seemed starved of love in her own home.
William saw the color in her face, the gentle way she bent her head to the child, and felt an unfamiliar ache take hold of him.
Margaret meanwhile was tugging at his sleeve, looking up at him, unsure but hopeful. “Did I do well, William? Did I?”
He bent toward her, his smile indulgent. “You did magnificently. So well, in fact, that I shall reward you with something better than applause. Tomorrow we’ll begin riding lessons.”
Her mouth fell open with delight. “Truly? Oh, William! Then I shall become a general too, just like you! Even outrank you!”
He laughed, unable to help himself. “And what shall we do with Old Nosey Wellington then?”
“I shall put him in retirement!” she cried, bouncing with excitement.
William’s expression mellowed. He had not the heart to tell her it could never be. Instead, he bent and kissed her brow. “And what a fine general you’d make.”
Margaret’s pride lit the room like a flame, Jane’s soft hand steady on her shoulder.
When she had at last been coaxed upstairs, still beaming from her triumphs, the house grew quieter.
The candles burned lower, the air thick with wine and smoke.
Charlotte lingered in the drawing room, glass in hand, her cheeks flushed not with laughter but with drink.
William watched her warily. “You are vexed.”
She gave a sharp little chuckle. “Vexed? At you, indulging that child as though she were some treasure? You forget whose daughter she is. That dreadful woman’s.”
His voice cut, low and hard. “Do not be cruel. She is our sister. Our blood.”
Charlotte’s eyes gleamed, feverish. “Is she? You know as well as I, the duchess is not renowned for her fidelity. She had her lover’s child only last year.”
He leaned forward, his gaze burning. “This is not the same, Charlotte, and you know it. Margaret is ours. How can your heart be so withered?”
Her mouth curled. “And you, lecturing me on affection? You, who pretended at it, and instead debauched every woman within reach—leaving reputations in ruins behind you?”
He exhaled sharply. “You can prick at me every time, but those days are behind me. The army gave me purpose.”
“By taking mine?” she shot back, slurring slightly from the wine. “You let Andrew die. You could have saved him. He was a brave fool, and I trusted you to bring him home alive. Instead, you let him sacrifice himself while you were rutting in a whore’s bed—I am sure of it.”
His jaw clenched. “Charlotte—there was nothing I could do.”
She laughed bitterly, almost a sob. “And yet here you are alive, building your fine career on his grave.”
Something hardened in his eyes. “You still love him. That is why you waste yourself so.”
Her cheeks burned, hot with fury, with shame. “I will not answer that, brother.” She tossed back the last of her drink and turned away, the glass trembling in her hand.
William stared at her, but she would say no more. He rose at last, silent, and left her to the dregs of the bottle. Later, when the house lay quiet, he sat in the library with a decanter of brandy, pouring until the glass blurred, until the silence closed in and the past loomed too heavily to bear.
* * *
The library was hushed but for the slow crackle of the fire. The last log had sagged, its heart glowing, spitting now and then as resin hissed in the embers. Shadows leaned long across the room, the smell of smoke and old leather heavy in the air.