Chapter 20
Lord Blackmeer departed before sunrise. No carriage, no escort—only his bay stallion waiting at the steps, steam rising from its flanks in the cold.
His greatcoat was thrown carelessly across the pommel.
He gave the steward a few brief orders—that his trunks were to follow him to London—then mounted and was gone.
The sound of hooves faded into the mist, leaving only silence behind.
By breakfast, the household had its tale. No farewell, no explanation, only the assumption of urgent military business. What else could summon a man of his rank so abruptly?
Charlotte, however, was not content with rumor.
Before noon she asked Mr. Harding, in that calm tone that admitted no evasion, whether a letter had come from Horse Guards.
The butler bowed and replied truthfully: none had.
She said nothing further, but the knowledge settled in her mind like a stone.
The hunting party disbanded soon after. Crofford left first, rambling on about the start of pheasant season and his prized pointers.
Fovargue and his wife followed, quiet and efficient in their departure.
Only Beaufort remained. For a fortnight he stayed on at Westford Castle, walking the grounds with them, attending Margaret’s lessons, waiting—as if William might ride back through the gates at any moment.
At last, he sent a letter to London. When no answer came, he too departed.
Jane felt nothing at his leaving. Polite, admiring, deferential though he was, Beaufort had never touched her heart. It was William’s absence that hollowed her days. Yet Charlotte, watching her grow paler and more silent, decided it must be Beaufort who had left the wound.
By the fourth week after Lord Blackmeer’s departure, the estate had settled back into its old rhythm, as though he had never disturbed it.
News arrived that the Duke and Duchess would not return that autumn.
She was to make her round of country house parties, and he remained in London, detained by affairs of state.
Routine returned. The breakfast tray came at the same hour each morning, though Jane’s appetite had faded.
Margaret bent day after day over her copybook, writing out passages from Addison with grave concentration while Jane watched, correcting only when the pen strayed.
They walked the gardens as before, when weather in November permitted, but Jane now kept to the paths, letting the child run ahead.
Her faint smile never quite reached her eyes.
In William’s absence, Charlotte turned to her work with renewed vigor.
Her writing desk was never empty—letters to protégées, verses to correct, accounts to balance.
When her pen paused, she turned her attention outward, most often to the neighborhood.
Mrs. Hughes and her daughters came for tea with numbing regularity, and though Charlotte received them graciously, her patience wore thin.
It was on such a day, during one of these polite visits, that Margaret tugged at her sister’s sleeve and whispered, “Charlotte, why does Miss Ansley never smile anymore? What can I do to make her glad again?”
Charlotte answered gently, but her eyes lingered on Jane—ashen and motionless across the table, her lips pressed tight against unspoken thoughts.
She said nothing then, unwilling to deepen the child’s worry.
Yet later, as she sat once more at her writing desk, penning a note to a young poet in town, the question returned.
The image of Jane remained fixed in her mind, more stubborn than any line of verse.
* * *
Rain lashed against the tall windows, rattling the panes when the wind struck.
The schoolroom smelled of chalk and damp wool; the air was heavy from the fire that burned low in the grate.
Margaret bent over her work, lips moving as she whispered her dates, the scratch of her pen merging with the steady drum of falling drops.
Charlotte entered quietly, her skirts brushing the floor. She paused at the hearth, warming her hands, before drawing a chair beside Margaret. With absent fondness she smoothed the child’s hair, her eyes already settling on Jane.
“This weather ruins one’s spirits,” she said, listening to the thunder roll. “Gray skies, damp shoes. One begins to feel shut in.”
Jane looked up from the essay she was marking. She managed a tired, dutiful upturn of her lips. “Yes, my lady.”
“You are pale again,” Charlotte observed. “Too many hours in this room will make a hermit of you.”
Jane blinked at the sudden concern. “Margaret thrives...”
“That is not what I mean.” Charlotte’s tone was gentle, but left no room for evasion. “You already read more than most scholars. But a mind like yours should not only absorb—it should respond. Reflections, perhaps. A treatise.”
Margaret set down her pen at once. “Miss Ansley already writes so much—pages and pages!”
Charlotte smiled, though her gaze never left Jane. “Not that kind of writing, dearest. I mean her own thoughts, in her own voice. There are circles in London that would value such work. I could see it placed.”
Jane’s breath caught. “You are too kind, my lady. I hardly—”
Charlotte raised a hand. “You have been too quiet since our guests departed. We all feel the emptiness, but it weighs on you more than you admit. Work is the surest remedy for melancholy. Better to write than to drown in silence.”
The warmth of the words pressed against the ache already lodged in Jane’s chest. She rose quickly, gathering Margaret’s copybook. “Forgive me, I must take Lady Margaret to her dinner.” Before Charlotte could reply, she was gone, Margaret skipping beside her.
Charlotte sat back, listening to the dull patter against the glass.
Surely Jane could not have formed so deep an attachment as to be nursing a broken heart.
For all her sharp mind, she was still a reverend’s daughter, raised in a quiet village, knowing little of men or the wider world.
It was only natural that someone should turn her head.
A pity, of course—given her station, nothing could come of it.
* * *
The days shortened. November slid into December, the rain unending, the cold growing worse. Fires burned from dawn till night, yet the rooms of Westford Castle felt airless and still, a permanent chill permeating every corner.
Jane moved through them as if underwater.
She rose later each morning, her limbs heavy, her thoughts slow.
Some mornings she barely reached the washstand before the sickness came—sharp, choking, gone as quickly as it struck.
When it passed, she rinsed her face in freezing water, the sting of it biting her cheeks.
By the time the breakfast tray arrived, she was composed again.
A smile ready, her voice calm. She poured tea for Margaret, listened to the child’s chatter about ponies and tales of knights, nodded in all the right places.
The smell of food turned her stomach, but she endured it. Margaret should never see.
In the afternoons, the schoolroom grew quiet. Jane no longer paced as Margaret read but sat instead by the fireplace, shawl wrapped tight, her tone soft and frail when she corrected a line. Once, Margaret looked up from her book and frowned.
“You’re always tired now, Miss Ansley. Are lessons too much for you?” Jane bent and kissed the child’s golden head. It was answer enough.
The days blurred together. Schoolwork continued, meals passed untouched, nights stretched long and stifling.
She told herself it was grief—what else could it be?
Yet her hands trembled, her breath caught for no reason, her pulse thundered in her ears.
Perhaps she was ill. The strain, the cold, the sleeplessness.
Her body was only failing under the weight of it.
But the signs persisted. The heat in her cheeks that came and went. The strange tightness in her chest. The dull ache low in her back. The faint flutter low in her belly when she lay still too long.
That night, she undressed slowly. The fire was nearly out.
She moved like a wraith through the dim, draughty room, placing her shoes by the hearth, folding her gown over the chest at the foot of the bed.
When she unfastened her stays, her hands stilled at the laces. She turned slightly in the mirror.
Her shift caught the candlelight. There—just there—was the faintest curve beneath the linen. High. Barely visible. But new.
She stared. A silence fell inside her, sudden and deep, as if the air itself had been drawn away. Her hand rose and rested on the gentle swell. Firm. Real.
No. Her mind recoiled. Not possible. She pressed harder. The shape did not yield.
She grasped for explanations—missed courses, exhaustion, despair—but each one collapsed beneath the truth forming in her chest. The sickness. The dizziness. The soreness in her breasts. It was him.
She staggered back from the mirror, clutching the washstand as the blood pounded in her ears. The sound of water tapping against the window seemed far away, the whole world falling silent around the single pulse of her heart.
His words came back to her, clear as if he stood in the room. Fallen woman.
Now there was no refuge from it. No denial left. She pressed her palms flat to the wood, head bowed, breath harsh in the stillness. Something in her wanted to scream, but no sound came. She was ruined—utterly, irrevocably—and it was his child that proved it.