Chapter 23
The morning room smelled of starch and tea, with a faint trace of pine from the fire roaring on the hearth.
It had snowed the night before; a white veil lay over the gardens, clearly visible from the casements.
The gentlemen had gone to inspect the stables and His Grace’s new stallion, leaving the ladies to their own entertainments.
Lady Margaret had been brought down for the occasion, dressed neatly in a muslin frock and ribboned sash, her curls smoothed with unusual care.
She stood with her hands folded very properly before her, though her eyes shone with eagerness.
At first, she clung to Jane’s side, but under Charlotte’s encouraging nod, stepped forward with shy resolve to meet the Stratton ladies.
For days she had practiced a little song.
Now—at last—she was to perform it. Jane guided her gently to the pianoforte and seated herself at the keys.
Margaret took her place beside the instrument, casting a quick, hopeful glance toward her mother.
The Duchess smiled, but distantly, already half-turned toward Lady Stratton.
Jane struck the opening notes. Margaret’s small voice rose clear and sweet, every syllable carefully shaped. She sang with all her heart, her gaze flicking again and again to her mother in search of approval.
When the final note faded, there was polite clapping. The Duchess inclined her head, lips curving slightly, but offered no further word. Margaret faltered, then steadied, as if reminding herself not to mind.
Lady Henrietta was quick to take her place next. With solemn importance she stood by the pianoforte, chin lifted, while Jane’s hands remained on the keys, ready to oblige. The first notes rang out, and Henrietta’s voice followed—thin and affected, every phrase drawn out with pomp.
Margaret wrinkled her nose, leaning close to Charlotte in a whisper. “How do we make her stop?”
Charlotte bit back a chuckle, murmuring, “This is one of your first duties as a lady of the house, dearest—to endure without laughing.”
When Henrietta’s song ended, Charlotte clapped with deliberate brightness. “Marvelous, Lady Henrietta. Do give us another.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “But why?” she whispered.
Charlotte’s mouth twitched. “Because even her singing is better than her talking.”
The child’s giggle escaped before she could stop it. The Duchess shot her a sharp look in warning, and Margaret ducked her head. Henrietta, oblivious, began again, her mother gazing at her with the rapture of one who sees a rare jewel catching the light.
At last, Lady Stratton declared she must see the gallery overlooking the grounds, to make notes for improvements.
The Duchess, ever attentive, offered her arm and swept out with her at once.
Henrietta returned to the sofas, flushed and breathless, while Jane lingered at the instrument, idly turning a page of music.
Margaret, eager to shine, announced: “I can name every king of England, from William the Conqueror to today.”
Henrietta gave a tinkling laugh. “How very odd. What use could it possibly be?”
“I am going to be a general,” Margaret declared proudly, “like my brother William!”
Lady Henrietta giggled, the sound thinner now, edged with irony.
She lifted her chin, as if to remind them of her importance.
“Women do not command armies, Lady Margaret. They marry. Those without royal blood must be content with a generous purse if they hope to make a good match. His Grace, your father, has a fortune large enough to tempt a king, so you need not fret.” She folded her hands primly, her voice smug.
“But I shall make the finest match in England. Papa is a marquess, and Mama a Bourbon. There is no better bloodline than mine.”
Margaret colored, wounded. “But I want to be just like William!” she cried.
Henrietta smiled as though humoring the child. “Nonsense. You will marry. My father says no lady of consequence should be allowed to wither in spinsterhood.” Then, realizing her mistake, she turned to Lady Charlotte. “I am sure you are not very old, my lady.”
The words fell like stones. Charlotte did not mind in the least what the silly chit said—but Margaret’s eyes brimmed, her lip trembled. A sob escaped before she could stop it, and she fled across the room.
Jane was on her feet at once. She opened her arms, and Margaret hurled herself into them, burying her face in the safety of her gown. Jane bent close, stroking her hair, her tone low and steady.
“Hush, darling. Do not heed her. You are worth more than titles or purses. You shall be everything you choose, and more besides.” The little girl clung to her, her shoulders shaking.
Across the room, Henrietta looked on, mildly bewildered, as though she couldn’t fathom why she’d caused such distress. Charlotte leaned back in her chair, her expression sharp enough to cut.
The door opened, and William entered, still in his riding coat, a trace of cold clinging to him. He stopped short at the sight: Margaret sobbing in Jane’s arms, Jane bent over her, her touch tender and sure.
“What has happened?” His voice was tight and strained. He crossed the room at once, dropping to one knee beside them. He laid a careful hand on Margaret’s trembling shoulder. “Dearest one, what troubles you?”
Margaret lifted her tear-streaked face. “She said I cannot be a general. She said I will only marry. That is all I am good for.”
William’s jaw hardened, but he smoothed her curls gently. “You may be whatever you wish, my Margaret. Do you hear me? You are clever and brave, and I would sooner trust you at my side than half the men who wore uniform under me.”
Margaret sniffled, leaning against him, soothed by his presence. Jane, still bent, felt the overwhelming nearness of him—the faint scent of leather and winter air mingling with the steadiness of his touch.
Lady Henrietta spoke again from the sofa, flushed. “But what did I say wrong? It is only the truth. Women do not fight wars. They marry. That is what everyone knows.”
William looked up sharply, his eyes hard. “It was not the truth for her.”
But before he could say more, Charlotte leaned forward, her tone deceptively mild. “And you, Lady Henrietta, must learn when to stop talking.”
The room stilled. Henrietta’s mouth opened and shut, her skin blotching pink.
Margaret whimpered as the last of her tears dried on her cheeks.
She pressed close to Jane again, who kissed her hair, while William remained beside them, his hand moving gently over Margaret’s back with a softness that made Jane’s chest tighten.
For a moment they seemed bound together in a circle of tenderness—the child between them, their words hushed, their arms protective.
The sight pierced Jane with a pang so sharp she could scarcely breathe.
It was too domestic, too intimate, the very picture of what could never be.
If he even met our child, she thought bitterly, no such comfort would be allowed.
William would never kneel at their side.
Never soothe their little one with such gentle hands.
Yet in that moment, he was so near she could feel the warmth of him, could almost believe he might draw her into his arms next. His shoulder brushed hers as he bent over Margaret, his voice low, his breath stirring the loose tendrils at her temple. She had only to lean a fraction closer and—
She caught herself, tightening her hold on Margaret instead.
* * *
Jane could no longer say how many days the Strattons had stayed beneath the roof of Westford Castle; it felt already like an age.
The house was wound tight as wire. Footmen flew down corridors, faces taut, trays rattling in their haste.
Maids hurried double-quick at every bell, their whispers edged with nerves.
The kitchens roared from dawn till near midnight, ovens never cooling, spits never stilled, as if the estate itself might be judged on the abundance of its dishes.
Even the butler, usually unshakable, had acquired a pinched look—his stride clipped short with strain.
Each member of the family bore the hosting duty in their own fashion.
Charlotte bent over her writing late into the night, as though ink might drown out the inanity of the Stratton ladies.
William kept to the stables, longer each day, his silence settling thicker than the frost on the paddocks.
The Duke moved like a general on campaign, orchestrating every display with relentless calculation, determined to wring the utmost advantage from this visit.
And the Duchess glittered brighter than ever—elegant, polished, a jewel set to impress.
Yet Jane flushed to recall what lay beneath that gleam: Her Grace slipping from a darkened passage, lips swollen, a pearly smear at the corner of her mouth—and moments later Lord Stratton stumbling out, still tugging his breeches into place.
Jane’s own strength was fraying. The sickness that ought to have eased did not; instead, every scent in the house seemed bent against her.
The schoolroom was stifling, chalk dust catching in her throat.
The corridors reeked of lye and soap. Worst of all were the kitchens: rich gravies, roasted meats, pigeon pies—steaming offerings prepared for Lord Stratton, whose appetite knew no hour.
One breath was enough to make her throat tighten, her vision swim.
* * *
That morning was brittle with cold. The gardens lay still beneath a crust of snow that glittered under the pale December sun.
Jane had thought the fresh air might steady her—indoors was suffocating, thick with the smell of food and polish—but out here, the frost bit clean at her lungs.
Margaret skipped beside her, cheeks bright above her muff, leaving a trail of small bootprints in the white.
They had gone but a few paces when Margaret, quite suddenly, said, “I do not wish to be a flower girl.”
Jane smiled faintly, thinking it one of the child’s fanciful whims. “Not wish to? Why ever not?”
“At the wedding.”
The words slammed into her. Jane’s steps faltered. Her breath caught sharp in her throat. “What wedding?”
Margaret blinked, surprised. “William’s wedding. To Horse-face, of course.” She gave a giggle, bright and untroubled. “That is what Charlotte calls Lady Henrietta, and I think it suits her very well.”
But Jane could not laugh. She stood rooted in place, her heart hammering. “His… wedding?”
“Yes,” Margaret chirped, dancing around her, guileless.
“That is why they are here. But I asked Charlotte why William could not marry you instead, and she laughed and said William would never marry the governess.” Margaret frowned, tugging at Jane’s hand.
“But why not? You are clever and kind. Why must it be Horse-face?”
Jane’s knees weakened. The whiteness of the lawns seared her eyes.
Her vision blurred. She had never let herself hope.
From the first, she had known what they were—what he was.
Their nights together had been moments stolen in the dark, nothing more.
A keepsake to treasure before resigning herself to a life of service—before the world claimed him back.
Her throat closed. The bare branches above reeled; the ground beneath her feet tilted, no longer steady. The truth pressed down with merciless clarity: he would marry another, while inside her grew the child he would never claim as his.
“Miss Ansley?” Margaret’s voice quavered, small and sharp in the vast stillness.
The world pitched. Jane’s knees buckled. She grasped at nothing, the sky spinning above her. Then the ground came hard and cold against her palms, the snow burning her skin as she fell.
“Help! Help!” Margaret’s scream tore through the frosted quiet.
Boots pounded across gravel. A shadow broke into the white glare. William came running from the yew walk, his stride swift, his face stark with fear.
He dropped beside her, his breath catching. Her head sagged against his shoulder, her skin bloodless as the frost. For a heartbeat, he only held her, eyes wild, mouth parted. Then—
“Jane,” he whispered. “I have you. I will not let you go.”