Chapter 32
The lamps had long since been extinguished in the east wing.
Only a single candle burned low in the guest chamber, its wick sputtering in the brass candlestick on the mantel.
Jane lay in the quiet, one hand curled protectively over her stomach, the other fisted in the coverlet.
The pain had dulled to a throb now—a lingering ache that had started as a cramp sharp enough to steal her breath.
Charlotte had insisted, before leaving her to rest, that she summon a servant if it returned.
That she would call a physician. But the pain had eased, and Jane could not bear the thought of more fuss.
It was likely the carriage ride—too long, too jostling—and the shock of seeing them together.
William and Lady Philomena, seated too close, too familiar, with the easy intimacy of those well-suited to each other.
Her fingers spread over the slight swell beneath her nightdress. It was no longer so easy to hide. Five months, nearing six. She would not be able to pass for slender much longer. Another week, perhaps two, and the guessing would begin.
The boards creaked in the corridor. She stilled.
Soft, hesitant footsteps approached. Then came the faint rattle of a key in a nearby lock. A pause. One door opened and closed. Then another. And then—hers.
The handle turned, and the door opened a fraction before stopping. She shut her eyes. Stillness settled again.
She could hear his breathing now, low and careful. William stepped inside. She felt the air shift, the tension that always came with him. She didn’t move, only kept her breaths even, her eyes closed.
He lingered near the door, then crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, with the hush of a shadow. His hand came to rest lightly on the coverlet. She felt it near her hip, then rising—hesitating.
The backs of his fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light.
He touched her as if to reassure himself she was truly there, truly breathing.
He trembled. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her.
She could feel the pull of it in the air between them, the ache in his silence.
But he didn’t. His hand fell away. Slowly, he rose.
She did not open her eyes until she heard the door close again. When she was sure he was gone, Jane lifted her fingers to her face. The place where he had touched her still tingled with warmth.
“That was your father,” she whispered, barely more than sigh. Her palm returned to the curve of her stomach. “And I am certain—if he knew you—he would love you so very much.”
She blinked back tears, her voice steadier now, speaking not to the room, but to the life she carried. “But I will love you more. For the both of us.”
* * *
Jane stood at the washbasin, twisting her hair into a low knot with fingers that trembled more than she liked. The glass showed a pale face and tired eyes, but she set her jaw and pinned the last strand into place. Charlotte would come soon. There was no more time to fret.
Her dress for the day was a soft gray wool, the bodice high and discreetly gathered—chosen carefully, like every piece she had worn in recent weeks. It still concealed her shape, but only just. The buttons strained when she exhaled too deeply.
In the adjoining room, she could hear Charlotte’s voice directing the maid, light and precise. “No footman. We won’t need one. Have the carriage wait two streets over.”
Jane sat at the edge of the bed and pressed her hand to her middle. The child was quiet this morning—thank God. But her own heart was not.
Today was the first doctor’s visit. At least, that had been the excuse given to the butler. In truth, they were going to South Kensington, to the townhouse of a woman Jane had never met, but whose name had been whispered with reverence by Charlotte. Mrs. Radcliff.
Jane had not asked how much the woman knew—only that Charlotte trusted her. And that, at present, was enough. Just barely.
The door opened without ceremony. “Ready?” Charlotte asked.
Jane rose. “As I’ll ever be.”
Charlotte gave her a once-over, eyes narrowing at the telling swell pressing faintly against the gown’s front, but said nothing. “Come along then.”
* * *
The Kensington townhouse was narrow but dignified, its red brick softened by ivy and the brass knocker polished to a muted gleam. No liveried footman waited at the door—only a plain maid in a clean apron who curtsied once and stepped back to admit them.
Charlotte swept inside without waiting to be announced. “We’re expected,” she said lightly, unbuttoning her overcoat. Jane followed with a slower step, her pulse thudding in her throat. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and parchment.
They were led into the morning room, modestly but tastefully appointed—bookshelves lining one wall, a pianoforte on the other, and sunlight filtering through sheer muslin curtains. There were no grand chandeliers or gilt frames. Only calm, civilized order.
Mrs. Radcliff rose from her writing desk at once. “Lady Charlotte,” she said, offering both hands with a warmth that was quiet, never cloying. “You are as punctual as ever. And this must be Miss Ansley. Lady Charlotte has spoken of you often. And favorably.”
Jane curtseyed, uncertain what to make of her. “Mrs. Radcliff. I’m very grateful for your time.”
“Think nothing of it. Any friend of Lady Charlotte’s is welcome here.
” Mrs. Radcliff’s voice was low and evenly modulated, with the kind of serenity that made people feel braver than they were.
Her gown was of dark plum merino, neat but unadorned, and her graying hair was twisted in a simple chignon.
She did not look like a woman who hosted poets.
And yet the room was full of subtle indications—a stack of unbound pamphlets, a partially annotated manuscript, the unmistakable smell of ink.
“Do sit down,” she added, gesturing to the chairs by the fireplace. “I’ve asked for tea. And something stronger, if needed.”
Charlotte smiled faintly. “I thought you might.”
Jane sank onto the edge of a chair, her back stiff, her gloves clenched in her hands.
Mrs. Radcliff studied her without judgment. “There is no need to be nervous, my dear. These meetings are arranged. Quietly. No names have been mentioned outside this room. You’re not being gossiped about.”
Jane swallowed. “I understand and thank you for your efforts.”
Charlotte, still standing, moved toward the writing desk and picked up a slim volume of verse. “You’ve added Miss Wright’s newest, I see.”
“Yes. And very pleased with it, too. Her line is much improved since her return to Kent. The countryside seems to have clarified her meter—less strained, more natural. There's something to be said for a rural confinement.” She turned back to Jane, a glint in her eye. “But we’re here to speak of less metaphorical births.”
Jane smiled faintly, at a loss for words. Charlotte finally took a seat beside her, her presence steady and composed.
The maid entered with the tea service, the soft clatter of china filling the pause.
“There are three gentlemen,” Mrs. Radcliff said calmly, pouring tea as if she were discussing the weather. “All respectable. All informed of the circumstances. I vetted them myself.”
Jane’s throat tightened. “And… they’re all willing?”
“To varying degrees,” Mrs. Radcliff said. “They each want something. Influence. Access. Respectability. The Duke’s favor carries weight.”
She handed Jane a teacup. “You are not here to beg. You are here to choose. That distinction matters.”
Charlotte added gently, “If none of them suit, we’ll find others. But I don’t think it will come to that.”
Mrs. Radcliff nodded. “The first gentleman is waiting in the back room. A merchant named Mr. Wilson. He is ambitious, and keen to secure certain import rights. This match would serve his interests—but he knows what is asked of him.”
Jane’s fingers tightened around her cup. “And he knows…”
“He knows you are with child,” Mrs. Radcliff said evenly. “And that, should matters proceed, he would be expected to raise it as his own. You will not need to defend yourself—only decide if he is a man you can trust.”
Jane tried to smile, but her throat felt too tight. She set her teacup down, careful not to let it clatter.
“Would you like a moment?” Mrs. Radcliff asked.
Jane drew in a breath, willing her voice not to shake. “No. You may bring him.”
Mrs. Radcliff inclined her head. “Very well.” She crossed to the adjoining door and paused with her hand on the latch. “Best to speak privately. It’s easier that way.”
Charlotte rose too, smoothing her skirts with unhurried grace. “We’ll be just outside.”
Jane stood as they withdrew, her hands cold despite the warmth of the fire. For a heartbeat, the room was utterly silent—save the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the faint rustle of her own breath.
Then the door creaked open again, and Mr. Wilson stepped through.
He was not what she expected. Perhaps ten to fifteen years her senior, with dark hair touched at the temples by early silver, and a sun-browned complexion that spoke of years abroad.
His coat was well-made, but his boots were scuffed, and his hands looked more accustomed to work than leisure.
There was something handsome about him—weathered, but arresting.
He stepped forward without the usual bow. “Miss Ansley.”
“Mr. Wilson,” she said coolly, and gestured to the chair opposite hers.
He sat without hesitation, knees wide, hands resting loosely on his thighs. After a moment, he leaned back and gave her a frank look. “Didn’t expect you to be this pretty, if I’m honest.”
Jane flushed. “That’s very kind.”
He gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. That weren’t polished. I’ll work on that.”
Silence hovered for a moment, but it wasn’t heavy. Just unfamiliar.
“I’m not much good at this sort of thing. Thought I’d best say so at the start.” His voice was deep, gravelly, the vowels drawn wide in the way of Southwark streets. “Never thought I’d be meeting a lady like you under circumstances like these.”
Jane offered a small smile. “Neither did I.”
That earned another brief laugh. “Fair enough.”
She softened her tone. “I didn’t mean offense.”
“I’ve no false pride, miss. Made my fortune myself.
Grew up in the workhouse by the London docks—an orphan.
” He said it plainly, without bitterness.
“Likely a by-blow myself. But no one’s special.
My father wasn’t any duke, that’s certain.
So I won’t begrudge you your child. Seems to me it’s a damn sight better off if it’s got someone willing to stand for it. ”
Jane’s chin lifted a little. “I don’t pretend to be blameless, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my child.”
He smiled at that, kind but rough. “A pretty young lass like you thrown to the wolves—you’re the least to blame.”
She swallowed. No one had ever spoken to her so bluntly.
Mr. Wilson leaned forward slightly. “Now, you wouldn’t be marrying a pauper. I’ve coin enough. What I don’t have is the right name. Gentry don’t like granting charters to men they don’t recognize. Which is part of why I’m here.”
“I understand.” Jane’s voice was gentle, but firm. At least he was honest.
“You’re a viscount’s granddaughter. That matters. And your father was a rector, wasn’t he? Scholar too, they say.”
“Yes,” Jane said slowly. “He published several works on Christian morals.”
“Well, then.” He seemed genuinely pleased. “That’s something, isn’t it? A fine mind in the family. You’ll bring more to my house than just the Duke’s favor.”
Jane looked down at her gloves at the mention of the Duke. But her resolve renewed, and she sat straighter. “I have my own merits, sir. My father trained me himself. I hope you would not object if I pursued my studies further.”
His smile, sudden and boyish, softened him. “Not at all. Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two. Not to look out of place in Whitehall. I swear it’s as if they can sniff Southwark on me.”
Jane laughed despite herself. “I think it’s the accent, not that they’re hounds trained to sniff out a man from the Borough.” She sobered. “And you are sure the child doesn’t concern you?”
“Not in the least. I’d raise it as mine. And I expect to have you round with more soon enough—if that don’t bother you.”
Her lips twitched. “That would depend on how soon.”
He laughed—a rough, surprised sound. “Fair enough.”
A pause lingered, easier now. Then he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.
“I won’t promise you the moon or roses. That’s not me.
But if you pick me, I’ll take care of you.
You’ll be mistress of my house. The child will never want for a thing.
And if you’ll let me, I’ll do my best to make you happy.
” His voice gentled. “That’s all I’ve got to offer.
Honest work. A safe name. A man who means what he says. ”
Jane met his eyes. He wasn’t polished, but he was steady. And there was something unexpectedly earnest in the way he looked at her.
He rose, smoothing his coat. “I’ll not take more of your time. You’ve others to meet, I hear. That’s fair. But I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”
He hesitated at the door, then added with a rough sincerity, “If you do choose me, Miss Ansley—I’ll make damn sure you never regret it.” And with that, he left her alone in the quiet room.