Chapter 37
The night air was heavy with fog. London’s gaslamps flickered dimly, casting pale halos over the cobbled street outside the ducal townhouse. Inside, the servants moved with seamless efficiency. Only a few had been summoned—trusted ones, loyal to the family and accustomed to discretion.
Jane stood in the front vestibule beneath the shadow of the grand staircase, wrapped in a thick traveling cloak.
Her gown beneath was voluminous enough to obscure her condition, and the overcoat helped to mask what could no longer be denied in daylight.
She kept her head lowered, her gloved hands fisted at her sides.
Charlotte stood beside her, dressed in muted lavender, her hat tied with ribbon, face composed. Mary, discreet as ever, waited near the door with a small satchel of belongings.
The housekeeper stepped forward, folding her hands. “We all wish you the best and a fast recovery, Miss Ansley. Lady Margaret cried herself to sleep tonight. I don’t think she’d let you go if she thought you were leaving us.”
William gave a dry laugh. “The little menace would probably have tied herself to the carriage wheels.”
The housekeeper stifled a chuckle, curtsied, and withdrew. A faint smile tugged at Jane’s mouth, but she didn’t speak. She would miss Margaret terribly.
Footsteps echoed. The Duke appeared at the end of the hall, already wearing his night robe and a thin dressing gown over it. He had come, it seemed, to take one final look.
His eyes passed over her with indifference, as one might glance at a cracked vase—a thing not worth remarking on. His expression gave nothing away but for the flaring of his nostrils, as though something faintly unpleasant had intruded on his air.
“Charlotte,” he said curtly. “William.”
“Your Grace,” Charlotte answered, unbothered.
The Duke’s gaze flicked toward his son. “Will you be home tonight?”
William, standing stiffly beside the footman who held his gloves and cane, did not hesitate. “No. I have a personal matter to attend to in the morning as you very well know.” His tone was even. “And you’re welcome to join, of course.”
There was a pause. Then the Duke turned to Jane again. “I daresay the Archbishop of Canterbury must have had few requests more ruinous than this one.” He gave a brittle smile, just enough to register as civility to the watching staff.
Charlotte’s voice cut in smoothly. “Well, Father, I shall accompany Miss Ansley to her appointment myself on the morrow, so you should not expect me either.”
William’s head snapped toward his sister. Their eyes met, and for a moment, he looked annoyed. But he said nothing.
The Duke stepped closer to them, voice low so the servants wouldn’t overhear.
“It is always a shame, when old and proud lines are diluted. But I suppose the blood will settle in time.” He glanced at Jane again, as one might study a blot on an otherwise fine ledger.
“The child, at least, may yet surprise us.”
William stepped forward. “That will be enough, Your Grace. We’re expected.”
“Indeed.” The Duke gave a cold smile. “Then by all means, don’t let me delay your… procession.”
The great doors swung open. The street beyond was quiet, the carriage lanterns glowing dully in the mist. Jane moved without a word, William steadying her as she climbed into the carriage. Charlotte followed, settling beside her, while he climbed in last, taking the place opposite.
The door shut. The horses clopped forward.
Inside, the carriage was dim and muffled.
Jane’s posture was perfectly straight, her face turned to the window.
William sat with legs rigid, arms crossed.
Charlotte, a bundle of arrangements in her lap and a stubborn smile fixed in place, looked between them as if sheer optimism might force civility into the space.
Charlotte adjusted her gloves. “So, the wedding is at noon tomorrow. I’ve arranged for everything to be delivered by morning.”
Jane remained silent.
“I selected lilies and laurel—don’t look at me like that, I know it’s not a proper wedding. But you’ll have flowers. And a supper, even if it’s modest.” She tilted her head. “Mrs. Scott is already in Bloomsbury. You remember her, don’t you? The cook from Westford Castle?”
Jane blinked. “The one who made Margaret carrot cakes shaped like horses?”
“The very one. She was in tears when William asked her to come take care of you and the baby—and be a witness at the wedding.”
“You can’t know that,” William said stiffly, shifting uncomfortably.
“She wrote to me that she did, and I believe her. She was always partial to William, you see. Said she’d be making something nourishing for ‘the mother and bairn,’ and I’m sure she packed the entire herb pantry.” Jane’s expression wavered—caught between gratitude and disbelief.
A beat passed. Then Charlotte added, as if by afterthought, “Oh, and thank God your gown’s nearly done. Perhaps if someone had been more thoughtful, he might have called in a proper modiste.”
William’s mouth curled with disdain. “A proper modiste would have announced the wedding to all of London within a week.”
“At the very least,” Charlotte retorted, “you might have bought her something new. She would’ve married you in her governess dress, if not for me.”
“I wouldn’t care if she married me naked,” William muttered under his breath. But Jane heard him and blushed to her roots.
“Yes, well, at least Mary can alter a gown. And she’s more discreet than any modiste, I’ll grant you. Though quite dramatic,” Charlotte added wryly. “She refused to touch white silk. Said it would be a sin to alter it for a bride so near her time.”
“She believes it would be lying before Christ,” Jane said quietly. “In her eyes, white is a vow of purity.”
“I don’t see why you aren’t pure,” Charlotte said, indignant. “Purity is in the soul. I could see you in white.”
William exhaled. “No one will care what color the dress is. No one will see it. The only witnesses are you, Mrs. Scott, and the chaplain. That’s enough.”
Charlotte ignored him. “The gown is beautiful. Golden muslin from two seasons ago. Empire waist, pearl trim—you remember it, Jane?”
Jane turned her head slightly toward her. “Yes, my lady. It’s one of your best.”
“And all that,” William said dryly, “for a wedding with no guests.”
Charlotte fixed him with a glare. “You did at least see to the clergyman?”
“The chaplain arrives just before noon,” he replied shortly.
“You said you knew him from the Peninsula?”
William’s voice sharpened. “He served with the Army. In Spain. He ministered to the wounded and gave last rites under musket fire. When needed, he carried a pistol and used it. I trust him.”
“Will he be carrying a sword to the altar?” Charlotte asked sweetly.
William’s lips curved without any warmth. “Only if provoked.”
Silence returned. Jane turned back to the window, her breath fogging the glass. The city passed unseen—quiet and half-lit, its glow smothered by thick mist. She rode toward a house she had never seen, to conduct a wedding none of them would speak of afterward.
* * *
The house was modest by Mayfair standards, but more than suitable for its intended purpose.
Situated on a quiet, tree-lined street in Bloomsbury, it offered privacy without attracting suspicion.
The carriage rolled to a halt beneath a flickering gaslamp.
William stepped out first, then handed Jane down carefully.
Charlotte followed, issuing instructions to the footman with brisk efficiency.
The front door was opened by a stout, apron-clad figure already bustling with energy. “About time,” Mrs. Scott muttered, stepping back to let them in. “I’ve had supper ready for an hour, and if it sits any longer, it’ll go to paste.”
Inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around them at once.
The floors were polished, the furniture simple but well-kept.
On the ground floor were a drawing room with a faded green settee and a small hearth, a dining room barely large enough for eight, and a narrow study tucked near the back, its tall windows curtained in heavy damask.
Upstairs, three bedrooms waited—two small and plainly appointed, and one with a view of the garden that had been freshly aired for Jane.
The attic held two cots for Mary and the cook, and the kitchen in the basement smelled of roast chicken and sage.
Not grand, but respectable. Precisely what was required.
“I’ve set the supper in the dining room,” Mrs. Scott called from the hallway. “Don’t let it go cold now. It’s got broth for strength and a bit of poultry for richness—don’t think I’ve forgotten how to feed a proper family.”
“I’ve already eaten,” Jane said gently. “But thank you. I’d prefer to be shown to my room, if I may.”
Charlotte nodded to Mary, who stepped forward without fuss.
“I’ll bring a tray up later,” Mrs. Scott sniffed. “You’ll want something before bed whether you know it or not. You’ve a little one counting on you now. Best not forget that.”
Jane followed Mary up the narrow stairs.
The bedroom was modest—certainly smaller than the guest room at Westford House—but clean and bright.
A serviceable armoire stood in the corner, and a basin and pitcher were placed on the washstand.
The bed had been turned down and warmed with a copper pan.
One window had been cracked open, letting in the leaf-mold scent of early March.
“I’ll begin unpacking, miss,” Mary said quietly.
Jane nodded and slipped back down the stairs alone.
She stepped into the study—it was hers. She could tell at once.
William had chosen it for her—no doubt he’d given instructions.
The desk was already stocked with fresh paper and ink, the chair fitted with a needlepoint cushion. A place to work. A place to think.
She returned to the bedroom a short while later. Mary was almost done. Folded chemises, spare stays, a linen nightgown. Among the carefully wrapped items was a single old volume—the only book of her father’s she had kept, its spine worn smooth with age.
Jane picked it up and held it in both hands.
If he had not died so suddenly, her life would have been different.
She would have stayed in Southampton. Married a vicar or a solicitor.
She would not be here, in this house, preparing to marry a man she could neither name in public nor call her own in peace.
Perhaps she would be happier. But then she remembered how William looked at her—when he forgot himself. When his eyes went dark with need, or soft with wonder. That moment in the stillness of the night when he brushed his fingers across her cheek, not knowing she was awake.
She remembered the way he said her name, low and reverent, when he thought they were alone in the world. She could not say she would rather not know what it felt like to be wanted that way.
But still—this was not the wedding she had imagined.
No mother to lace her stays. No sisters fussing over her veil.
Not even Margaret, whom she had grown to love like her own.
Her heart squeezed painfully. The child wouldn’t understand.
Might never understand why she hadn’t been allowed to attend her own brother’s wedding.
Mary helped her undress, murmuring kindly as she folded the cloak and bodice away. Jane sat in her nightgown at the edge of the bed, the fine fabric draping over her stomach, one hand resting absently atop it.
Mary smoothed the coverlet. “I’ll be just up the stairs, miss. Ring if you need anything.”
Jane nodded. “Thank you, Mary. Truly.”
When the girl had gone, Jane curled beneath the blankets, but no sleep came. The ceiling was pale with moonlight. Her palm remained on her belly. This was the night before her wedding. To a man she loved. And yet she felt no joy.
The silence stretched on. Then—floorboards creaked outside. One soft footstep, and another.
A hushed voice followed. Charlotte. “Where do you think you’re going, William?”
A pause. Then his voice, low and irritated. “That is none of your concern, Charlotte.”
“You let her rest,” came the reply, firm as steel under silk. “And besides—it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”
A frustrated breath. “Charlotte, don’t be absurd.” Then, after a beat, he added—flat and final, as if that settled everything: “She’s to be my wife.”
“But she’s not yet,” Charlotte shot back. “Not that that’s ever stopped you before—only now I’m here to stop you. Leave her in peace, William. Just this once. She deserves at least that much.”
A beat of silence. Then William’s tone, laced with dry humor: “I’d like to see you try to stop me tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” Charlotte said calmly. “Tomorrow, she’s yours. Tonight, she’s still her own.”
A long pause. Then, retreating footsteps.
Jane lay still, her eyes damp. A small smile pulled at her lips—tired, wistful, almost amused. Charlotte was right. And yet… she wondered what William had meant to say. What would he have done if Charlotte hadn’t stopped him? Perhaps then she wouldn’t feel like this—so terribly alone.
She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come. Only the distant, steady sound of the city beyond the window, and the heartbeat of the child beneath her hand.