Chapter 41
The study was small, but tidy. A narrow desk stood near the window, barely large enough to accommodate Jane’s books and papers.
Two bookshelves lined the wall behind her, crammed with volumes and a few well-worn periodicals.
A single upholstered chair stood opposite the desk, mismatched and slightly faded, but dignified in shape.
Sunlight streamed through the gauze curtains, turning the air golden and dust-heavy.
Jane sat at the desk, awkwardly angled to make room for her belly, which now pressed uncomfortably against the edge of the wood. She had piled cushions behind her to ease the strain on her back, but they did little to help.
Lucan’s Pharsalia lay open before her, its Latin lines underlined in light pencil, beside a small sheaf of notes in her clear, decisive hand. On the facing page, she had begun a new essay draft—tentatively titled Rebels and Romantics: Lucan and Byron on the Ruins of Empire.
Her ink-smudged fingers curled lightly around the quill.
She had just written a sentence—Lucan, and Byron after him, distrust the notion of glory: both unmask its trappings as hollow, its victories as temporary, and its heroes as already dead—when the floorboards outside the study creaked, sharp and familiar.
A knock, and then the door opened without waiting for an answer.
Lady Charlotte stepped inside and immediately wrinkled her nose. “This is it?”
Jane looked up. “Good afternoon to you, too, my lady.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes at the honorific, “You really must stop calling me that. We are sisters now—at least in here.” She stepped further in, regarding the cramped walls with undisguised disdain.
“It’s appalling. I knew the house was modest, but I didn’t realize your study was the size of a linen cupboard. Can you even breathe in here?”
“Barely,” Jane said dryly, adjusting her position. “But I’ve managed.”
Charlotte’s gaze swept the room—pausing at the overloaded bookshelves, the stack of drafts on the windowsill, and finally Jane herself, cramped at the desk with her swollen stomach nudging aside an open copy of Childe Harold.
“For heaven’s sake,” Charlotte muttered. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Jane dipped her quill again, writing a single word before replying. “Because I am pregnant, not an invalid.”
“You certainly look invalid-ish.”
“How comforting. And here I thought I looked radiant.” Jane reached to adjust the cushion behind her. “I promise, I take the matter seriously—but if I spend another entire day in bed, I’ll go mad. At least here I can still work.”
Charlotte exhaled and folded herself into the guest chair with theatrical resignation. “I do hope you’re making progress. Even though you know I patron half of them—you won’t win me any friends by stripping the modern poets of their supposed originality.”
Jane’s mouth curved slightly. “Well, I think I need to remind the world that Lucan already wrote the tragedy they think they invented.”
She gestured toward the essay draft. “This one compares Byron and Lucan—how both disdain authority, embrace futility, dramatize loss. Their empires are already collapsing before the poems begin.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “Sounds uplifting.”
Jane smiled faintly. “It is, in its own way. At least they don’t expect gratitude for doing what decency demands.”
Charlotte chose not to comment. “You have a great deal of material to work with.”
Jane turned another page. “His lordship was kind enough to send the books I needed. He also instructed the steward to deliver anything further I might require from the Westford Castle library. I’m grateful for that.”
Charlotte arched a brow. “His lordship, is it?”
Jane’s eyes stayed on the draft. “I have no wish to be improper.”
“Mmm,” Charlotte said, gaze lingering.
Silence stretched. Jane dipped her quill again—but she wasn’t writing. The nib stilled above the parchment.
Charlotte’s voice came gently. “Oh, Jane. You’ve seen the Morning Chronicle, haven’t you?”
Jane did not look up. “I read only the literary sections these days.”
“Well, it’s in the front. The Iron Duke has been in Brussels since early March. Everyone knew what was coming.” Charlotte shifted. “My brother’s brigade departs in two days.”
At last, Jane’s eyes lifted. “Is it certain?”
“It’s printed. There’ll be a full parade through the city. The Gazette confirms it. They’ll march out from Horse Guards, down Whitehall and along the Strand, then through Fleet Street and across the bridge before heading down to Dover. You’ll hear the drums from this very street.”
Jane said nothing, but what little color remained drained from her face. Charlotte leaned forward slightly. “He’s leaving, Jane.”
Jane’s hand still hovered above the page, trembling now. Where the quill touched, a blot of ink had begun to pool—spreading slowly, blooming across the parchment like muddied water. She did not seem to notice.
Charlotte watched her carefully. “He’ll be safe. Don’t look like that. If the French haven’t managed to kill him thus far, I doubt they’ll manage it now.”
Jane’s eyes moved at last—wide, dark, and suddenly very young. “You can’t know that.”
Charlotte waved a hand. “Oh, come now. He’s a major general. And a duke’s heir. Wellington isn’t about to put him at the front with the boys in red. He’ll have a horse, a telescope, and a map. Probably some over-dramatic staff officer to hold his gloves.”
Jane’s breath shook, just slightly. “He has scars, Charlotte. From the war. He got them somehow.”
Charlotte gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Probably his batman nicked him while shaving. You know William—too proud to complain, too vain not to make it sound worse than it was.”
Jane reached for a cloth and blotted the page, but the ink had already spread beyond repair. She stared at it for a long moment, then folded the ruined sheet in half and set it aside.
“It isn’t my concern any longer, is it?” But even to her, the words rang false.
Charlotte’s voice softened. “Isn’t it?”
Jane did not reply. Charlotte sat quietly, folding and unfolding her gloves in her lap. Outside, the bells from a nearby church struck the hour. Inside, the room felt smaller than ever—books, papers, breath, all pressing in.
Jane lifted a fresh page and began to write. Her pen trembled faintly on the first line. Charlotte said nothing more. But she did not leave, either.
* * *
The morning of the departure dawned raw and gray, a thin drizzle clinging to the air.
Yet Horse Guards Parade was already thronged when William’s brigade assembled.
Soldiers formed ranks, muskets slung, coats brushed to regulation neatness.
Drums rolled. Officers on horseback moved along the line, voices sharp over the restless murmur of the crowd.
London had turned out to see them off. Ladies waved handkerchiefs, children darted forward with flowers, old men tipped their hats. Some cheered, some wept openly. The air smelled of damp stone and horse-sweat, thick with the mingled sounds of farewell.
William rode at the head of his staff, his uniform immaculate, face carved from marble. He acknowledged salutes, accepted blossoms pressed into his horse’s bridle, gave the occasional nod. His expression betrayed nothing, though inside he felt the weight of every eye upon him.
Then, as the column turned past Somerset House and began the long march south, he glanced sideways—just once, no more than habit.
And there she was. Near the front of the crowd, no more than a few yards off, a woman stood with tears streaking her cheeks, a white handkerchief twisted in her fist. Her belly rounded beneath her cloak. Her lips moved soundlessly as if in prayer—or entreaty.
For an instant his chest seized. Jane. He blinked hard, forced his gaze forward again. Impossible. She had cast him out. She wanted nothing of him. His mind was playing tricks, conjuring her out of grief and longing. He could not allow himself to look again.
Behind him the drums struck up. The men cheered. Flowers arced into the air, falling crushed beneath boots and hooves.
Jane stayed rooted where she was, handkerchief raised, though she could hardly see him now through the press of marching men. Her lips shaped the words only for herself, for the child stirring within her.
Come back. Come back and meet your son… or daughter.
But William was already riding on, swallowed by the column, his figure growing smaller as the brigade moved south.
* * *
The crowd thinned slowly, folding into the mist and noise of the Strand as the last ranks vanished from sight. Jane stood motionless, the handkerchief damp in her fist. Her throat ached from holding back sobs. She had not been sure whether he noticed her. Perhaps he hadn’t.
Mary touched her elbow gently. “Mistress—shall we go?”
She nodded once, unable to trust her voice. They made their way back to the hired carriage waiting near the Thames embankment. Inside, the door closed with a hollow thud. London went on outside the windows—vendors shouting, wheels clattering, bells ringing—but she heard none of it.
The tears she’d tried to restrain now came freely. Silent at first, then spilling hot and relentless down her cheeks. She covered her mouth with both hands, her body shaking with the force of it.
She had told herself she could endure his absence. That she could live without him, if she must. But the sight of him riding away—straight-backed, unflinching, half-lost to war—had ripped something open in her she had not been able to deny.
She loved him. For all his pride, for all his cruelty, for all the ways he had wounded her—she loved him with a fierceness that frightened her. And now he was gone.
Her child shifted within her, a small kick beneath her hand. She bent her head, whispering brokenly through her tears: “Come back to us, William. Please—come back.”
* * *
By the time the carriage rattled into Bloomsbury, Jane had mastered her tears, though her eyes were swollen and her head ached with the effort.
She allowed Mary to help her upstairs and made some pretense of resting, though her heart beat wild and unsteady with every thought of William riding farther from her with each passing hour.
It was late afternoon when Charlotte appeared, sweeping into the house with her usual air of authority. She found Jane in her study, papers spread across the desk but untouched.
Charlotte shut the door behind her and gave her a long, appraising look. “Mary told me you’ve been crying.”
Jane straightened her notes, keeping her voice calm. “I am well enough.”
“Well enough to look ghastly.” Charlotte came closer, her expression softening. “You mustn’t let yourself become so agitated. Think of the baby.”
Jane lowered her eyes, her hand absently smoothing the curve of her belly.
Charlotte leaned a hip against the desk.
“You’ve been working on your essays for months.
It’s time we published them. Mrs. Radcliff and I could host a little gathering here—nothing too large.
Only women, for now. A salon of sorts. You need something to turn your mind from marching drums and French bayonets. ”
Jane’s lips parted in surprise. “A gathering?”
“Why not? You’ve as much wit as any bluestocking in London, and more grace than half the ladies at Almack’s. Let them hear you.” Charlotte reached out and squeezed her hand. “And in the meantime, think of the baby. You must keep yourself well—for both your sakes.”
Jane swallowed hard, overcome by the mixture of tenderness and steel in Charlotte’s manner. For the first time since the morning, she managed a small, true smile.
“Yes,” she said softly. “For the baby.”