Chapter 42
By late April, the weather in London had turned warm and erratic, with golden mornings that gave way to sudden downpours.
In Bloomsbury, Jane spent her days quietly, her writing desk once again piled with papers, her body slow and heavy with the weight of approaching birth.
After William’s departure, she had poured herself into work, determined to hold to some purpose, to endure the ache of waiting with pen in hand.
Mrs. Radcliff had read her essays with care, and after a week’s reflection, declared them of the highest quality.
“You write like someone who has studied—and lived—far too much for your years,” she had said, her tone brisk but warm.
“And more importantly, someone who is not afraid to tell the truth.”
That was how the gatherings began. They were never large, never formal—Charlotte saw to that.
The front drawing room was cleared of its more fragile furnishings, tea laid out in a simple porcelain service, and invitations extended only to women trusted to speak their minds without consequence.
Most were widows or the unmarried daughters of scholars, clergymen, or civil servants.
They were poets, essayists, translators.
One or two had published novels under initials alone.
At first, Jane had merely listened, offering the occasional remark—but week by week, her voice gained strength.
Gradually, without quite meaning to, she had begun to preside.
Mrs. Radcliff remained a guiding presence—always well-mannered and proper—but even she seemed to defer to Jane’s insight.
And Charlotte, seated languidly near the hearth, watched it all with an air of amused pride, as though she'd expected nothing less.
To newcomers, Jane was introduced as Mrs. Strathmore, wife of Lady Charlotte’s distant cousin—an officer presently serving with Wellington’s army.
The lie was thin, but it offered just enough pretext to explain Charlotte’s frequent visits.
It did not fully account for why a duke’s daughter spent so much time in a modest Bloomsbury house, far from her family estate in Norfolk—but Jane’s fierce intelligence and quiet authority soon made her the unspoken center of the room. No one cared to press for more.
As May settled in, her belly had grown too large for comfort. She could no longer sit upright for long, and even with a cushion at her back, every movement sent pressure low into her spine. Yet she refused to cancel the gatherings. The company, the debate, the work, it all sustained her.
The morning it happened, the sky outside was soft and pearled with spring rain.
The usual half-dozen had gathered—Mrs. Radcliff in her usual armchair, Miss Fielding with her hair perpetually unraveling, Mrs. Compton whose whispered sonnets were always more erotic than she admitted, and Miss Emery, the sharp-eyed pamphleteer whose views on marriage were considered inflammatory even by radical circles.
Jane had been having pains since last night—nothing sharp, just a gathering tension low in her belly, like a muscle slowly winding tight.
She told herself it was nothing. The last time it had happened, Mary had rushed to Westford House in hysterics, only for the pains to fade by evening.
She would not cause such a fuss again. Not unless she was certain.
So she sat on the sofa in her lace-trimmed robe, her feet propped on a stool, hands resting on the swell of her stomach, and sipped her tea with the air of a woman wholly at ease.
“…but even Byron’s so-called ‘passion’ is little more than self-indulgence.
The modern poets, for all their fire, still write as men do—shaping women into fictions of their own longing.
Silent, devoted, half-angel, half-mistress—never speaking, never choosing.
They call it love, but what they crave is submission. ”
There were murmurs of assent. Miss Fielding muttered, “Muse, not partner…”
Jane’s smile was faint. “That may be. But I think the longing they describe runs deeper than vanity. Yes, it’s shaped by a male voice—what isn’t, in our libraries?
But the desire itself is not foreign to us.
Yearning belongs to women, too. The grief of absence.
The ache of admiration unspoken. These are human things.
And it is in our hands—ours—to give them voice.
To take what was written for us, and make it speak in our voice. ”
“Why must we always begin with their words?” Emery pressed. “Why inherit their myths—always Mars and not Minerva?”
“Because there is no beginning. Every age inherits what came before—Athens, Rome, Jerusalem. And yes, that inheritance has always come in a man’s voice.
But the voices change, even if the questions don’t.
” Jane said quietly. “Grief. Desire. Power. Loss. These aren’t theirs or ours.
The ancients wrote of conquest, yes—but also of honor, loyalty, sacrifice, mourning.
Take Lucan. His republic was dying. And still he found poetry in the ruin.
The same grief Byron writes, only with different emblems.”
There was a pause, an almost reverent silence. Then Mrs. Compton made a low sound of appreciation and murmured, “My dear, you ought to write that down.”
Jane gave a small breath of laughter. “I likely already have.”
She moved to rise, murmuring that she would ask Mary to fetch more tea, but the moment her feet touched the carpet, her body seized. A pain clutched low—no longer a mere tightening, but burning and spreading.
She froze. One hand braced on the arm of the closest chair, the other pressed instinctively across her abdomen.
“Jane?” It was Charlotte’s voice this time, sharper than before. Jane managed a nod, though her face had gone very pale.
“I’m quite all right. Just—”
But then came the wet sound. A hush fell. Jane looked down. Beneath the hem of her gown, a spreading bloom of damp darkened the rug. Her hands shook.
“Oh,” she said, softly, in surprise. “Oh dear.”
Mrs. Radcliff rose at once. “Mary!” she bellowed toward the hall. “Go fetch the midwife, the doctor!”
Charlotte was already at her side, catching her elbow before she could sway. “It’s time.”
Jane nodded mutely, the first real bolt of fear crossing her face. But it passed just as quickly. She steadied herself on Charlotte’s arm and exhaled.
“Yes,” she said. “It seems it is.”
The women in the room rose—not in panic, but with resolve, as if their presence might lend her strength. Mrs. Scott ran to the kitchen for hot water and towels, while another fetched pillows to prop her up. Someone closed the shutters, another moved the tea set aside.
Outside, the spring rain fell lightly, indifferent and gentle, as Jane was helped upstairs. Her child had decided. It would not wait for its father to return.
* * *
By the time the doctor arrived—a thin, spectacled man with precise hands and a faint Scottish accent—the pains had quickened. The midwife followed soon after, older, gruff, and unruffled by Jane’s cries.
She was made to lie on the bed. The sheets were folded back. A basin was brought, and towels warmed by the fire.
Jane clenched the coverlet as the next contraction tore through her. “I can’t—” she gasped. “I can’t do this.”
“You can,” said Charlotte firmly, from the chair beside the bed. She looked perfectly composed except for the white knuckles of her hands, clutched together in her lap.
Jane shook her head, tears streaking her temples. “I wish my mother were here. My family.”
There was a silence. Then Charlotte leaned in slightly, her tone light. “I’ll try not to take offense. I thought I was your family now.”
Jane let out a ragged laugh—half sob, half breath.
Charlotte smiled. “If I ever entertained a thought of marriage before today, you’ve thoroughly dissuaded me.”
“Good,” Jane managed. “Because I don’t think I’ll be doing this again.”
The midwife tsked. “You’ll say that now. Give it a year and a strong cradle.”
Another contraction came—longer, sharper—and Jane cried out. Her hands reached blindly for something, anything. Charlotte caught them and held tight.
“You’re doing well,” said the doctor, voice calm. “But the child’s big and turned oddly. It will take time. And strength.”
The time blurred. The pain came in waves.
Sometimes Jane screamed. Sometimes she was silent, lips pressed bloodless.
She saw the candle gutters, the doctor’s frown, the blur of Charlotte’s face.
Once she muttered, “I can’t... I don’t want to die,” and Charlotte wiped her brow, whispering, “You won’t. You’re too stubborn.”
Finally, after what felt like a thousand years, the midwife cried out, “Here it comes. One more.”
Jane screamed as if her body were being torn in two—and then it was over. The room filled with the shrill, astonishing sound of a baby’s cry.
“A boy,” the midwife announced. “And strong-lunged, God help us.”
The doctor caught him. The midwife took him quickly to clean and wrap him in cloth. Jane could see only a blur of white hair, a flailing arm, meaty purpled limbs kicking furiously against the air. She slumped back, weeping in relief, one hand limp on the coverlet.
Then came the bleeding. The doctor stiffened. “Get more cloth. Quickly.”
Charlotte turned—and froze. One of the towels was already soaked through. Another followed. The linen bedsheets were blooming crimson beneath Jane’s hips.
Charlotte paled. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s losing more blood than she should.”
For one terrifying moment, Charlotte could not move. The child was still crying, a shrill and living sound—but Jane was so still.
“Here,” she said at last, her voice rough with command as she reached out to the midwife. Her hands weren’t steady. “She needs to see him.”
“She needs to rest,” the midwife murmured.
“She needs her child.”
The doctor hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Briefly. But stay close.”
Jane stirred faintly as the soft weight was placed beside her. Her head lolled sideways, eyes barely open. He smelled faintly metallic and raw, like life just beginning.
“There,” Charlotte whispered, almost choking on the word. “You did it.”
The baby wailed, as if to prove his presence. His skin was still blotched and red, his long arms and legs splayed stiffly. He looked angry at the world, nose squashed, fists flailing.
Charlotte gave a wet, exhausted laugh. “He looks very odd, Jane. Truly unfortunate. I expect he’ll only get offers because he’s to inherit a dukedom.”
Jane did not answer at first. Then—barely audible, a rasping murmur—she said, “I doubt he’ll be ugly… if he takes after his father.”
Charlotte’s gaze snapped to hers. Jane smiled faintly, eyes half-closed. “He may be many things… but he is very pleasing to look at. Tell him, tell him… I loved him very much.” Her lashes fluttered. Her breath shallowed.
The doctor stepped forward sharply. “She needs sleep now. And God willing, she’ll wake again.”
Charlotte leaned forward, pressing her lips to Jane’s temple. “You’ll wake,” she whispered fiercely. “And when you do, you’re going to tell William yourself. And if you don’t, I’ll—”
But she broke off, her throat closing. The child had stopped crying. He nestled into the hollow of Jane’s side, sturdy and pink and infuriatingly alive. Charlotte wiped her eyes and sat beside them in silence until dawn.
* * *
The morning light came pale through the drawn curtains, softer than it had any right to be. Jane stirred slowly, the fog in her mind beginning to lift, though her limbs still felt heavy, her skin slick with sweat.
She was alive. Her breath came shallow but even, and her gaze, when it found the figure seated beside her bed, was lucid.
Charlotte was beside her, slumped in a chair with her head tipped back, mouth parted slightly in sleep. A half-empty cup of tea had gone cold on the side table. Her gown was creased. Her eyes opened the moment Jane stirred. “You’re awake.”
Jane managed a faint smile. “Against all odds.”
There was color in her cheeks again, faint but returning. Her voice, though hoarse, held its usual dry wit.
“You gave us all a fright,” Charlotte said, pressing a cool hand to her forehead. “I was prepared to deliver a very dramatic eulogy. Something tasteful, but devastating.”
“I’d expect nothing less.” Jane shifted slightly and winced. “Is he…?”
Charlotte stood, and a moment later returned with a small, blanket-swaddled bundle. She placed him gently in Jane’s arms.
Jane looked down—and truly saw him. His hair was pale as milk, sticking up in tufts. His face was scrunched, his fists curled tightly against his chest. But his eyes, when they opened briefly, were dark as ink.
“Oh,” she breathed. “He’s beautiful.”
Charlotte let out a sharp laugh. “We’re clearly looking at different babies. I’ve seen plucked geese with more charm.”
Jane smiled tiredly. “I’ll take it personally, Charlotte, if you continue insulting my son.” Then added, “I’m sure Margaret would have appreciated her nephew more than you do.”
“She would,” Charlotte agreed. “He looks just like her little rabbit when it was born. She adored that thing—right up until she left it in the woods to chase a hedgehog, or something equally idiotic. Lost it within the hour. Don’t let that little harridan near him.”
Jane gave a breathless laugh. “God, I wish she were here. My mother, too. My sisters.” There was a pause. “I was thinking,” she said softly, “of naming him Sebastian. After my father. Do you think William would object?”
Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the baby’s blanket with one hand. “That would be lovely. I don’t know if William had any particular wishes, though I don’t see why he would. But the Duke?”
Jane hesitated. “What would the Duke wish?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Oh, Father would prefer something strategically loyal—George, of course. After the King. And the Regent. You know how he is about Court favor.”
Jane didn’t hesitate. “Then George Sebastian it shall be.”
Charlotte arched a brow. “Just like that?”
“I’ve no wish to antagonize the man who holds my son’s future.”
Charlotte grinned. “Now I see why they say you’re clever. I’d have felt snubbed and named the child something hopelessly Greek just to be difficult.”
Jane looked down again, brushing a knuckle gently across the baby’s downy head. The baby stirred, fists curling. She cradled him closer. “Hello, little George,” she whispered. “You look rather like a grumpy old man, all wrinkled up, but I love you awfully much.”