Chapter 44
The early morning breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the lush scent of the rose garden below—heady and overripe, almost too sweet. From a nearby branch, a blackbird sang, its low, liquid notes threading gently through the air like a lullaby.
Jane sat upright in bed, propped against pillows, her little baby nestled against her chest. He was just over a month old now, already more like a butter-fed farm boy than an infant, thick-limbed, red-cheeked, and gloriously heavy in her arms. One strong hand clutched the edge of her chemise as he nursed, pink lips working with sleepy determination.
His hair was still pale and downy, though it had begun to thicken, and when he opened his eyes—dark as ink—they searched the room with startling alertness.
The milk-drunk expression he wore when he finished always made her laugh—half-glazed and dazed with pleasure, like a tiny drunkard.
Some days she saw her own face in his, some days William’s.
But this morning, he looked like neither. Just George. Just hers.
The Duke had sent a wet nurse within days of the birth—properly trained, properly recommended, properly ignored.
Jane had thanked the woman politely and sent her away before the hour was out.
She’d had no explanation at the time, only a visceral refusal to let anyone else take that task from her.
Now, a month later, she could put it to words.
She wanted to feel close to him. It was as simple—and as foolish—as that.
She wanted the warmth of his body against hers, the weight of his head resting in the crook of her arm as he nursed.
She wanted him to know her skin, her scent, her voice.
She had grown this child, bled for him, survived him.
And now, in the quiet hours before the city stirred, she fed him, and he clung to her as if she were the whole of his world.
In those moments, she almost believed it.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Jane called softly.
Mrs. Scott entered with a tray and a puff of kitchen-scented air. “Brought you a bit of broth and some warm bread. There’s cherry pie, too. Nothing fancy—just a bit of breakfast to keep you from disappearing.”
Jane smiled, shifting George with one hand. “If you keep feeding me like this, I’m never going to recover my waistline, Mrs. Scott.”
The older woman gave a sharp laugh as she set the tray down on the side table. “Oh, hush. All young mothers think they won’t, then fit into their stays two months later. Besides, I like seeing you eat. There’s too many women starving themselves thin and calling it elegance.”
Jane reached for the bread and tore off a piece with one hand, careful not to jostle the baby. “He’s gaining weight. Look at him. I still can’t believe he came out over nine pounds. No wonder I thought he’d split me in two.”
Mrs. Scott came to the bedside and peered down at the child. “Aye, he’s coming along nicely. Handsome little thing. Could charm its way out of mischief. You’ll have your hands full.”
Jane laughed under her breath. “I already do.”
She settled the baby more securely. Mrs. Scott glanced at the child, then back at her.
“You know, I was cook at Westford Castle when Her Grace—God rest her soul—brought the young master into the world. He was a fine big baby, too. Screaming and kicking. So strong from the start.” Her voice mellowed.
“And I’ll tell you, because no one else will—this boy looks just like him. ”
Jane’s smile faltered. She looked down at George’s face—his furrowed brow, his slightly crooked mouth—and something fluttered in her chest. “Does he?” she murmured.
“Oh, aye,” said Mrs. Scott, nodding. “Though Her Grace wouldn’t have known.
Proper fine lady she was. Wouldn’t feed the child herself.
Wet nurses and nursemaids for everything.
Wouldn’t touch him unless he was bathed, swaddled, and silent.
I’d wager she wouldn’t have recognized him among a row of other babies. ”
Jane blushed. She hadn’t meant to, but the heat crept up her throat regardless. She wasn’t a proper lady—even by Mrs. Scott’s standards. “I see.”
The older woman blinked, then let out a groan. “Oh, blimey. I didn’t mean nothing by it. I wasn’t saying—You’re a fine lass, you are. And you’ll make a fine Duchess, when the time comes.”
Jane looked back at the child and said nothing. Mrs. Scott caught herself again, lips pursed. “Well. Few could be worse than the one who’s got the title now.” She winced. “Forgive me. I forget you’re now noble yourself, my lady.”
Jane half-laughed. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Scott. You can speak freely with me. I’ve never found offense in the truth.”
Mrs. Scott nodded once, satisfied. “Her Grace—his lordship’s mother, I mean—was a great lady.
Proper to the bone. Never raised her voice, never slouched, never cried in public.
But she never hugged the boy, either. Not once, far as I saw.
Wouldn’t let him sit on her lap, wouldn’t kiss his forehead when he was ill.
She’d send for a servant, or a doctor, but wouldn’t go herself. ”
Jane swallowed. “And William?”
Mrs. Scott nodded slowly. “Loved her to pieces. Thought the sun rose on her silk gowns and perfect manners. After she passed—God, he was still a boy—he didn’t leave his room for days.
Wouldn’t eat. I made all his favorite cakes—black treacle, almond spice, anything he’d ever asked for.
Left them by the door. And he’d eat them, eventually, but he wouldn’t come out. ”
A dull ache bloomed in Jane’s chest. Mrs. Scott’s tone softened. “He idolized her. Thought she was the model of everything a woman should be. And maybe she was, in her way. But she wasn’t a mother, not really. Not the kind who teaches a child how to love.”
Silence settled for a long moment. Little George had finished feeding and dozed, lips slack, one fist curled tight against his cheek.
Mrs. Scott watched them both. “So if that boy of hers doesn’t know how to act right—if he says the wrong thing, or holds himself stiff when he ought to bend—well. It’s not that he doesn’t feel. It’s that no one ever showed him how.”
Jane traced a thumb gently along George’s brow. “And you think he loves me.”
Mrs. Scott smiled. “I don’t think it, my lady. I know it.”
Jane didn’t answer. Her throat was too tight.
Mrs. Scott rose with a low grunt, brushing her palms on her apron. “Eat your pie before it goes cold. And mind an old woman’s words—I’ve known that boy since the day he screamed his way into the world.”
* * *
The carpet in the drawing room was thick and sun-warmed, and the baby—laid out on a soft blanket near the hearth—was kicking his legs furiously.
His eyes were wide open, dark and glassy, not yet settled into any fixed color, and his small fists beat the air as if testing it for the first time.
Jane knelt beside him in her dressing gown, hair half-up, a ribbon forgotten in it.
She leaned close, grinning, and pressed a kiss to his round little tummy.
“You are a menace,” she informed him gently. “An absolute terror. But I suppose we’ll have to keep you anyway.” The child answered with a gurgle and a fresh wave of flailing limbs.
Lady Charlotte was sprawled across the settee with lazy elegance, watching the scene with something very near awe. “I swear, he is the most intelligent young man I’ve met all week. Papa introduced me to an earl’s heir yesterday who tried to eat a wax apple.”
Jane laughed. “George hasn’t tried to eat anything yet that doesn’t come from me. It’s early days.”
Charlotte lifted her teacup and offered a regal nod in the baby’s direction. “Promising start.”
Mrs. Radcliff, seated more primly in the armchair near the window, seemed not quite to know where to look. Her discomfort was not disapproval—merely the awkwardness of a woman unused to conversation being conducted from the floor. She cleared her throat delicately and folded her hands in her lap.
“My dear,” she began, “I hope I do not intrude—”
“You brought scones,” Jane said. “You could intrude for hours.”
“—but I come with news,” Mrs. Radcliff continued, a faint smile touching her lips. “You may recall the article you shared with me last month, the comparison of Lucan and Byron—”
Charlotte interrupted. “The one full of doomed heroes and theatrical sighs?”
“The melancholy of dying ideals—how both poets captured the grandeur and futility of lost causes,” Jane corrected dryly, still focused on George’s flailing hands. “Though yes. Also doomed heroes.”
“Well.” Mrs. Radcliff gave a modest incline of her head. “I shared it with Mr. Colborn—editor of the London Review. He’s very impressed.”
Charlotte arched a brow. “Very impressed? From you, that’s practically a love letter.”
Mrs. Radcliff smiled, slightly. “He said the piece was ‘blazingly intelligent’ and ‘unexpectedly bold.’ He wishes to publish it in the next issue, and has since pestered me for your acquaintance. I told him you were newly confined and might not yet be receiving visitors.”
Jane’s mouth parted in surprise, then curved with restrained delight.
She looked down at George, who had resumed waving his arms as though conducting some invisible symphony.
“Unless he’s afraid of the little rabbit—who, I grant, may prove formidable in his day, though he is presently benign—I’d be happy to receive him. ”
Charlotte gave an approving hum. “The rabbit will have his seat in the Lords someday—assuming he learns to lift his head first.”
Mrs. Radcliff gave a small chuckle, then leaned forward.
“There’s more. Mr. Colborn is publishing an anthology of young poets—some of whom you may find insufferable, but all of whom are rather earnest. He hoped you might consider offering commentary.
He said your knowledge of classical texts seems unmatched and your style unusually incisive. His words, not mine.”
Jane's smile deepened, and a light flared in her expression that had been absent for weeks. “Commentary?”
“Analysis, more likely,” said Mrs. Radcliff. “You could correspond if you prefer, but he thought a few small gatherings—readings and discussions—might suit. Nothing formal. He simply wishes to bring you into his circle.”
Jane looked down at George, then at her own lap, her fingers absently tugging the edge of the baby’s blanket. “It’s not as though I’ve grown incapable of forming a thought. And the little rabbit sleeps most of the day. If he can tolerate poets, I imagine I can too.”
Charlotte gave a delighted sound. “Excellent. He can be our mascot.”
Mrs. Radcliff smiled. “I’ll write to Mr. Colborn. If you are willing to receive him in the next few days—?”
Jane nodded. “I should like that very much.”
As George made a small noise and began to wriggle again, Jane scooped him up with practiced ease and cradled him close. His eyes fluttered shut almost instantly.
“You’ll be clever, too,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his fine hair. “You just have to listen closely.”
Charlotte scoffed. “Just don’t let him anywhere near Shelley. He’ll start reciting Queen Mab and end up leading a coup.”