Chapter 50
The carriage set her down before a townhouse in St. James’s Square, its facade tall and immaculate, already ablaze with lamplight.
Jane smoothed her gloves and ascended the steps, feeling the weight of absence—no Charlotte at her side, no William glowering at the fringes.
Only Mary behind her, carrying her shawl.
Mr. Colborn was waiting in the vestibule.
He bowed with exaggerated flourish. “Mrs. Strathmore! At last. And unattended. Where are your lapdogs—Lady Charlotte and Lord Blackmeer? No matter. It is for the best, I assure you. Tonight you shall meet people who can establish you in the literary circles that matter. Mrs. Pritchard is the finest hostess in London; only the crème of the intellectual world crosses her threshold.”
Jane lifted a brow. “I beg your pardon? Lady Charlotte is patroness to many young poets. Without her encouragement, several voices now much admired would never have reached the page.”
Colborn’s mouth twisted faintly. “Indeed, she has the funds. But her taste, madam, is questionable—though not where you are concerned, of course.” He waved a hand dismissively.
“As for the General—he is a Philistine. He comes to your gatherings not for verse or argument, but only to guard his sister’s reputation.
Or perhaps your own. It seems even the faintest tie to Lord Blackmeer is enough to rouse such misplaced vigilance.
He strikes me as a man who cannot abide the smallest blemish upon his name. ”
Jane could not help it—she laughed. “Yes, of course. That must be it. Propriety.” Colborn looked momentarily puzzled, but she only smiled and followed him through the archway.
They entered the salon, the air thick with smoke, laughter, and wine.
Jane scanned the crowd: some odd, some stiffly proper, some fiery and wild-eyed.
A large, genial man with a ruddy face held forth in the corner; beside him, a striking woman with coal-dark hair and a beauty that drew every glance.
They were introduced to her as Mr. and Mrs. Davenport.
The wife shone; the husband seemed amiable but dim, though eager to assert himself.
They had been speaking of the Revolution and its aftershocks when Jane ventured, carefully, “It is impossible not to see the shadow of France in our own literature. That storm across the Channel has changed us all. But what sets Britain apart is this—” she leaned forward slightly, her voice warming, “—we did not fall. While kings elsewhere were cast down, our crown stood firm. Our poets may borrow the language of liberty—but we have seen what that song brought. Terror. Lawlessness. The guillotine. In Britain, it is the endurance of our monarchy that steadies us.”
The large man blinked, plainly surprised. “How odd! All the young radicals I hear these days want to pull the monarchy down root and branch. And yet you speak almost as a patriot, madam.”
Jane smiled softly. “One should never tear down a structure before something better stands ready to replace it. The British monarchy ought to endure a thousand years. Not because we always have the best sovereigns—” her smile sharpened—“but because the governance of the realm proceeds apace, with or without them. The crown survives on the idea of monarchy, and that idea is stronger than any one man.”
Mr. Davenport gave a great roar of laughter, slapping his knee so hard the beauty beside him started. “By God, that is rich! Stronger than any one man, eh? You are bold to say it, madam—”
Jane only inclined her head, serene. “It is the truth, sir. The crown is larger than the man who wears it.”
The large man chuckled, clearly impressed. “Very astute, Miss—?”
“Mrs. Strathmore.”
“Any relation to the Duke of Westford? That is their name, after all.”
She remained perfectly composed. “I believe my husband is a distant cousin. Both Lord Blackmeer and his sister attend my salon. I cannot boast such glittering company as Mrs. Pritchard, but I host a few men and women of letters—where, I assure you, the excitement lies in hearing thought at its newest and rawest.”
The man’s eyes twinkled. “Strange. Lord Blackmeer does not sound the sort for literary salons, if his father is any indication.”
Jane’s voice was smooth. Secret or not, she was William’s wife, and she would praise him and his family, even if she had to bend the truth.
“The Duke is a man of tradition. He adores the King and the Regent, and would sacrifice even his only heir, for his lordship has long served as an officer in His Majesty’s army.
But he is no friend to radicals. Lord Blackmeer, however, attends often.
With his maturity, he steers the younger men to safer ground.
Or argues their wildest notions into reason. ”
Mr. Davenport threw back his head and laughed. “Madam, if Lord Blackmeer attends your gatherings, it is not to guard the morals of Britain’s youth. I have known him since he was in his nippers. More likely, he is in love with one of your lady poets—or perhaps with you yourself.”
Jane’s composure wavered, just for an instant. She had not expected the man to know William, nor the Duke, so intimately.
The rest of the evening passed with less tumult. Jane conversed steadily, her poise unshaken, though her heart still beat oddly fast from Mr. Davenport’s laughter and sly familiarity.
She found herself in talk with Mrs. Baillie, the poet and dramatist, who listened with frank interest as Jane compared Byron to Catullus: both able to shift from yearning to scorn in a single breath.
A few gentlemen from the Edinburgh Review drew near, and one—Mr. Jeffrey himself—remarked upon her “incisive clarity.” Jane inclined her head modestly, but inwardly she felt a ripple of triumph.
For all Colborn’s boasts, she had indeed impressed intellectuals whose words carried weight in print.
* * *
A week later, Jane’s Bloomsbury drawing room glowed against the October dusk.
Candles flickered in every corner, their light hazed by smoke and the chill air that crept in whenever the door opened.
The space was crowded—poets and novelists shoulder to shoulder, pamphleteers arguing in low bursts, a young critic bent over his notebook.
A woman read a sonnet in a voice so thin it was nearly swallowed by the fire’s crackle, while another argued fiercely that Milton’s Satan was the true hero of Paradise Lost.
Jane presided with calm, her gold-embroidered shawl, a gift from the Duke himself, gathered close.
She welcomed the Davenports with the same unruffled grace as any of her guests, though his knowing laugh from St. James’s Square still echoed in her thoughts.
The lady dazzled, impossible to ignore; the man bellowed laughter, filling the modest room as if it were his stage.
Then came the cry. George’s fretful wail pierced the hum of argument, sharp and indignant from the basket by the hearth.
Jane moved at once, but Charlotte forestalled her with a hand on her sleeve. “Stay. They’ll only follow you like ducklings if you leave. I’ll take him.”
Mary had already lifted the boy, murmuring apologies to the company, and together the two slipped upstairs. Jane’s heart strained after them, though she turned smoothly back to Milton and liberty, her tone steady even as her ear followed the muffled sobs above.
The talk in the drawing room had risen to such a lively pitch that no one heard the knock at the front door. Mary, on her way to the kitchen, hurried to answer it—and found Lord Blackmeer on the step, his coat and hat drenched.
“My lord,” she whispered, startled.
William stepped inside without ceremony, brushing rain from his shoulders. He started toward the drawing room—Jane would expect no less of him now—but then a thin wail carried down the stairwell. His son’s cry, fretful and sharp.
Mary followed his glance. “He is teething, my lord. Lady Charlotte is with him.”
William said nothing, though his lips pressed into a thin line. Rather than turn toward the hum of conversation and lamplight, he mounted the stairs two at a time. His son needed him.
Upstairs, Charlotte paced with the child in her arms, trying in vain to soothe him. The boy was flushed, gnawing furiously at his fists, every few moments breaking into another wail.
“Thank God,” Charlotte said, exasperated, when she saw her brother. “He will not be comforted—poor rabbit. Jane swears you’re the only one who soothes him when he’s like this.”
William took the child from her, settling him against his broad chest. His deep voice rumbled low and steady, words scarcely formed—nonsense, but spoken with that resonant gravity that stilled battalions.
The baby did not quiet altogether, but his cries softened into whimpers, his fists unclenching as though the mere presence of his father was enough.
Still murmuring, William drew him closer, lips near the child’s ear. “Hush, lad. Strong lungs, eh? Bite through it. Strathmore blood does not yield so easy.”
Charlotte raised her brows. “He takes after you already, determined to complain. Stubborn little rabbit.”
William gave her a look, unreadable, then kissed his son’s temple. For a while he stayed there, pacing slowly in the dim light, his face tight with the quiet misery of a man who would give anything to take the pain himself. He spoke gently, endlessly, until the boy grew drowsy against him.
Only when the chatter below dwindled to the fading sounds of farewell, followed by the thud of the front door and the hush that followed, did William at last venture down, his son cradled safely in his arms. Charlotte came after him, her steps light on the stairs.
Jane was seeing the last of her company off, or so she thought. But in the drawing room two figures lingered: Mr. and Mrs. Davenport. The lady sat poised, a quiet contrast to the gentleman’s flushed exuberance, heightened by drink and laughter.