Epilogue
A scream tore through the marble halls. William paced the antechamber pale as a ghost, his boots sinking into the thick carpet with each turn.
Another scream followed, longer this time, ragged and full of pain.
He stopped mid-step, fists clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on the thick wooden door as though sheer will might open it.
“I’m going in,” he muttered, already moving.
“No,” said the Duke of Westford, rising from the bench beside him. “Your presence would not be appreciated in there, I assure you. She has her mother with her—and your sister, as usual, despite the indecency.”
William turned, jaw tight. “Charlotte was there for the first. Nothing would keep her away now.”
A third scream echoed, sharp and panicked.
The Duke exhaled and signaled to a footman. “Brandy,” he said curtly. Then to his son: “Better drink, William. It will help.”
“Will it stop her screaming?” William snapped.
“No,” the Duke admitted. “But it will stop you looking like you’re about to vomit on the floor.”
Light footsteps pattered down the corridor, and a small figure emerged from the shadows—Lady Margaret, in her nightdress and slippers, her face pale, eyes wide with fright. The cries from behind the door had drawn her out.
“William?” she asked, trembling. “Why is Jane screaming? She is not dying, is she? Tell me you can make it stop.”
He dropped to one knee before her, his face drawn with helplessness. “If I could make it stop, Margaret, I would. Believe me.”
From behind them came another cry—this time not Jane’s, but a newborn’s thin, indignant wail.
The Duke straightened with all his aristocratic poise.
“Well done, my boy,” he said with a rare note of pride.
“Your second child—may it not be the last. And what a wife you’ve chosen.
Such intelligence, such grace—she has carried herself admirably.
The Prince Regent himself intends to visit.
She’s done more for our standing at Court than any lady of the finest bloodline could have. ”
Then, with the air of a man attempting something like humility, he added, “I never thought I’d say this, but…
I misjudged her. I once believed my own wife would further my ambitions—only for her to disgrace us both before the world by abandoning me.
But Lady Jane… Jane is loyal, faithful, true.
A better daughter-in-law than I could ever deserve.
And one who seems, at last, to mend the damage done to our name by my own poor choice of a duchess. ”
William stared at his feet, struggling to find breath.
Had she sought affection, he might have understood.
She had been forced to marry a man thirty years her senior.
But she had turned beauty into a weapon.
He had warned his father often enough what the woman’s vanity would cost, but the Duke hadn’t listened.
And William—William would never be so blind regarding his own wife.
“I dare any man to try and take her from me, Father,” he said quietly. “He wouldn’t live long enough to succeed.”
Before the Duke could reply, the door burst open. A maid appeared, breathless. “My lord—you have a son. But the labor’s not over. She’s having twins, it seems.”
“What?” William reeled back a step.
“Oh! Now the rabbit has even more babies to play with,” Lady Margaret said brightly, hovering close by.
The Duke beamed, triumphant. “Ha! I knew it. I told Lady Tremayne weeks ago—she looked far too round for just one child. What Jane lacked in dowry, she’s more than made up for with her womb. Two years ago, we had no heir. Now we’ve two—perhaps three. God bless her.”
“Say another word, and I swear—” William barked, stepping forward. “If anything happens to her—”
A new round of screaming rose—sharper than before. That was the final straw. William shouldered past the maid and pushed into the chamber.
“William!” Charlotte cried, startled, halfway to the washstand with bloodied towels. “You can’t—!”
He barely heard her. The room smelled of blood and sweat and ether.
Jane lay on the bed, her hair plastered to her brow, her body trembling.
The midwife knelt between her legs, guiding the birth.
The doctor stood at her shoulder, checking her pulse, murmuring low instructions. The sheets were stained red.
William froze. He staggered, stared—then went utterly white and collapsed in a dead faint.
There was a pause. Then the midwife clucked her tongue and muttered dryly, “Typical. Doesn’t mind putting them in, but faints clean away when they come out.”
Charlotte barked a laugh. “Useless,” she said, waving a hand toward her brother’s sprawled form. “Utterly useless.”
“Quiet, both of you,” urged Jane’s mother, handing the doctor the ether-soaked cloth. “And do something—don’t just stand there. You’re a physician. You did little enough to help my daughter; at least try to help her husband.”
He looked offended, but bent to revive him. Jane gave another groan, gathering her strength. Her voice, though hoarse, still carried weight. “I expected more fortitude from a general in His Majesty’s army.”
Her mother chuckled. “Ach, Jane—he’s likely seen far more blood than this. But the French weren’t the woman he loves. And if I can forgive him for all he’s put our family through, it’s because I know he loves you.”
Long after, when William came to, his vision swam. He was seated against the far wall, a cold cloth on his head. The doctor knelt beside him, lips twitching with amusement.
“You have two healthy children, my lord. A boy and a girl. Your wife is well, and already nursing them.”
William said nothing. He rose shakily, crossed the room in two strides, and dropped to his knees beside the bed. She sat propped against a mound of pillows, looking pale and damp and more radiant than he had ever seen her. One tiny baby at each breast, suckling.
“My love,” he murmured. “I swear to you, I will never touch you again, if it is to risk you so.”
She chuckled, soft and breathless. “William. You know perfectly well you’ll touch me the moment you’re allowed. And if you don’t… I certainly will. So stop this nonsense.”
He laughed—a hoarse, broken sound—and leaned forward to press his forehead to hers.
He kissed her hand. Then the crown of his son’s head.
Then the curve of his daughter’s cheek. There was nothing more to say.
Outside, dawn was breaking over Westford Castle.
Inside, their future was already in their arms.
And Jane could not help but wonder what had brought her here.
Once, she had chosen to live the great passion the poets promised, and paid dearly for it.
She had chosen to give herself to William, and to love him.
She had chosen to face the consequences of loving him with dignity, and to shield the life growing inside her as best she could.
Later, hurt and frightened, she had chosen to marry him rather than flee, to protect her unborn child from shame.
Afterward, she had chosen herself: her work, her voice, her small room in Bloomsbury that became a world of ideas.
And in time she had chosen to forgive him, and to return to Westford Castle not as governess or secret lover, but as wife and equal.
The duchess he had dreamed of, and the woman she had made herself.
Whatever else they said of her, they would say this, too: She had a mind of her own.