Page 35

“That’s coming along nicely, Jane.” Her mother had set down her needlework on the small table beside her chair in the drawing room and had come to stand behind her.

“Thank you, Mother.” Jane tipped her head to one side, studying her work in progress from another angle. “It still feels as though something is missing, but I cannot quite put my finger on what it might be.”

“Well, not having been to the village green myself, I cannot say. But I have no doubt it will come to you.” Her mother gave her an encouraging smile, then moved over to the sofa to inspect Phoebe’s stitchery.

Jane released a frustrated breath and lowered her paintbrush. In the past, working on a fresh canvas had been a way to clear her head, to see challenges in a fresh light, and to see a new way forward. Now, more than ever, she wished for that—for her painting and for young Asher. For the last two nights, her dreams had been filled with visions of the little boy’s fear-filled eyes and Mr. Stanley’s glacial stare. She’d hear the baby in Mrs. Stanley’s arms cry, and then Mrs. Stanley would begin to cry, and nothing Jane could do would make them stop until she woke up in her dark bedchamber with her heart aching, feeling the same sense of uselessness she experienced whenever her legs failed her.

Her lack of sleep was beginning to show in the shadows forming beneath her eyes. She was fortunate that neither her mother nor Phoebe had made mention of it yet, but she had a sinking feeling that her luck would run out when Aunt Millward arrived. The eccentric older lady might be twelve years her mother’s senior, but she was more perceptive than most women half her age.

Jane glanced at the clock on the mantel. Unless her aunt had encountered an unexpected delay en route, she should be arriving at Charwell Park within the next couple hours.

The drawing room door opened, and Albert stepped in. “My apologies for interrupting, Mrs. Hadford,” he said with a bow. “The post has arrived.”

“Thank you, Albert. I assume you have taken Mr. Hadford’s letters to his study.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He set the salver on the small table and slipped out of the room without another word.

Jane’s mother reclaimed her seat and picked up the small handful of envelopes. “I have to say, our new neighbors have been most welcoming,” she said as she sifted through the cards, most of which appeared to be invitations of one kind or another.

Jane stifled a sigh. Whatever the events, she would be expected to attend with her family. Walking into dinner on the arm of a young man who wished he were escorting Phoebe or one of the other young ladies in attendance was almost as bad as walking in with one of the older gentlemen because their host assumed her disability made her ineligible and, therefore, undesirable. Sitting through a ball where she knew no one and would have to endure pitying glances or being ignored was even worse.

Her mother picked up the last letter in the pile and studied it with a perplexed expression. “Jane,” she said slowly. “This one is for you.”

Jane stared at the envelope in her mother’s hand, and her heart began to pound. Phoebe’s head, which had been lowered over her needlework this whole time, instantly popped up. She swung to face Jane.

“Who would be writing to you?”

“I . . . I’m not rightly sure.” Her answer was the truth; she did not know for certain. But as very few people outside of Aunt Millward ever corresponded with her, her alternatives were few.

She picked up the rag beside her canvas and attempted to wipe the paint off her shaking fingers. He had written. Deep down, in the small portion of her heart she kept hidden from the world, she had hoped he would. But her head—the sensible, realistic side of her that kept her from being hurt—told her there was no reason to suppose Lord Bloxley would respond to her letters. She had asked no questions that had needed replies.

Reaching for the cane leaning against her chair, she pulled herself to her feet. But she was not fast enough. Phoebe had set aside her needle and thread and had taken the letter from their mother. She stood beside the sofa, studying it curiously.

“It is most certainly a man’s handwriting, Jane,” she said. She looked up, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “I believe it is a secret admirer.”

“And I believe you are a ninny,” Jane said, assuming a casualness she did not feel. She extended her hand for the letter, hoping Phoebe would not notice its slight tremor.

Reluctantly, Phoebe relinquished the envelope, and Jane glanced at the handwriting. It was bold and sure—just as she would imagine Lord Bloxley’s to be.

“Well?” Phoebe asked. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Jane looked up. Both Phoebe and her mother were gazing at her with undisguised curiosity. If she were to leave the room without opening the envelope, their speculation would know no end. And neither would their pestering, until she told them all. It would be better to douse their interest now.

Leaning on her good leg, she broke the seal and withdrew two sheets of paper covered in the same bold script as on the envelope. Heavens. This was no short note of acknowledgment; this was a missive. Turning over the second page, she glanced at the signature at the bottom. Alexander Allerton, Earl of Bloxley.

Taking a steadying breath, Jane faced her mother and sister. She was not sure that it was entirely proper for an unattached young lady and an eligible earl to be exchanging letters without some kind of understanding between them. It seemed as though there’d been some kind of rule about such things buried within the litany of proper procedures she’d been taught in her comportment lessons. She’d not paid much attention to those guidelines these last years; a cripple had little use for them.

“Who is it from, Jane?” her mother was tired of waiting.

“It is from London,” she said, evading her mother’s question as best she could. “It concerns some inquiries I made whilst at the Foundling Hospital.”

Phoebe gasped and clapped her hands. “Your paintings! Do they wish to have one for the gallery?”

“No,” Jane said. “And I truly do not believe that will ever happen.”

“Nonsense. You may not recognize your talent, but everyone else does.” Phoebe pointed to the paper in Jane’s hand. “And that letter proves it.”

“Phoebe, really! She has not even read it yet.” Their mother’s voice of reason went ignored.