The air in Masham was thick with whispers, the kind that drifted like smoke, unseen but suffocating. Jane had learned to navigate the sideways glances and muttered conversations ever since her pregnancy had become common knowledge. But the news that reached her one chilly morning in late June, carried by her neighbor Mrs. Avery, hit harder than the familiar judgment.
"Have you heard?" Mrs. Avery leaned in closer as she handed Jane the loaf of bread she'd just baked. "The Metcalfe baby. Born just last week."
Jane froze. She had been avoiding gossip, staying to herself, but the name "Metcalfe" caught her off guard. The Metcalfes were a wealthy family who lived on the outskirts of Masham—respected, influential, and close to Swinton Hall. They were never the subject of village chatter.
"A boy," Mrs. Avery added with a whisper, her eyes wide. "But there's more to it. Seems young Sarah Metcalfe wasn't married."
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and heavy. Jane felt a cold chill creep over her. Sarah Metcalfe—unwed? It seemed impossible. Sarah was one of the finest girls in the village, raised in privilege, and she'd never had a hint of scandal attached to her name. Until now.
"Who's the father?" Jane asked, her voice low, unsure if she really wanted to know the answer.
Mrs. Avery glanced around as if to ensure no one else was listening. "No one knows for certain," she said, though her tone hinted that she might have an idea. "But they say there was a gentleman visiting Swinton Hall last year. Some think he might have been involved. The family is keeping quiet, of course. No one dares ask too many questions about a Metcalfe."
Jane's hands gripped the warm loaf tighter, her mind spinning. The timing. The mysterious gentleman. Swinton Hall. A sickening realization began to form, curling in the pit of her stomach. Peter had stayed at Swinton Hall last year—during the same time.
Could it be?
She managed to thank Mrs. Avery and closed the door, but her mind was racing. The possibility that Peter could have fathered another child, so close to her own, was unbearable. The thought of him with another woman—Sarah Metcalfe of all people—sent a hot surge of anger through her. Had he been with her while making promises to Jane?
The room suddenly felt too small, the air stifling. Jane paced, her hands trembling. She had thought her betrayal was singular, that Peter's rejection of her was a cruel twist of fate, but this—this was worse. If Peter was the father of Sarah's child, it meant he had lied to both of them, used them both, and left them to face the consequences alone.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but Jane blinked them away. She wouldn't cry for Peter. Not anymore.
Her thoughts raced. The Metcalfe family would never allow a scandal like this to surface. They had power, influence. If Peter was the father, it would be covered up quickly, the truth buried beneath layers of propriety and money. Sarah would be protected. The Metcalfes had resources Jane could never dream of.
But what about Jane? What about her child? She had no protection, no family name to shield her from the storm that was surely coming.
A knock at the door startled her. She opened it to find Father Wilcox standing there, his face solemn. The sight of him brought her back to the bitter reality of her own situation. The Church had demanded she name her child's father weeks ago, pushing for their bastardry fees as was the norm, and Jane had no choice but to comply. She had revealed Peter's name, knowing it would never be made public, but hoping it would buy her some time.
"Good morning, Miss Peacock," Father Wilcox said, his voice as measured as ever. "May I come in?"
Jane nodded, stepping aside to let him enter. As he crossed the threshold, she braced herself. There was no kindness in his visit; she could see that in his stern eyes.
"I understand you've received a letter from Lord Campbell," he said, settling into the chair by the fire.
Jane stiffened at the mention of Peter's name, but she remained silent.
Father Wilcox sighed. "It's a delicate matter, Miss Peacock. Lord Campbell has acknowledged his responsibilities privately, but you must understand, his position means the Church cannot involve itself further. He has fulfilled his obligations. You will receive the payments."
The payments. Jane almost laughed. The cold, clinical way the Church and Peter treated her situation felt like a nightmare. But she nodded, her voice tight. "I understand."
Father Wilcox stood, smoothing his robes. "Good. Then we shall consider this matter closed."
As he left, Jane stood at the window, watching him disappear down the road. The matter closed? For the Church, perhaps. For Peter, certainly. But for her? For Sarah Metcalfe?
The storm inside her continued to rage. She had no proof that Peter was the father of Sarah's child, but the timing, the whispers—it was enough. Enough to make her realize how deeply entangled she was in a web of lies and deceit spun by a man who had walked away from all consequences.
But Jane wouldn't walk away. She wouldn't let Peter's actions define her or her child. If she had to face the world alone, she would do it with her head held high. And as for Sarah Metcalfe, Jane knew their stories were not so different. Both abandoned, both left to pick up the pieces.
In a village like Masham, secrets were never truly hidden for long. One way or another, the truth would come to light. And when it did, Jane vowed she would be ready.