Second Chance Love: A Regency Romance Set

by Wendy Lacapra

  ‘Do say you will come to London, even for a few short weeks. Besides, that awful Napoleon is on the move again. Surely, you and your daughter would be safer here than travelling back to where he is no doubt even now preparing his armies!’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Brussels is our home. We must return there.’ She glanced at Miss Langley, seeing her stricken expression. ‘However, perhaps it will do no harm to spend a short time in London first.’

  Juliana had been delighted, and this had helped Elizabeth justify in her mind taking the risk of travelling to the capital. Juliana would no doubt go out in society a little, but she was unknown, and besides, the general himself would be highly unlikely to attend the same events as young people like Juliana and Charlotte. Yes, we shall need a little good fortune, but we shall manage.

  It did not sound convincing, even to herself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘My dear Elizabeth, I have to tell you again how glad I am to be enjoying your company!’

  Elizabeth thanked Miss Langley, adding that she, too, was enjoying the friendship. They had now progressed to first-name terms, which meant that Elizabeth was now addressing the elderly lady as ‘Great-Aunt Clara’ or, simply, ‘Clara.’ Strangely, it did not make her uneasy to do so. In the weeks since arriving in England, Elizabeth had come to know and appreciate the amiable qualities of the entire Fanton family. She saw, too, how much Juliana was enjoying her stay with the earl and his family and was glad for her.

  Since they had taken up residence in the earl’s delightful townhouse near St James’s Square, Elizabeth had vacillated between quiet contentment and sheer panic. The moments of contentment were plentiful. She and Clara spent time together every day, either perusing the wares in the shops—sometimes with the young ladies—exclaiming over books in the lending library, or simply having tea with Clara’s friends and acquaintances. Elizabeth always ensured she knew beforehand exactly where they were going and exactly who would be there. She was determined to keep knowledge of this visit from reaching her father.

  The greatest moment of terror happened, entirely unexpectedly, at the home of Clara’s friend, Mrs Thornton. The visit had begun in an innocuous manner, the ladies enjoying tea, cakes, and macaroons while discussing the latest news from France, on-dits in society, and a new play that had opened at the Sadler’s Wells.

  This was Elizabeth’s second encounter with Mrs Thornton—a kind-hearted, rather garrulous lady with impeccable taste in fashion. Elizabeth eyed with admiration the lady’s round dress of amber sarsnet, trimmed with lace and an elegant flounce, trying not to contrast it with her own sensible, plain poplin day-dress that had been made up half-a-dozen times. Dear Clara had little interest in fashion and tended to wear simple yet expensive gowns of grey or lilac, with minimal ornamentation.

  Elizabeth herself, in another life, had loved the thrill of buying gowns, shoes, and satin gloves and had always had an eye for fashion. Dimly, she remembered the young girl she had been, twirling around a ballroom in a white tulle dress, attending the theatre in an extravagant, elegant pale green silk, and attending picnics and walks attired in a range of expensive, elegant walking-dresses. Of course, since then, fashions had changed somewhat, and young ladies now wore Greek-inspired muslins with high waists and sheer fabrics.

  Elizabeth would have loved to have more money to spend on clothes. Alas! Her own choices had limited her to poplin and plain cotton when she secretly longed for silk; to plain, severe, unadorned dresses when she would have loved a flounce, lace, or some seed pearls to make her dresses special. She herself was a skilled dressmaker—though, of course, it would be shocking to admit to such a thing in polite company—and what money they had was always used to ensure that Juliana was impeccably turned out.

  Papa’s allowance may have seemed reasonable to him, but he clearly had no idea of how expensive it was to pay for rent, food, and all the household necessities in Brussels! Each month, whatever little had been left, Elizabeth had carefully saved, buying lengths of fabric to make dresses—plain ones for her and beautiful ones for Juliana. Over the years, she had developed considerable skill, and some of Juliana’s greatest fashion triumphs had been created by her own mama.

  Juliana had, eventually, questioned why her dear mama dressed so plainly, but Elizabeth had been able to reassure her that she did not wish to wear anything more elaborate and was perfectly content with her grey crape or her puce poplin. That had been—mostly—true. The Elizabeth who had danced, loved fashions, and fallen in love with Jack Milford was long gone. The woman she was now focused on her daughter’s needs.

  She was perfectly content.

  So, why was it, in Mrs Thornton’s handsome drawing-room, that she should suddenly feel a pang of regret for things she had lost? An amber dress on an older lady should not unsettle her so. But oh, I should so love a new gown!

  Of course, the very idea was foolish, given that she was using most of her precious savings to fund this trip. Just because the earl, in his generosity, had provided all their accommodation, food, and travel so far, did not mean that she might not have need of her precious bundle of banknotes as the visit went on. And, of course, she still had to pay for the return trip back home to Brussels. She sighed inwardly, allowing Clara and Mrs Thornton’s chatter to wash over her.

  Just then, the door opened, and Mrs Thornton’s footman admitted a gentleman. Elizabeth gave him a swift glance, instantly verifying that he was not, in fact, the general, come to find her. Nevertheless, her heart clenched in fear in that inconvenient manner it always did when she thought of Papa.

  This gentleman was much younger—perhaps only a few years older than herself. He had dark brown hair—a little silver at the temples—swarthy skin, and eyes of a deep brown, glinting with intelligence and humour. His clothing was impeccable—knee-breeches, a wine-coloured jacket that seemed moulded to his shoulders, and an elegant silk waist-coat with delicate embroidery. She took all of this in as her eyes swept over him, but as her gaze returned to his face, she saw his eyes brimful of humour, noting her perusal. She felt a quick flush suffuse her neck and face. Lord, was I staring?

  ‘Charles, my love!’ Mrs Thornton held out her two hands to the gentleman.

  He took them and kissed them, saying, ‘Why, Mama, what a fetching cap! I declare you look younger every week!’

  ‘Stuff!’ his mama replied indulgently. ‘Clara, you remember my scapegrace son?’ Clara greeted him with a warm smile, and he bent over her hand.

  ‘This is Mrs Milford, who is visiting us with her daughter at present,’ Clara said. ‘Elizabeth, this is Mr Thornton.’

  Elizabeth stammered the customary greetings, all the while wondering why it was that she had suddenly, and unexpectedly, lost the power of sensible speech. Mr Thornton sat and took tea, conversing easily with his mama and Clara. Eventually, Elizabeth joined in with an innocuous comment, instantly regretting it as his eyes turned towards her. He looked, and slightly frowned, and in that instant, Elizabeth knew—just knew—what he was about to say.

  ‘Have we met before, Mrs Milford? You look familiar to me.’

  Elizabeth’s stomach dropped, as if to the floor. He knows me!

  Oh, it had been more than twenty years, but she had the advantage of hearing his name. Charles Thornton. She remembered him. He had been one of Jack’s acquaintances. She remembered him as a handsome young man—not as dashing and flirtatious as Jack had been, but quiet, serious, and rather shy.

  What should I say?‘ Oh, I… um… that is to say… I have not visited England for more than twenty years, Mr Thornton.’

  His frown deepened. ‘Then I cannot account for it. Where is your home, Mrs Milford, if you do not mind me asking?’

  ‘I live in Brussels.’ She would not directly lie but had no intention of helping him. ‘Clara, forgive me, but I hoped to return a little earlier today. There is something I must discuss with Juliana.’ This was technically true. She had been meaning to again raise with Juliana the
thorny issue of leaving England.

  ‘Of course!’ Clara rose instantly, and within a few minutes, they were on their way back to the townhouse.

  ‘Mr Thornton is such a blessing to his mother!’ sighed Clara. ‘Such a devoted son. He lives in Mayfair but always makes sure to call on her regularly and will even squire her to the theatre or a musicale if she requests it.’

  ‘Does his wife also accompany him?’ As soon as she had asked the question, Elizabeth regretted it. Why should she care about Mr Thornton’s wife?

  ‘Oh, he never married,’ Clara said airily. ‘The matchmaking mamas tried all they could for years, for he is possessed of a good fortune as well as good character, but he never found a girl who would suit him. He is now a confirmed bachelor and, by all accounts, content to be so.’

  Elizabeth nodded politely but asked no further questions. That had been a close thing. What if he had fully remembered her? Miss Hunter, General Hunter’s daughter, who had disgraced her family by eloping with Milford… If he mentioned it to people then before long her father might find out and—

  ‘I must speak to Juliana about booking our passage home,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Oh, no! Just when we are becoming better acquainted! Please do not say you will leave us so soon, my dear! Why, the young ladies have just received vouchers for Almack’s! You cannot mean to deprive them of such a treat!’

  Elizabeth sank back in her seat. ‘That is true… but after that, we must choose a date.’

  Clara patted her hand. ‘Of course, but not yet.’

  Elizabeth stared out of the window at the London streets, but she could not shake the image from her mind. Mr Thornton, as he had looked when he entered his mother’s drawing room—his face, height, shape, and quiet confidence. Something about him had awoken a response deep within her. For many years, she had, as Juliana’s mother, spent most of her time in the company of ladies. Oh, their husbands, fathers, and brothers flitted in and out of Elizabeth’s world, as though they were minor characters in a play. Elizabeth’s focus had been on her female friends, who had always had wise counsel on household matters and child-rearing. For the first time in forever, she had actually noticed an attractive man. The experience was novel, unexpected, and entirely disconcerting.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Frankly, Mama, it was rather disappointing!’ Juliana added to the clear opinion among the young ladies that Almack’s had not been as exciting as they had anticipated.

  ‘Although it was quite a crush, I suppose, and it was diverting looking at all the dresses and watching the people dancing.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘Not that there was much opportunity for you two to watch.’ She turned to Elizabeth and Clara. ‘Both Juliana and Olivia danced every dance, if I am not mistaken!’

  ‘I admit the musicians were highly accomplished,’ said Juliana, rather loftily.

  I wonder what happened? She seems genuinely put out.

  The ladies were seated in Charlotte’s parlour, enjoying a comfortable cose and waiting for any visitors who might call, as they were known to be At Home. Sure enough, before long the footman scratched at the door, admitting their first visitors—none other than Mrs Thornton and her son!

  To her dismay, Elizabeth felt her face flush. But why should I blush? The fact that Mr Thornton was a handsome gentleman should not cause her to behave as though she were an inexperienced debutante. He was simply a gentleman of her acquaintance. As Clara embraced her friend and the Fanton ladies greeted the visitors, she clasped her hands together to give herself fortitude. By the time Clara had introduced Mr Thornton to Juliana, Elizabeth had managed to get her racing heart under control enough to give her own polite greeting.

  After the first few minutes, her pulse rate settled a little. There were different conversations going on—Clara discussing something in low tones with Mrs Thornton, while the young ladies returned to their analysis of the ball they had attended at Almack’s.

  Under cover of the general hum, Mr Thornton leaned forwards to speak to Elizabeth. ‘What was the situation in Brussels before you left, Mrs Milford? Was there much talk of war?’ His serious demeanour and intent tone were somewhat reassuring, and the subject matter was, she felt, uncontroversial.

  ‘There was, I fear. Word had reached us of Napoleon’s escape from Elba, and we do hear that he is assembling a large army.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘We fully expect him to resume his attempts to conquer every country he can.’

  ‘A worrying business, for sure,’ he agreed, then went on to discuss the situation with her in more detail. She, well used to forming her own opinions and expressing them among her female friends, found herself relaxing enough in his company to give her views on a range of topics, to which he listened with respect, only questioning or challenging her when he was unclear about something.

  This was entirely refreshing. Her limited experience of conversing with men when she was younger had coloured her views somewhat. Conversations with Papa had been difficult for her at twenty. She, with thoughts of ball gowns and picnics and romantic notions; he, an army general with responsibility for mighty issues—war, peace, the Terror. He had dismissed her as lacking depth and spirit, and she had judged him for being harsh and cruel.

  Looking back, her brief time with Jack had been equally difficult in many ways. Their courtship in London had consisted of his romantic declarations, clandestine kisses, and finally, the plot to run away to be married. She could not now recall any conversations focused on weighty matters—but then, she mused, Jack had been as young and as foolish as she.

  ‘Captain Fanton is to return to Brussels before long, I expect,’ said Mr Thornton soberly, bringing her back to the present.

  ‘Indeed,’ she replied, ‘and I do not know how his family will manage, not knowing if he is to live or die, not knowing if he will ever be restored to them.’ Her mouth trembled. The very thought of the young, vital captain being killed in battle was deeply upsetting. She had come to know him well these past weeks—another gentleman who treated her with an easy respect—and she had a great fondness for him.

  He noticed. ‘I admire your compassion, Mrs Milford, and you are exactly right. Napoleon will march again, and thousands more lives—ours and theirs—will be lost.’

  For a moment, they looked at each other, and something long dead briefly unfurled within her. Then more visitors arrived, and the spell was broken. He and his mother stood to leave soon afterwards, and Elizabeth was conscious of a brief and entirely inappropriate sense of disappointment.

  Mr Nightingale, a romantic young gentleman who had danced with Lady Olivia at Almack’s, had come with a Poem inspired, he said, by Lady Olivia’s beauty. Elizabeth watched, somewhat bemused, as Mr Nightingale proceeded to read his flowery verse.

  Charlotte and Juliana exchanged an amused glance, while Elizabeth, politeness personified, tried to look impressed. Inside, she was remembering some of the wonderful, excruciating poetry that Jack had written for her when she was Olivia’s age, and how much she had loved it. For a moment, she imagined Mr Thornton’s reaction to poor Mr Nightingale’s efforts and suppressed a quick smile.

  How I have changed! Time passes so slowly that we do not see its hand on our character. How would Jack have matured? Would he be as solid, as warm as Mr Thornton? It was hard to imagine the impulsive, passionate Jack reaching his fortieth birthday. In her mind, he would be forever twenty-one. Too young to die.

  Mr Nightingale departed, and Olivia endured some gentle teasing about her romantic suitor. Another gentleman visited then—a Mr Attwood, who seemed to be interested in Juliana. She treated him with a polite warmth that indicated to Elizabeth that she was considering him seriously as a suitor. Elizabeth’s attention increased, but the more she watched of their exchange, the more concerned she became. Mr Attwood was engaging, sober, and said all that he ought. Worthy. He’s worthy.

  And dull. The thought caused her some discomfort, for she hated to think ill of people. He will never do for Juliana. Juliana
was too fiery, too passionate, for a man like Mr Attwood. She would, quite without meaning to, crush him, and despise him for it.

  Her thoughts turned to Mr Thornton. Some might describe him as sober. Worthy, even. Yet there was an essential difference between him and the staid Mr Attwood. Elizabeth considered the conundrum. It is character. Mr Thornton is his own man, with humour, intelligence, and a spark of wit. Just because he is quiet and does not draw attention to himself, does not mean he is any less of a man. On the contrary. Elizabeth remembered the frissons she experienced every time he looked directly at her. He is all man.

  Mr Attwood, following a ponderous, elaborate farewell, departed, and the ladies visibly relaxed. Following a brief respite, the next set of visitors arrived—a Mrs Etherington and her daughter. They were, it seemed, related to Charlotte by marriage. Elizabeth sat quietly while they spoke of their shared relatives, including Charlotte’s cousin Henrietta, who was apparently due her first child. The earl and his brother Harry then joined them, Harry choosing to sit next to the pretty Miss Etherington—as well he might. Tea was served, and Harry and Miss Etherington began discussing shared acquaintances. Juliana pointedly chose to speak to Lady Olivia about the latest fashions, making Elizabeth frown. Is Juliana upset about something?

  She was so focused on trying to fathom if her daughter was distressed that she was unprepared when, unexpectedly, Mrs Etherington addressed her directly.

  ‘Mrs Milford,’ she said bluntly, ‘I understand you are guests here. How long do you stay in London?’

  Elizabeth was momentarily nonplussed. She was always anxious when attention turned to her, for fear people might ask difficult questions. For twenty years and more, she had been hiding from the truth, and she had successfully managed to keep the knowledge of her shame from Juliana. She must survive these moments with all her secrets intact.