‘I do not need you to tell me anything right now,’ replied her daughter. ‘We can talk when it seems right to you.’
‘I have made a decision, Juliana. We are going home, to Brussels.’
Juliana frowned in confusion. ‘Do you mean when the war is over?’
‘No. We must go as soon as we may, within a few weeks.’
‘So soon?’ Juliana looked aghast. ‘But why?’
‘It is necessary.’ Elizabeth began pacing again. ‘We must reach Brussels safely before Napoleon moves his armies too far north. We will travel via Ostend. We either go soon, or we may be stranded in England for months.’
‘And would that be so terrible? We have good friends here, a comfortable situation. You do like it here, Mama? Don’t you?’
Much, much more than I can tell you. ‘Of course! Dear Charlotte has been so kind, and her Adam is a true gentleman.’
‘And you like all of them, don’t you? Olivia, and Great-Aunt Clara, and Harry?’
‘Yes, I do. Olivia is a delightful young lady, and Clara is a dear friend.’
‘And Harry?’
Does she think I have not noticed what is going on between them? ‘If you remember, I appreciated Harry’s good qualities from the first time we met—unlike you, who wanted only to fuss and argue with him.’
‘That is true.’ Juliana blushed a little.
‘I shall tell you something now, Juliana. Harry is the most amiable, the most charming and the most reliable young man I have met in many a year. He is like a son to me. I have come to depend on him and to appreciate how he cares for us both. I know you have not always seen eye to eye, but I truly believe he has your interests at heart.’ He reminds me of Charles, and that is the greatest compliment I can give.
Juliana’s blush mounted. Ah, so she, too, knows how she feels about him.
‘I still do not understand why we must leave soon. It would be much less dangerous to wait until the armies have battled and we will then know if it is safe to cross France.’
Allowing herself to be diverted from delving too deeply into her daughter’s heart, Elizabeth simply replied, ‘It must be soon. There are reasons—but I do not wish to dwell on it. It will take a few weeks to arrange everything. I shall ask Adam if his steward can organise our passage. We shall also need to hire a coach to take us to the coast. Then there will be inns to be written to, a coach to take us through France… I have begun to make a list. I do not wish for you to be involved in the arrangements, as you did when we travelled here. Coming to England was your project, your mission, so you had the organising of it. Returning home is mine, and I shall do it myself.’
‘But, Mama,’ Juliana protested. ‘We cannot simply—’
‘You will heed me in this, Juliana. My mind is made up.’
Juliana looked at her, seemingly recognising a new firmness in her mother’s expression. She nodded. ‘Very well, Mama.’
Later, preparing for bed, Elizabeth sat at her chamber mirror, brushing her golden hair with long slow strokes. Just last night, she had been in a laudanum fog, overwhelmed by the enormity of Papa’s pain and by simply seeing him after so long. Papa! Yes, he had mishandled her as a young woman, intimidating her into obedience, treating her like a recalcitrant infantryman instead of his daughter. But she knew he had loved her. He just could not express it. The wisdom of her more than forty years gave her new insight. Oh, he was still wrong to have bullied her so. But I was wrong, too.
What would have happened if she had not eloped but simply persisted in choosing Jack? If she had been quietly steadfast? Eventually, my determination would have persuaded Papa. But Jack’s impulsiveness, and my fear, combined to set us on a disastrous path.
But I was not forty-two then. I was twenty, and I did what I thought was best at the time. The problem, truly, is not the nature of the path that unfolded, but in my failure to fully embrace it.
Oh, she had focused on her daughter in a determined way and had no regrets about the raising of her. Juliana was as strong-willed, accomplished, and confident as any mother could wish. She could not—would not—be bullied by anyone! But for herself, Elizabeth had worried overmuch about Papa, and her reputation, and the nature of her marriage. Finally, when she had the chance to prove Juliana’s legitimacy—through a single document—she discovered that in truth, she had been hiding from mists and wraiths rather than from real, solid threats.
Her thoughts returned to a conversation she had had earlier, at dinner, with Lady Olivia. The poet, Mr Nightingale, had fallen out of favour.
‘He seems to think he is the only man I should talk to,’ Olivia had explained. ‘He is most agreeable, but I do not like it when he thinks he has some sort of special position.’
‘You must be bold, Olivia!’ Elizabeth had told her. ‘If you are not careful, you will become a passenger in your own life. You must steer your ship, make your choices, and follow what your heart tells you.’ And take the consequences that follow.
‘But what if I choose wrong?’ asked Olivia, in a small voice. ‘I was so looking forward to my first Season, but it is much more difficult than I anticipated.’
Elizabeth had given gave her a kind look. I remember this feeling. ‘What does your heart tell you?’
A series of expressions had flitted over Olivia’s face—surprise, doubt, then certainty. She had squared her shoulders. ‘I must let Mr Nightingale know that, while I admire him and I like him, I cannot—I mean, I do not think I could like him above all others.’
‘You see? You know what is right. Now, do not doubt yourself. I wish,’ she added softly, ‘someone had advised me so, when I was young.’
And what is right for me now? Even at forty-two, she lacked the clarity she craved. Travelling to Brussels, finding documentary proof that would secure Juliana’s reputation and future—these things had to be done, of that she was certain. But her heart held the echo of Charles’s words. War was coming. Would she and Juliana find themselves in danger? Should she have accepted Charles’s offer of help?
Instantly, the answering voice came. This is my task, and mine alone. I must mend what I ruined. She sighed. The decision was the right one, and yet she could not forget the look on Charles’s face when he had realised she was adamant.
Charles! Her heart and her body burned for him. His handsome face was clear in her memory, his brown eyes alight with humour, admiration, intelligence. The sensation of his arms around her—that one moment in twenty years when she had let go. His scent. His lean body. The touch of his hand. His kiss.
Have I destroyed this fledgling thing between us? I may not be able to return from Brussels, might never see him again. Anguish pierced her, stinging with pain.
She shook her head. There was no point in risking the safety of another person—especially one so dear to her—for selfish reasons. Bad enough that she and Juliana must flee, before her daughter discovered the truth. If all goes well, we shall return with pride, sure of our place. Only then can I look Charles in the eye and discover what might be possible.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Everything looked the same yet felt utterly new. It was good to be back in Brussels, in their little house in Schaerbeek. Their lodgings were ideally situated in a respectable district, outside the main city. The familiarity of it was comforting, yet strangely, it no longer felt like home. Sandrine had made everything ready for them, and Elizabeth’s friends flocked to visit her, big with news of the impending war.
Juliana was unhappy. Elizabeth could feel it radiating out of her. It was more, she felt, than despondency at leaving her friends in England. Had she and Harry had a falling-out? Notably, he had not called on them—not once—although his ensign, a young man called Jem Ford, visited regularly. Each time Elizabeth thought of boys like Jem heading to war, her blood ran cold. Jem reminded her strongly of Jack in his naïveté. He had no idea of the horrors that lay ahead.
Juliana was pressed into helping the nuns at the convent hospital, tending mainly to so
ldiers wounded during the fierce training that was going on in all areas of Brussels and the surrounding villages, but she looked dispirited.
The combined armies of Prussia, England, Austria, Scotland, Brunswick, Hanover, and the Netherlands were gathering together to stand against Napoleon. No-one knew when the self-styled Emperor would make his move, but the allied forces, under General Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, were doing all they could to prepare.
Elizabeth, too, was suffering. Never could she have imagined that she would miss Charles so much. She missed his wise counsel, his handsome smile, and the astute humour in those brown eyes. In just a few short weeks, he had become essential to her.
At the same time, she had remained free of the fear that had shadowed her for over twenty years. She had seen Papa again. She had been to London. The sky had not, in fact, fallen in. And, of course, she had her mission—to prove that she had been legally married. In one stroke, it would protect Juliana’s reputation—for who could criticise the child of a legal marriage for the impetuous actions of her parents? It would also, perhaps, confirm Juliana as heiress to a tidy fortune. Her child would be comfortable for life.
But war was almost upon them, and Elizabeth knew her duty. She worked with Juliana and with her friend, Mme Vastine, at the hospital, helping to create and store countless rolls of bandages and dressings. They lay on shelves and in chests, neatly awaiting the casualties to come. It was best not to think of their purpose—just focus on the task in hand.
Elizabeth had searched among Jack’s papers for any documents relating to their civil marriage, without success. Undeterred, and without informing Juliana, she visited offices and spoke with numerous clerks, none of whom were interested in her request for papers. War was coming! Did she not realise?
‘Yes,’ she said, politely persistent, ‘That is the very reason why I need this now. Who knows what documents might be destroyed in burning buildings if Napoleon is victorious?’
Her logic could not be denied, and eventually, after weeks of meetings, and rather more knowledge of town hall bureaucracy than she would have wished, she emerged with three documents tucked safely in her reticule—a copy of the marriage entry in the municipal register, as well as two certificates of authentication. That should be enough. Well, I hope so, anyway.
Safely home, she slipped the papers into her drawer, then sank into the satin-covered chair in her bedchamber. I have done it! I have the papers!
Her sense of satisfaction did not last for long. Only when the lawyer had accepted the papers, and Juliana had been confirmed as Jack’s heir, would Elizabeth be content.
War was now expected within just a few days. Rumour had it that Napoleon’s forces were massing on France’s northern border. Somehow, she must find passage back to London—at a time when every cart and carriage was being sold or hired for astronomical amounts, as people fled Brussels to the north and east. She had already made some tentative enquiries then subsided, defeated. There was no way she had the sort of money that was being asked for. They must remain in Brussels until the fighting died down, then try to return to England afterwards.
Unaccountably, in the middle of the upheaval, the Duchess of Richmond had decided to hold a ball, and all the Brussels gentry and aristocracy was invited. Her head awhirl with thoughts of papers and wills and carts and carriages, and with battle imminent, Elizabeth now had to don a ballgown and make pretty conversation.
In a fit of recklessness, caught up in the forced gaiety that had Brussels in its grip, she had ordered a new evening gown. It was of fine blue silk, with a deeper blue underdress and delicate lace trim. She had not dressed in anything so fine since her elopement. It showed her form to perfection and she wished, rather wistfully, that Charles could see her looking like this.
Shaking herself out of her reverie when Juliana came to her chamber, she saw that her daughter looked stunning in lilac, but Elizabeth could also see how unhappy Juliana was. It is all to do with Harry. Yet, until Juliana confided in her, there was little she could do.
‘Now, Juliana, you must enjoy the ball tonight! That is an order from your mama! Yes, do not think I have not noticed you are troubled.’ She took Juliana’s hand. ‘Dance with lots of handsome soldiers and let us all forget that war will likely be upon us by the end of the week.’
Juliana swallowed. ‘Are you sure we will not be criticised for attending? The duchess may not be pleased to know that a—that I am at her ball.’
So, she knows—she must have spoken with Papa. But I can say nothing yet. ‘Nonsense! This is not London, with its high sticklers! It will be perfectly fine, you’ll see.’
***
Elizabeth had spoken with confidence, and in the event, it was not misplaced. Their sojourn in England and their encounters with Papa had not, it seemed, led to any unsavoury rumours reaching Brussels. Elizabeth and Juliana were welcomed at the ball by all their friends and acquaintances, and Juliana was much in demand as a dance partner for the many young officers attending.
The day had been humid, and the evening was heavy with heat, tension, and the threat of death and loss. When war came, many of these young men would die. Elizabeth looked around with sadness at the faces—so full of life, so much potential ahead of them, yet many would certainly perish within a week. Wellington himself was there, a coterie of aides around him, looking so unperturbed that it truly allowed the revellers to pretend—at least briefly—that all was well. Elizabeth found herself a seat with the other widows and dowagers, in a spot to the side of the main entrance. Her friends had chosen the location well, for it allowed them an unrestricted view of the late arrivals as well as the dance floor.
Elizabeth was half-listening to Mme Vastine’s story of how her footman had abandoned his position—either to join the army in a fervour of patriotism or, more likely, to escape to Vienna where he had relations—when she suddenly froze. A gentleman had just entered the ballroom, and there was something about the tilt of his head and the way he moved…
From this angle, she could see that he was dressed perfectly in the knee breeches, tail coat, and dancing slippers deemed suitable for evening wear at a ball or other formal event. His figure, she noted, was good, with muscular thighs, a flat stomach, and broad shoulders all perfectly displayed. Then he turned slightly, and she saw him properly.
Charles!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Instinctively, Elizabeth gasped and half-rose from her seat, before remembering where she was and sinking back with a furtive glance around. Her heart was pounding, and her mouth was suddenly dry.
Mme Vastine was still talking, unaware that Elizabeth’s attention had been stolen by Mr Thornton’s arrival. Elizabeth, incapable of speech, was glad of it. She had only to nod occasionally and murmur sympathetic noises and Mme Vastine was content.
Why is Charles here? She glanced at the people accompanying him—a lady and two gentlemen. They were vaguely familiar to her—they were residents of Brussels, Elizabeth was sure.
Suddenly, anxiety pooled in the pit of her stomach. She could not forget his demeanour on that last day, when she had rejected his offer of help. At the time, they had been friends, but she had not heard from Charles since that day. No farewell note, no letters from him since her arrival in Brussels. Had he decided to wash his hands of her? Now that he was here, and real, she had to face the possibility that she had broken the delicate friendship that had been growing between them.
Considering her options, she knew that she could avoid any confrontation by simply pleading a headache and going home early. It would be easily done, given the humidity and heaviness in the air, combined with the heat of all these bodies in the duchess’s ballroom. It would give her time to think, to regroup, to prepare properly for speaking to him.
To understand what he meant to her.
To worry.
No. I am made of sterner stuff now. Gone were the days when she hid, or cowered away, or allowed her own fears to defeat her. For two decades, she had ju
mped at shadows and avoided difficult conversations. This was her new life now, and she was determined to stay on the path she had chosen. So, she waited.
He must know she would be here, and soon he would come looking for her. Mme Vastine rose, her mission to inform as many acquaintances as possible of her footman’s perfidy. Elizabeth murmured something appropriate but indicated that she preferred to stay where she was. She kept an eye on Charles, until another crowd of people arrived, hiding him from view. Through a break in the group, she spied someone else she knew. Harry Fanton.
Her heart lurched. Harry was here, too, of course, and would soon go to fight with the others. Young Jem, too, Harry’s ensign.
She frowned as she looked more carefully at Harry’s expression. He was looking towards the dance floor, his normal teasing mask replaced by a look of such anguish and longing that she felt a pang of pain just seeing it. Tracing his gaze, she realised he was staring at Juliana. Of course, he is. Her daughter had not noticed him. She was enjoying the dance and looked beautiful in her lilac silk gown. And yet, Juliana was carrying some untold grief.They love each other. Knowing them both so well, it was clearly apparent to her. Her heart ached for them both, and tears started in her eyes.
‘Good evening, Mrs Milford!’ Her hands gripped her fan so tightly she was sure it would break. His voice, rich and textured, had haunted her dreams for weeks.
She turned to look up at him. Charles! ‘Mr Thornton,’ she managed. Then, unable to contain herself, ‘Why are you come to Brussels?’
His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘My reasons are many, Mrs Milford. I am staying with my friends, the Cullen family.’ He indicated the group he had arrived with. ‘They have refused to leave their home here and have welcomed my arrival as some sort of sign that war may yet be avoided.’
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