‘I fear they will be disappointed,’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘Not even you can prevent it now.’
‘Not even I?’ he teased. ‘Why, do I have some unique power in your eyes?’
Of course you do. ‘Of course not! How absurd!’ He is teasing me. Perhaps, then, I may be forgiven. She took a breath and found her courage. ‘Mr Thornton, when last we met—’
He held up a hand. ‘It is forgotten. You are an independent widow, and you make your own decisions. It is one of the many things that I cherish about you.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Occasionally, I am too commanding for my own good.’
‘Oh, no! For I know you wished only to assist me! I—’
‘I did say that it is forgotten. I accepted your decision.’
‘And yet,’ she pointed out wryly, ‘here you are.’
He laughed. ‘Indeed. You may have forgotten that I, too, have the power of independent decision-making. I cannot compel you to accept my assistance, and you cannot compel me to stay away from Brussels.’
‘I am glad you are here,’ she replied simply.
His eyes blazed in response, then he checked whatever he had been about to say. ‘Tell me,’ he offered slowly, ‘why were you distressed when I came upon you just now?’
‘Oh!’ Poor Juliana! Poor Harry! She gave a sideways glance to her friends. They were, as she’d feared, agog with curiosity. Never before had Mrs Milford shown an interest in any gentleman—never mind such a handsome creature lately arrived from England. She could almost imagine their speculation. It would be inexcusable to talk of her daughter’s private concerns with such an eager group attending to her every utterance. ‘Nothing in particular. Just… war is coming.’
He bent towards her, murmuring, ‘I hope you will tell me the truth later, when we are free from this audience.’ He straightened. ‘Mrs Milford, the next dance is about to begin. Would you do me the great honour of dancing with me?’ He bowed, his eyes never leaving hers.
Her heart was fluttering alarmingly. ‘Dance?’ she repeated stupidly. ‘I do not dance.’
‘Why ever not?’ He seemed unperturbed.
She considered this, feeling suddenly as though she had lost her equilibrium. She had not danced since the night she and Jack had eloped—although at the time she had not known it would be so. As a young widow with a tiny daughter, she had avoided balls and soirées and lived quietly. In more recent times, since Juliana had finished school, she had accompanied her daughter to numerous events such as these, but she always sat with the widows, her lace cap firmly in place. It was how she saw herself. How everyone else saw her.
Everyone except, apparently, Charles Thornton.
‘Yes, why ever not?’ a new voice intruded. Mme Vastine, returned to inspect Mr Thornton, no doubt.
Elizabeth closed her eyes momentarily. Everyone is looking at me!
‘Do dance, Elizabeth! You deserve to make merry—and with such a distinguished gentleman!’ Mme Vastine’s eyes were alight with speculation. Accepting the inevitable, Elizabeth made the introductions. Mme Vastine was a good friend, but Elizabeth knew there would be a hundred questions on the morrow.
Charles said all that was proper, then held out his hand to Elizabeth. ‘Come! The music will shortly begin.’
In a fog of wonder, Elizabeth found herself walking towards the dance floor. ‘I have not danced for a long time,’ she murmured. ‘I shall probably disgrace myself.’
He bent towards her ear. ‘Impossible.’ His breath sent a thrill of delight spiralling through her. Is this truly occurring? Yet his warm hand on her elbow was real, and the sense of his large, well-built frame at her side had all her senses singing. She was in Brussels, at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, and she was about to dance with Mr Charles Thornton.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A wave of rebelliousness flowed through Elizabeth, brushing away the rules she had used to manage her fears for more than two decades. Why should I not dance? She twinkled at him and heard him catch his breath.
For the next quarter of an hour, Elizabeth was in heaven. She had always loved to dance, and the old steps came back to her surprisingly quickly. Breathless, she twirled and skipped, stepped and curtseyed, and all the while, she was conscious of his touch, his eyes on hers, the powerful connection that existed between them. At some point during the dance, she let go of more of the guilt that had kept her chained to the widows’ corner all these years. A self-inflicted punishment. It had been important to the old Elizabeth. No longer. Now she was renewed, forgiven, free.
Then, finally, it was over. Elizabeth slowly returned to the mundane world, knowing that she would never, to the end of her days, forget this dance.
‘Some punch, I think,’ he smiled, offering his arm.
She slipped her hand through, enjoying the sensation as they walked to the area where the duchess had had refreshments laid out. The room was unbearably hot—surely, the thunderstorm that had been threatening all day must come soon? Charles procured them both drinks and she sipped gratefully, while in the background, the music began for the next dance. By mutual consent—it was far too warm to dance again—they found two recently vacated chairs and occupied them.
‘With regard to my earlier distress,’ she began. ‘I can tell you now.’
His expression sobered, and he inched closer to her. ‘Easing your distress in any way possible is become my life’s mission.’
Her heart turned over at the sentiment. ‘Juliana and Harry are unhappy.’
He frowned. ‘Although we have not spoken of it, I have eyes and ears. I wondered in London if there was an understanding between your daughter and Captain Fanton.’
She nodded. ‘I am sure of it. But something has occurred to create distance between them, I believe. She is unhappy, and he has not visited us—not once. Then, tonight, I saw him gaze at her from afar with a look that struck me to the heart.’
He squeezed her fingers sympathetically. ‘Could it be the risk that he may not survive the upcoming battle?’
‘I think there must be more to it. But Juliana is fiercely independent. She will talk about it only at a time of her choosing.’
‘She is like her mama.’
‘How so? You cannot think me to be fiery and tempestuous, like Juliana!’
‘You have a different way of displaying it, true, yet you are every bit as stubborn and resolute as your daughter.’
This revelation stunned her. He is right! Simplistically, she had always seen Juliana’s character, particularly her fiery passion, as coming exclusively from Jack. Charles had made her see that Juliana’s quiet persistence and perseverance was a trait that came from her. She is mine, too. I always thought her to be Jack’s daughter, first and only. She shook her head in wonder. ‘You hold up a mirror to me and show me things I have never seen before.’
‘I show you only what I have myself seen.’ He eyed her steadily, daring her to contradict him. The air grew thick around them, as their gazes locked. She knew she should break the spell. Why, anyone may notice! Yet somehow, she could not. Would not.
Here she was, a respectable widow, openly flirting with a man at a ball. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was shocked by her own behaviour. Mostly, she revelled in it. Finally, she threw off the last shackles that had held her back. I care not who is watching! I am looking at him, and he is looking at me, and I must remember this always.
Abruptly, the music stopped, mid-set, and a babble of voices rose. Elizabeth and Charles broke off their rapt gaze to look around.
All was confusion—yet centred around the distinctive figure of Wellington. As Elizabeth watched, he and his aides made their way purposefully out of the room. Murmurs rippled around the ballroom, people leaning to spread some news from table to table, group to group. Elizabeth saw it surge towards them like an unwanted tide, saw the shock and horror on the faces of those who heard it.
‘It is war!’
‘Napoleon is on the move!’
‘It must be to
night!’
Within a very few minutes, all became clear. Battle was to be joined within hours. The officers were to go directly to their positions, without even changing their clothes. The army was to march within the hour. Outside, the rain finally began to fall, in huge droplets that lashed against the glass and brought guests running inside from the terrace.
In the confusion, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of Harry. He kissed Juliana’s hand, then turned and walked away. The stricken expression on her daughter’s face told Elizabeth everything she needed to know.
‘Juliana! I must go to her.’ Heedless of everyone but Charles and Juliana, Elizabeth moved purposefully towards her daughter, catching her in a fierce hug. ‘Come now, Juliana. All will be well.’
‘What? Yes.’ Juliana stood stiffly, only half-listening. She turned and looked properly at Elizabeth. ‘He loves me, Mama! I knew it, but he has finally admitted it.’
Elizabeth swallowed.
Her daughter’s tone was fierce, and her eyes flashed. ‘He will survive the battle. He must.’
Anguish blocked Elizabeth’s throat. She simply nodded. Lord, please let it be so! She had nothing to say, no words that could offer Juliana the reassurance she craved.
Charles was by Elizabeth’s side. ‘Captain Fanton is a good man, and, I am sure, a fine soldier,’ he said evenly. ‘We must hope that his destiny is to return to all his friends and family.’
Juliana nodded, frowning. Her emotions were still dangerously high, Elizabeth realised.
‘Yes! His destiny! Surely, something this enormous—’ Juliana stabbed her fingers to her own breastbone, ‘—this conflagration inside me could not be for naught?’
Charles nodded slowly, holding Juliana’s gaze until she relaxed and released a slow, pent-up breath. ‘Thank you, Mr Thornton.’ She frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
Charles grinned and bowed. ‘Good evening to you, too, Miss Milford.’
This had the desired effect. She flushed slightly, then laughed. ‘Ah, you have me! Let us, then, observe, the niceties. Good evening, Mr Thornton. Are you well?’
‘I am very well, Miss Milford. Are you well?’
‘I am—’ She paused, clearly rephrasing whatever blunt outburst had come to her lips ‘I am quite well, thank you. What brings you to Brussels?’
‘I am visiting friends,’ he returned coolly.
Juliana raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘At a time such as this? Why, everyone has been leaving Brussels, not choosing to come here. Why—oh!’ She glanced at her mother, and her eyes opened wide.
Elizabeth could feel the blush creeping all over her face and neck. Damn my fair skin! ‘How we are to return home tonight, I do not know.’ Her words tumbled over each other. ‘What with the army being mobilised, and the rain, there will not be a carriage to be had!’
Charles was grinning at her. ‘Fear not, I shall contrive something. Just give me a moment.’ His eyes scanned the room. ‘Ah!’ He stalked off, leaving Elizabeth and Juliana watching him.
‘Mr Thornton,’ Juliana said slowly. ‘Mr Thornton. Mama.’
Elizabeth had had more than two decades of successfully diverting her daughter from topics she’d prefer not to discuss. ‘Are they really going to battle in their dancing slippers?’ A group of officers strode past, their purposefulness and military bearing contrasting sharply with their evening stockings and footwear.
‘If I could, I would get Harry’s boots and bring them to him!’ Juliana muttered hotly. ‘But, Mama, they are to ride all night then fight tomorrow. How will they manage?’ She looked on the verge of tears.
Elizabeth slid an arm around her. ‘Hush now, Julie-Annie.’ The childish name came to her instinctively. Juliana, as she often did at times of great distress, remained stiffly immobile, refusing to accept the comfort of her mother’s embrace. ‘All will be well,’ she repeated, hoping that her doubts did not show on her face. In truth, no-one knew if Napoleon could be defeated, and no-one could be sure which of the thousands of men would survive the coming days.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For three days, they waited. Elizabeth, Juliana, and Mme Vastine tended to the wounded in the makeshift hospitals, while Charles offered his services to the army, bearing messages and helping organise supplies to be sent to the front lines. He had, it seemed, volunteered to fight, but instead, he had been informed that he would be of more use to the army if he remained in Brussels. Elizabeth’s relief was tempered by guilt. Her loved one was safe. Juliana’s love was not.
Harry and Jem had, they heard, survived the first battle, when the Allies had held the crossroads at Quatre-Bras. That had been fought on Friday, the day after the ball. The following day there had been no fighting, both sides instead focusing on removing the wounded and taking up new positions. By Sunday, battle was joined again, near the village of Waterloo—only a few miles from the city and close enough that Elizabeth and Juliana could hear the heavy guns.
They had slept badly the night before, and Elizabeth knew that Juliana, like everyone else, was exhausted. They saw Charles once, briefly, his eyes red-rimmed and face grey from lack of sleep. He had kissed Elizabeth’s hand in farewell, and she had later rubbed her hand against her cheek, to better feel the remnants of his touch. She and Juliana had returned to their work, to tend as best they could the agonies of twisted bones, sightless eyes, and blood, blood everywhere.
By nine o’clock in the evening, Juliana and Elizabeth had been sent home to sleep, but they could not rest. They were seated in their own drawing room, when the noise of the guns, a constant, threatening hum, dwindled, then stopped altogether. They paused, lifting their heads like guard dogs, wondering what it meant. A break in hostilities? Or something more?
Without speaking, they reached for their shawls and went outside. People were everywhere, and confusion reigned. It was over—the Allies were victorious! No, the French had won, and were even now advancing to sack the city!
No-one seemed to know the truth. People were leaving the Place Royale in fear. ‘Bar your doors!’ they urged. ‘The French are coming!’
Elizabeth and Juliana hurried home, where they and Sandrine moved a heavy chest to the front door. They lay down then, but their sleep was fitful.
Charles had not visited again, and Elizabeth was desperate to see him. Desperate to know all would be well. If I am feeling like this, how is my Juliana even functioning? She has no idea if Harry yet lives. Once again, she was struck by her daughter’s strength and felt a wave of pride in her.
Finally, dawn came, and with it, the sound of bells. Every church bell in the city and surrounding villages was pealing, in jubilant celebration. The Allies were victorious! Napoleon was routed, and the Prussians were even now pursuing him into France. The ladies wandered the streets of Brussels in dazed wonder. Was it really over? Had the nightmare truly ended?
The battle may have ended, but the work of tending the wounded continued. Juliana offered to go and help in the Warandepark, which had now become a makeshift hospital—a sea of hot, airless tents. The June sun was blazing, the thunderstorms forgotten, and carts bearing the wounded were making endless trips between the battlefield and the city.
Elizabeth walked to two of the army centres in the city before she found Charles. Seeing her, he half-ran towards her, wrapping his arms around her as if he had never seen her before. Uncaring of who might be watching, Elizabeth lifted her face to his, and their mouths found each other in a kiss of desperate hunger. She clung to him as though drowning.
‘Charles,’ she murmured.
His hands were at the back of her head, then one slid around to caress her face. ‘My Elizabeth!’
They kissed again, then paused for breath. He bent his head until their foreheads were touching, and they remained like that for a long, long moment.
Finally, coming to an awareness of the time and place, they stepped slightly back from each other, though Charles retained possession of Elizabeth’s right hand. ‘How is your daughter?’ H
is voice was husky.
Elizabeth frowned. ‘She is an Amazon. There is no news of Harry, and so she continues to care for the wounded, all the time searching for him there.’
He grimaced. ‘Our losses were heavy, as were theirs. It will take days to establish who has died and to register the wounded. And we need to billet them away from this hot sun.’
‘I know. I have moved Juliana into my bedchamber, and we have laid a pallet down in her room. Two men can be billeted there, and we shall care for them.’ She gripped his hand. ‘I must go. I am needed. As are you.’
He kissed her hand lingeringly. ‘When all of this is over, there is something I wish to say to you.’
Her heart leapt. There could be no doubting his meaning. Unable to speak, she nodded mistily and turned away. How was it even possible that happiness could come to her? For two decades, she had devoted herself to her daughter, never imagining that there would come a time when Juliana might leave her, or when she might herself find happiness again.
As she hurried towards home, doubts began to assail her. Her past remained shrouded in scandal. Could Charles really wish to ally himself with the notorious Miss Hunter, who had eloped to France and broken her father’s heart? He certainly could not remain connected to the scandalous Mrs Milford, whose marriage was questionable and her daughter illegitimate!
At this moment, she did not yet know if the lawyer would accept the marriage papers and thereby confirm Juliana’s legitimacy. The Milford legacy was not her priority. Securing Juliana’s reputation—and by extension, her own—was her aim. Charles had made his admiration of her plain. Somehow, this confirmed bachelor had seen something in her that called to him.
She could not help the glow that spread through her at the thought. She knew it, for the same connection called to her, too. There was an undeniable bond between them. It had to be love. And yet, she could not sacrifice his reputation. She had made a hasty, selfish marriage before and hurt people. She must not make the same mistake again.
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