by Ellie Thomas
Another Chance for Love
By Ellie Thomas
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2020 Ellie Thomas
ISBN 9781646564972
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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Another Chance for Love
By Ellie Thomas
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 1
Bristol, England, 1920
Adam Merryweather looked out of the first-floor window at the busy scene below on Corn Street. Right in the centre of the bustling city, everyone was occupied about their business. Horse-drawn and motorised traffic noisily clogged the winding medieval street.
Be-hatted bankers dashed across the road as fast as their dignity would allow. Porters in their flat caps exchanged quips with passing drivers in their homely West Country accents as they wheeled their trolleys and carts in and out of St Nicholas’ Market, laden with goods.
Adam stifled a curse of frustration. In amongst this industrious everyday scene, it seemed like the only person without any function whatsoever was himself. Glancing up, he caught his reflection in the window glass.
He looked every inch a well-groomed upper-middle-class gentleman in his suit and tie, the progeny of a successful insurance broker. His fair colouring and regular features made others refer to him as handsome and he knew he had a fair amount of charm of address that made him eligible in local society as a sought-after spare man.
What he lacked was purpose. He had been glad when his father had engaged him in the office of the family firm the best part of a year before. It got him out of the house and away from the well-meant nagging of his mother. It gave him a routine which stopped him thinking too much.
But now, all these months on, as he gradually settled back into some sort of normality, he realised he was a mere decoration in his father’s waiting room. Mr. Briggs, his father’s business manager and secretary, dealt with all the serious business in his father’s outer office, and scurried constantly in and out of his father’s inner sanctum. Adam was left to shuffle papers pointlessly on his relatively empty if rather grand desk and be polite to visitors.
At first, this was challenging enough, gathering his war-shattered nerves together sufficiently to greet his father’s clients. But now, he was adequately restored to realise how surplus he was to requirements.
It’s not that he wasn’t grateful. He was damned lucky to have got away with the lightest of injuries in the hell that was the final battle of Ypres. His badly fractured leg had finally healed cleanly and ached only in the coldest of weather. He had recovered most of his mind after having been buried alive in the mud of the battlefield, rescued in the nick of time from the horrors of suffocation, and his family had supported him loyally through his long rehabilitation. He knew full well he was better off than most.
He shrugged his shoulders at his dispiriting reflections. He did not mean to complain at his very comfortable lot, but he would give anything to feel useful again. He had enjoyed his studies at university and excelled in his chosen field of mathematics. He’d achieved a first-class degree just before military conscription had interfered with his and so many other lives.
Looking out over the lively street, he knew that even in the madness that was war, at least he felt useful and part of something greater in receiving and giving orders. But now, despite his easy circumstances he felt lost and rudderless.
At the sound of feet on the stairs, he willingly turned from his gloomy thoughts to paste on his most welcoming smile for his father’s next appointment.
Chapter 2
Adam was glad when the office closed and he could go home. He enjoyed being out of doors, so he made his way across the bridge and through the busy traffic of the city centre to the bottom of the hill of Park Street. Yes, he could have jumped on a bus or tram to continue uphill, but not only was the exercise good for his leg but also his mind.
As he climbed the slope, he felt faintly remorseful, as always, for refusing his father’s offer of hospitality as they left the building together. “Your mother would be glad to see you,” he had said mildly.
Adam always felt swayed by such kindly meant offers, after all, he owed his family so much. However, it was now Thursday and he would see his formidable mother on Sunday, for church and then lunch in the family home afterwards, as always. That was more than time enough to prepare himself for her constant refrain that he should settle down.
His stride lengthened as he reached the top of Whiteladies Road and the freedom of the Downs. If he turned right, it would be a relatively short walk across this open stretch to the grand mansions of Clifton Down and his parents’ home.
He turned left, thankfully. His mother had raised outraged objections when he had decided to find his own accommodation. How could he tell her how stifled and trapped he felt under her roof? To his surprise, his father had backed him up, perhaps realising that having regained his health, Adam needed to feel like a grown man again, rather than an alternately pampered and bullied child.
Anyway, the salary the family firm paid him for turning up promptly each weekday and looking smart was more than ample for the lease of a bachelor flat. As he reached the Georgian spa of Clifton with its gracious buildings of a previous century, he felt a sense of release.
Now, for this portion of the day and evening, his time was his own. He would make his way to the gracious, tree-lined Victoria Square, let himself in with his latch key, and climb the stairs to his top-floor flat. There he would be undisturbed as the daily woman who cooked and cleaned for him would be long gone.
There would be something left for supper for him to reheat if he chose. He could change out of his formal office clothes, sit in the comfortable armchair by the window, and look out over the tops of the trees and roofs of buildings, a book in his hands.
Or if he tired of being alone, he could slip a slim volume in the pocket of his tweed jacket and make the short walk to one of the local pubs. There he could find a spare table and read over a quiet pint or two with the companionable chatter of the other patrons around him.
He felt the usual mixture of relief and guilt, knowing it was his parents’ generosity that afforded him such freedom. Much as he wanted to be a dutiful son, their expectations of him could be overwhelming and he sometimes thought that this slim
piece of independence was the only thing that kept him sane.
Chapter 3
The day of rest arrived all too quickly. Adam rose in good time, shaved carefully, and donned his Sunday best and enjoyed the brisk walk to his family home since it was expected for the family to arrive at church en masse. As he stood in the hall, he heard his mother’s commanding voice from an upper storey.
As she descended the stairs, she greeted him with, “There you are, dear,” as if it was she who had been kept waiting when he bent to give her the customary peck her on the cheek. She swept past him, corralling the rest of the family trailing in her wake. Adam felt a mixture of admiration and exasperation.
His mother never changed in her style or her attitude. She suited the dignified fashions of the Edwardian era, with her hair piled high under the wide brim of her hat. However, to look at her or listen to her talk you would never guess the country had recently been through such devastation.
Be it war, influenza, or the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Mrs. Merryweather would always keep her comfortably narrow world view and slightly snobbish upper-middle-class preconceptions. With that thought, Adam stifled a smile as he accompanied the rest of the family to Christ Church.
Like many men who had been through the horrors of combat, Adam had lost his faith in God rapidly while witnessing man’s inhumanity to man. Going to church was now a matter of rote rather than conviction. He merely went through the motions of the service with polite indifference in the family pew, standing to sing hymns and utter prayers with the rest of the congregation as required.
After all, rather than a strictly religious undertaking, it was simply part of the family tradition; to see and be seen by others of their ilk before a sumptuous Sunday midday meal. Despite the consistent excellence of the food, this was the part of the day Adam dreaded the most. As he filed out of the church with the rest of the Merryweather clan, shaking hands with the vicar at the church door, he wondered what plans for him his mother had up her leg-of-mutton sleeve.
Fortunately, she waited until the crumble had been served before she made her pronouncement. The roast beef with all the trimmings had been excellent and he had enjoyed the company. Despite being here on slight sufferance, he felt true affection for his family, he thought as he looked around the table.
James, his elder brother, had been deferred from military service due to a weakness of the lungs as a result of a childhood illness. Adam was only glad that he had been kept safe from danger. James sat next to his wife Pamela, a daughter of a business associate of their father’s and from a nearly identical background.
James had his own private office at the firm and was being groomed to take over the mantle when his father finally retired, and quite rightly so. Their two young children sat solemnly at the table with them, the baby being fussed over upstairs in the old nursery.
Cecily, his sweet younger sister sat opposite him, while her fiancé conversed with their father. A clever man and a civil servant who had a hush-hush desk job during the war, Adam knew he was a sound choice of husband and would protect and cherish his gentle sibling.
However, fond of everyone though he was, Adam found the formality of the immediate family circle constraining. Although he would never have admitted it openly for fear of hurting his parents’ feelings, he felt much more relaxed at his aunt’s home nearby.
His mother’s sister had married a university lecturer and although their home in Pembroke Road was generously sized, it was pleasantly haphazard. Meals were served at odd times and the door was always open to hungry students. His mother privately regarded the whole set up to be dangerously eccentric and deplored such informality.
However, his attraction for his relatives’ house was not just about the relaxed atmosphere but was also home to his best friend in the world. And that was Catherine his cousin, known as Cat to her family.
Similar in age, they were like brother and sister growing up, or even twins, getting into scrapes together and covering up for each other when in trouble. Even now they were grown, Adam knew there was nothing he could not tell Cat and that her loyalty was unquestionable.
As he surveyed the complacent family scene he felt like something of an outsider. In that way, Adam did understand his mother’s concern. With the rest of the family settled and the next generation of Merryweathers already assured, no wonder his mother was exasperated with her wayward middle child.
Not that she regarded his single state to be entirely his fault. Like the rest of the family, she had been taken aback by the defection of his fiancée, Delia. One hospital visit when he had been at his worst and virtually catatonic had been enough to prompt her to return his ring. Her rapid second engagement before he was discharged from medical care had dashed maternal hopes for reconciliation.
His mother had been as patient with him as her rigid nature allowed her to be. She had graciously allowed him some months to recoup from what she thought was his disappointment. How could he tell her he felt nothing but relief?
“You will be attending the Hamiltons’ soiree on Friday evening?” His mother’s query was far more of a command.
“Of course, Mother,” he said with an enthusiastic smile as though he had been looking forward to it, rather than realising this was a timely reminder to get his evening dress-suit cleaned beforehand.
“Isabel Vickers should be there,” his mother continued, fixing her attention on him, “such a charming girl and an excellent dancer.”
Adam muttered something neutral, tried to keep smiling and concentrated on his blackberry crumble. Below the surface, he felt cornered and nettled by such interference. He wished his mother would stop trying to match-make for him although he was aware that she just wanted him to be happy and safely married off or at least engaged to a ‘suitable gel’.
But, he remembered, this same social and moral pressure was how he got ensnared with Delia and this time around, he would do his level best not to get trapped like that again. It was far easier to let his mother continue to believe that he was lovelorn over his ex-fiancée and not that his heart had been entirely lost to a man instead.
When not constrained to propose to any likely looking young lady, he now quite enjoyed the social round. Yes, he might prefer the fortnightly visit to a smoky ancient pub near the docks with what remained of his platoon, where no one cared that one man’s hand shook so much he spilled most of his pint or another had half his face missing.
There he could relax and be himself. They had all been through the same hellish experience, regardless of class, rank, or background. That regular point of contact and unstinting support system was essential for them all.
At first, when re-entering the social round of his parents’ world, he was struck by the dearth of young men and the sense of terrible loss was almost unbearable. But as time went on, he grew to accept this fact of life after war. He even started to enjoy the fun of parties again.
Shallow it might be, there was nothing wrong with being a popular escort and he thoroughly enjoyed having a decorative, prettily-dressed young thing on his arm. He had no objection to female company, he just didn’t want to take one to bed, let alone marry them.
The meal dragged on incessantly with what felt like a complete list of eligible young gentlewomen at the upcoming social event to tempt his fancy. By the time the pudding plates were cleared away, Adam’s collar felt too tight and there was a foreboding pounding in his temples.
Finally, as the rest of the family retired from the dining room to take tea, he rapidly excused himself while in the hall, pleading a need to exercise after a good meal. “Please thank Cook, Mama. What a splendid feast. That will do me for the rest of the week,” he said with a hearty laugh that sounded false even to his ears.
With brief farewells to the rest of the family, he escaped as quickly as he could without offending his mother. Like a homing pigeon, he headed through the quiet Sunday streets to Pembroke Road and his cousin Cat.
Chapter 4
> As he turned the corner into Pembroke Road, Adam spied the familiar shape of his cousin coming towards him. He could see Cat was smiling when she spotted him. As she approached him, she said, “I was just coming to rescue you,” and threaded her hand over his elbow.
They walked without hesitation or comment up to the Downs and over the expanse of grass towards the suspension bridge. “How did it go it this week?” Cat asked.
“Oh, you know,” Adam replied, “A catalogue of young ladies as long as my arm eagerly awaiting my attention at the Hamiltons’.”
“They’ll be faint with anticipation throughout the week and bowled over on the night, no doubt,” Cat said with a twinkle, which made him laugh, his spirits lifted already.
They walked to their favourite spot without any need for consultation. This was a grassy bank that commanded a wonderful view on one side over the Georgian terraces curving down the cliff graciously, the mighty suspension bridge on the other, and the Somerset hills in front of them. As Cat looked over the vista, her hat on the grass beside her and her hair already escaping its messy bun, ruffled by the wind, he felt a fierce pang of affection for her.
Like many other young women, she was dressed in the unrelieved black that she wryly referred to as her ‘widow’s weeds’.
She had lost her fiancé Christopher just six months before Adam’s injury and stoic though she had been, it had been like a light had gone out inside of her. Even now, she found her bereavement hard to talk about, even to Adam.
Recently, his mother, in her well-meaning way, had interfered, querying Adam’s aunt why Cat was wearing mourning clothes still, as black was not her colour and she looked far too dowdy and old-fashioned to attract another suitor.
“After all,” she had added with kind condescension, “Cat isn’t getting any younger and if she doesn’t act quickly to improve her appearance, she might end up on the shelf.” This was Adam’s mother’s idea of being a social pariah.