Page 7 of Second Chances
“My home is in Devonshire,” he said, “not far from the northern coast. My father died suddenly when I was twenty-three, an event that put an abrupt end to my post-Oxford years of sowing wild oats. My mother remarried three years later and now lives in the north of England. I have no brothers or sisters, alas, but I do have aunts and uncles and cousins, almost all of whom live not very far from me. I married Annette when I was twenty-seven, and Georgette was born two years later, Robert almost five years after that. He looks like his mother, though she was not quite as blond or as curly-haired. There were complications after his birth. She never recovered her health and died six months later. I was fond of her. No, that is by far too bland. I was deeply attached to her and did not believe I would ever wish to replace her. It is only recently that I have come to two conclusions. One is that of course she cannot be replaced. It would be out of the question. However, that fact does not preclude my marrying again and having a quite different relationship with an entirely different woman.”
“And the other conclusion?” she asked, setting her knife and fork side by side across her empty plate and picking up her wine glass.
“That perhaps it has been selfish of me to carry my mourning to the extreme of not providing my children with a new mother sooner,” he said. “Georgette does not remember Annette very clearly, more is the pity, and Robert, of course, has no memory at all of her. I tell them stories about her and I hope I always will, but I do believe they have the need of a live woman to love and nurture them. I can give them a father’s love, but I cannot be a mother too. I have tried and have felt my inadequacy.”
“It must be difficult,” she said, kindness softening her smile, “to choose someone who will suit both you and your children.”
“Yes.” He felt suddenly mortified to realize he was discussing his marital aspirations with a single lady whom he had invited to dine with him. An attractive single lady. “I do apologize yet again, Miss Thompson, for burdening you with my family concerns. You are altogether too good a listener.”
“But I love listening to people,” she said. “Really listening, I mean, to the words that people say and to what they do not say aloud. It is something I have learned at my school. Teachers tend to talk too much and understandably so because they have much knowledge to impart. But it is very important also to listen and to hear thoughts and emotions and the language of the body as well as spoken words.”
She must be a very good teacher, he thought. Perhaps, if he decided to send Georgette to a boarding school... But he did not want to pursue that possibility any more tonight.
The innkeeper’s wife and the maid brought in a steaming apple pudding and a jug of custard, and the innkeeper followed with coffee.
“I must commend you,” Miss Thompson said, addressing the wife, “on the quality and abundance of the food, both this evening and at tea this afternoon. I do not believe I have ever been so well fed at an inn. Thank you.”
The woman curtsied and flushed with obvious pleasure. “My only regret, ma’am,” she said, “is that we don’t get guests stopping here more often. I do love to cook and bake, I do.” Her husband beamed at her with pride as they withdrew.
“You will be happy to see your family tomorrow,” Michael said when they were alone again.
“I will,” she agreed. “And we will all be there, Hazel and Charles and their children too. I have not seen any of them since Christmas and then it was for just a few days. This time I have been persuaded to stay for a whole month. Not that I needed a great deal of coaxing. Are you traveling toward Devonshire or away from it, Lord Staunton?”
“Away,” he said. “But I am wondering if I have done the right thing. We spend the spring months in London because of my parliamentary duties, but I have always liked to remain at home during the summer, for the children’s sake. I was persuaded to accept an invitation to a house party this summer, though, when I was assured that it is to include a large number of children of all ages. My own spend time with their cousins and a few neighbors at home, though not nearly as often as I would wish. They are alone together for days, even weeks at a time. It will be good for them to have others to play with all day every day for two weeks. But all the traveling is tedious, especially for them. May I offer you more wine?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I will have coffee instead.”
They both relaxed back in their chairs, she with a cup of coffee in her hands, he with a fresh glass of wine, and talked upon other subjects—books, music, politics, London, Bath, and on and on. The conversation flowed effortlessly from one subject to another without any awkward pauses. Michael had not felt so relaxed and contented for a long while. Not in a woman’s company, anyway.
He looked at her hands as they held and absently caressed her cup—slender hands with long, neatly manicured fingers. He looked at her dress, simply but expertly designed, and at the costly pearl brooch at her throat, her only adornment. He looked at her fair hair, prettily but not elaborately styled. And he looked into her smiling eyes with the laugh lines beginning to form at their outer corners and at her elegantly sculpted cheeks and rather wide mouth. At a mere glance he would not have considered her a beauty, and there was certainly nothing youthful about her appearance. He liked to look at her nevertheless. He guessed that she had never been extraordinarily pretty, but she had the sort of face and figure that had aged well and would probably continue to do so.
And why were such thoughts going through his head, interspersed with thoughts about the various topics of their conversation? Was it inevitable when one dined alone with a lady? How was she seeing him?
When she finally set down her empty cup and got to her feet, prompting him to do likewise, he felt regretful. Was the evening over so soon?
“It must be very late,” she said. “There is no clock in here. And you have promised to look in on your children. I do hope neither of them is lying awake waiting for you.”
“What a very pleasant evening it has been,” he said, moving toward the door to open it for her. “I am actually glad we were both stranded here, Miss Thompson, though I was not at all glad when the storm forced me to stop at what looked like a sad apology for an inn.”
“It has indeed been pleasant,” she agreed, extending her right hand. “Thank you so much for inviting me to dine here with you. Good night, Lord Staunton.”
“Good night, Miss Thompson,” he said, taking her hand in his. But instead of shaking it, which seemed rather too formal a way to end the evening, and instead of raising it to his lips, as he might well have done, he covered it with his other hand and leaned across it to kiss her cheek.
She must have guessed his intent and turned her cheek to him. But while she was turning her head one way, he went the other and ended up kissing her on the lips. It could have—should have—been an extraordinarily embarrassing moment. If either of them had jerked away, it would have been. But neither of them did. He pressed his lips more firmly to hers, and she kissed him back while her fingers curled about one of his hands.
It was neither a long nor a lascivious kiss. He raised his head after a few moments, squeezed her hand, and released it.
“I do beg your pardon,” they said simultaneously, and her cheeks grew rosy. They both smiled.
“I meant no disrespect,” he told her. “I have enjoyed meeting you, Miss Thompson.”
“And I you,” she said as he turned to open the door. “Good night.”
He was left feeling slightly hot under the cravat and a bit flustered and wondering if he owed her more of an apology than he had already expressed. But that would merely draw attention to what had surely been nothing of any great note.
He gave her time to return to her room before making his way up to his children’s, where he dutifully kissed their sleeping cheeks and smiled at their nurse, who was sitting by the window in the light of a single candle, knitting. And suddenly he felt melancholy and very alone in the world despite these precious two children.
Perhaps the Creator in his wisdom knew exactly what he was doing, she had said. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Georgette was perfect just as she was. Perhaps Robert was perfect just as he was. Indeed, he knew they both were. But ah, the responsibility of being a father, a single parent. He desperately wanted them to be happy. They desperately needed a mother.
