Chapter Two
London
William Carlisle had spent five years mastering the art of self-distraction.
Endless balls and fetes, races and pugilistic bouts, country house parties at the homes of his many friends, jaunts to the continent.
He knew perfectly well how to free his mind from the pull of home and the pain that awaited him there.
He’d lost his parents at the tender age of eighteen. The vicar had finished his graveside rites, the local mourners had offered William their condolences, and then he had returned to the empty house, packed a trunk, and left. He hadn’t been back to Sussex since.
The Season was usually the easiest stretch of months in which to find adequate distraction. This year, however, he was struggling. He had no desire to return home; that much had not changed. He simply found no pleasure whatsoever in the social whirl.
“We could always declare ourselves ancient grumps and take up lives of hermitry in an abandoned corner of the kingdom.” His closest friend, Leonard Whitehall, made the suggestion as they completed a circuit of the small enclosed park near William’s rented rooms. “We can attend the local assemblies and complain vociferously about all the noise the young people are making.”
“I would be exceptionally good at that,” William said.
Leonard’s mouth twisted in thought. “We could always do that here, no need to find a distant corner.”
It was tempting, but foolish. “London loses what little charm it has when one has offended the dragons.”
“Would it be so tragic if the patronesses revoked your voucher to Almack’s?” The dryness of Leonard’s tone indicated not the least doubt in his assessment of William’s lack of enjoyment of that social establishment.
“For me, no. For all the ladies denied the opportunity to dance with me, a tragedy of unspeakable proportions.”
They both laughed at that. Pretending to be quite arrogant in matters regarding their romantic appeal had been a favorite jest between them since their days at Cambridge.
Truth be told, William didn’t imagine Leonard felt any less out of his element among the fairer sex than William did.
It wasn’t that either of them feared the ladies or were entirely inept at social interaction, they simply knew themselves to be lacking in that certain swagger and confidence that the Corinthian set possessed in spades.
They passed a group of nursemaids looking over their rambunctious young charges. The maids curtsied. William and Leonard dipped their heads. The children took no notice. Turning a corner on the path brought the men to a long, straight stretch without a soul in sight—a rare thing in London.
“Then allow me to invite you to my vast country estate for a bit of isolated grumpiness,” Leonard said.
William eyed him narrowly. “You don’t have a country estate.”
“Ah, well, then I suppose you will have to invite me to yours.”
The thrum of William’s pulse immediately pounded in his temples. The vague light-headedness that always accompanied the mention of home washed over him once more.
“Apologies, Will.” Leonard was entirely in earnest once more. “I was trying to be humorous. I didn’t even think before I said it.”
William tried to wave it off but knew he likely didn’t succeed in appearing casual.
“Do you think— Do you think you’ll ever go back?” Leonard posed the question hesitantly but with genuine curiosity.
“I’ll have to eventually, I suppose.” He whacked at a nearby bush with the end of his walking stick, setting off a tiny cascade of green leaves. “Unless, of course, I find myself a wife who prefers to be a vagabond.”
“We could take out an advertisement in the Times, see if any fish take that particular bait.”
The quip restored some of William’s good humor.
“‘Wanted: one wife with no desire for a home of her own nor a permanent residence. Must enjoy never knowing from one month to the next where she will lay her head. A severe dislike of Sussex would be a decided advantage. Inquire anywhere except Carlisle Manor.’”
“Bang on the mark,” Leonard declared.
They’d nearly completed their walk around the park. It was not so invigorating as usual. Nothing seemed to be lately.
“William!”
The sound of his name called out in a lady’s voice stopped him, and Leonard as well. Both took to searching about.
“William!”
Nearer this time. And then he spotted the source.
A young lady, her dark hair peeking out from beneath her poke bonnet, waved at him whilst the older lady at her side tugged desperately at her arm. A few of his school chums, Leonard included, called him William, but no one else did nor had since he was very young.
He moved toward the mysterious lady, curiosity tugging him ever faster.
“Someone you know, I assume,” Leonard said, keeping pace with him.
“I assume the same, though I don’t know—” And suddenly he was close enough to see her clearly. “Felicity.”
That brought Leonard’s widened eyes to him once more. “You are acquainted on a Christian-name basis with this mystery lady?”
William shook his head. “We grew up in the same neighborhood. I haven’t seen her in years. We used given names between us when we were small.”
“You are using given names now.”
William needed to take greater care. Such liberties were not permitted among unwed ladies and gentlemen.
“Mrs. Banbury,” he said with an appropriate bow.
“Miss Felicity.” The formal address stuck a moment in his mouth.
She’d been no more than thirteen when he’d last seen her, and far younger than that when he’d left for Eton.
“May I make known to you Leonard Whitehall. Leonard, this is Mrs. Banbury and Miss Felicity Banbury.”
All the required bows and curtsies were exchanged.
“We are well met,” Felicity said, smiling as broadly as he remembered her doing as a little girl. “We’ve not seen you this age, Mr. Carlisle.”
“It has been a while since I was”—he couldn’t force out the word home, so he opted for a different ending—“in Lindsworth. What brings you to London?” He addressed the question to Mrs. Banbury, as was proper.
“The girls are older now, and we thought it wise to make certain they are known to Society and acquainted with Town and the whirl.”
That made perfect sense. He did not, however, see the older Banbury sister. “Has Miss Banbury come to Town as well, then?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Banbury said. “The younger sister cannot be out if the older sister is not.”
“Has she made her bows, then?” Based on age, Angelina ought to have had her first Season a year or two ago, but he hadn’t seen the family in London before.
Quite to William’s surprise, Mrs. Banbury grew visibly panicked. Over so innocuous a question?
Felicity answered on her mother’s behalf. “Angelina’s health is poor, I am afraid. We have not come to Town for a formal Season.”
“Her condition is nothing too serious, I hope.”
Though the ladies smiled, the strain in their eyes told a different story. His memory of the older Banbury sister was that of a quieter, more fragile version of the younger. They’d ever been two very devoted peas in a pod.
He indicated the ladies ought to continue down the park path. He kept to Felicity’s side. Reliable friend that he was, Leonard walked at Mrs. Banbury’s side, making quiet conversation.
“How ill is Angelina?” William asked Felicity in a quiet voice. “Your mother seemed intent on downplaying the situation, but I suspect it is of greater concern than she let on.”
Some of Felicity’s characteristic optimism faded. “She is quite ill, I am afraid.”
“Is she to see a doctor while she is here?” It was one of many things he wished his parents had done when they’d grown unexpectedly and seriously ill.
“She has been seen by six doctors already, and they are all in agreement about the direness of her situation.” Felicity took a slow breath, the sound and gesture filled with both worry and determination.
“Angelina longed for a Season. She hasn’t the strength for a true one, but I mean to see to it that she is able to do as many of the things she dreams of as possible. ”
There was a bleakness to the explanation that worried him. Though he’d not been home in years nor interacted with the Banbury sisters in all that time, he still cared for them. His heart dropped thinking of Angelina so ill and Felicity, no doubt, weighed down by worry.
“If I can be of any assistance, please tell me. I have a great deal of experience with the Season. I might be able to help you make arrangements for whatever Angelina wishes to do or help you gauge how taxing it might be.”
Felicity smiled up at him. “Thank you. I want to make this special for her, but I know so little of the social whirl.”
Her smile warmed him. He’d nearly forgotten what a sweet friend she’d been when they were young. He’d missed those connections in the years he’d been away. Few of the things he associated with home this past half decade weren’t painful. Yet seeing Felicity again proved entirely pleasant.
After they parted ways with the Banbury ladies, Leonard wasted not a moment before peppering William with questions.
“Why have you never mentioned these particular neighbors? Do you mean to see them again during their time in Town? Do you suppose they will join us in our nefarious plans to offend all the unforgiving dragons of Society?”
William nodded firmly. “If Miss Felicity is unchanged from the time I knew her, she would join in a heartbeat. Her older sister would likely struggle to say an unkind thing about anyone but would find tremendous humor in watching her sister be ridiculous.”
“You are fond of these sisters.”
“I am. It is good to see them again.” He found himself eager about the coming few weeks, something he would not have thought possible a few hours ago.
He had this tiny connection to the home that felt so distant—a safe and comforting connection, one that didn’t require him to face more ghosts than he was ready to stare down. He was grateful for it.