Spring in Hyde Park

by Jennifer Moore

  “Therefore, you will hopefully understand why I have been reluctant to reveal myself to you.”

  Colin shook his head, trying to get his mind around the shock.

  Was she toying with him? Had she ever been true?

  He mentally skimmed back through their letters over the years. How had she described herself?

  I am neither tall, nor short in stature. Neither thin nor stout. My hair and eyes are a simple brown. In summation, I am utterly unremarkable.

  Which, though on the surface might be true, he would give serious argument against her unremarkable-ness.

  “We have been corresponding for years,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You are still so young.” He gestured toward her. “When we began writing, you were practically in the schoolroom.”

  “I am perhaps not as young as you may think me.”

  “You could not have been a day over nineteen.”

  A beat.

  “That is true.”

  More pacing. Colin threaded a hand through his hair.

  So young.

  “You have given me sound business advice, guided our investments.”

  “Yes.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Mostly. Mr. White has provided some help from time to time.”

  “But . . . you are a—”

  “A woman? Yes. My father was a veritable financial wizard. I learned everything I know at his knee. I wished to pass along his excellent advice. To help you, as you had helped me.”

  Colin continued to pace. Trying desperately to reorient the last seven years of his life. His very sense of reality shifting around him. He ran a trembling hand over his chin.

  “We have exchanged drawings,” he continued.

  “Yes.”

  “W-we founded a large charity together.”

  “Indeed. It has helped a great many people and has been a source of tremendous satisfaction for us both.”

  More pacing. His hands still shaking.

  “You have sent me books, discussed philosophy, laughed over dreadful gothic novels.”

  “Yes.”

  “You bested me in chess.”

  “Three times. Yes.”

  He stopped and stared at her.

  “Miss Rutger may have helped somewhat with the chess.” She bit her lip. “She is very good.”

  “You cheated?”

  “Uhmm, I would not use the word cheated, my lord. More like sought professional advice.”

  And there it was.

  That dry humor he had experienced in letter after letter. The same gentle wit he had been enjoying all week.

  How could it be?

  “Why?” he finally asked.

  Why me? Why you?

  How did this happen in the first place?

  She paused. Gathered her thoughts.

  “You needed funds. I wished to help.”

  “Yes, but you did not know me.”

  “Well, that is not precisely true. I did have a Runner research you.”

  “Right. To decide if I was husband material.”

  She squirmed, obviously not appreciating the reference to her behavior that day.

  “But we had never met before that morning in the park.” He angled his head. “Had we?”

  “We were introduced at a musicale in London right after you rose to the marquisate.”

  A beat.

  “I have no memory of that.”

  “Yes. I gathered as much.” Again with the dry humor.

  “So, again, why?”

  She looked down at her hands on the table. Studied her fingers.

  “As I said, I wished to help. You had been so kind that morning, the one where I, you know.” She gestured toward him. “I know my behavior was rash and unseemly. But instead of castigation or mockery, you gave me gentleness and encouragement. I merely wished to return your behavior in kind.”

  Her fingers curled in agitation, gripping the edge of the table. She still did not raise her head.

  A wet splash dashed her hand. Followed by another.

  Blast. He had made her cry.

  Well, given her deception, she probably deserved to cry. The sorrow of the guilty.

  Or was it just the emotion of the situation? The relief of letting go of seven years—seven years!—of friendship built on a small, but significant . . . omission.

  She was a quiet crier, he would give her that. Loud hysterics would not be her style.

  His heart pounded in his chest.

  “Please just accept my apologies for my behavior, and let us go our separate ways. I will contact Mr. White and begin the process of separating our business assets.” She sniffed. “I only ever wanted your happiness.”

  She pulled a handkerchief from a pocket, dabbing at her eyes.

  Colin stood, watching her as if in a dream. The business partner who had led him to success with keen insights. The gentle humor and kind intelligence and heart of a lion—all in the form of a young slip of a woman.

  Who said women couldn’t do anything they put their minds to? Here was the ultimate proof. He was torn between blinding admiration and utter shock.

  She finally lifted her head. Fixed him with her watery gaze. Pools of rich chocolate.

  She folded her handkerchief. “In just a few words, you altered the course of my life, changed everything for the better. You opened my eyes to what my life could be. Given the situation, you did not need to be so kind. I was grateful. Investing in your trip to India seemed a small way to say thank you.”

  Colin finally smiled. Small. Wistful. “Yes. And I must thank you for that. It was profitable for both of us, in every way.”

  An awkward silence ensued. She dabbed her eyes one last time and then pocketed her handkerchief.

  “So . . .” She sucked in a deep breath. Straightened her shoulders. “Now you know.”

  A pause.

  “Yes. Now I know.”

  She rounded the table. Extended her hand to him. Partner to partner.

  “Thank you. It has been a pleasure to do business with you.”

  He studied her hand. And then took it in his own. Her fingers were fragile, her skin so soft. He traced a thumb over the back of her hand.

  “Just one last thing,” he murmured. “Why LTF?”

  She smiled. Not a true smile. More like a distant cousin of one.

  “It was you who named me. That morning.”

  He angled his head. Go on.

  “I will forever remember your words: ‘God has granted you wings. ’Twould be a shame if you never learned to fly.’ And so that has been my aim all these years. I have been learning to fly.”

  “LTF.”

  “Precisely.”

  She curtsied then, her hand still tangled in his.

  “Thank you, Lord Blake. I bid you good-bye.”

  Chapter Eight

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  APRIL 5, 1823

  Blake shook her hand. Bowed. And left.

  Climbed on his horse and rode off.

  Back to London, Belle supposed. Or maybe to visit one of his myriad estates. Away from her, regardless.

  She had not expected anything less.

  Belle managed to stifle her tears until she and Miss Rutger were safely ensconced in her carriage, bound for London.

  She wept nonstop between Warwick and Banbury, Miss Rutger handing her fresh handkerchiefs as needed. And then, like the rain on their carriage roof, Belle cried intermittently until they reached Oxford.

  Miss Rutger, bless her heart, merely patted her hand and said nothing. But, truly, what was there to say?

  By the time the coach pulled in front of her Mayfair townhouse, Belle was quite sure she had cried herself out.

  Blake was gone. Her friendship shattered. He had said nothing more. Merely bowed and retreated. At least their conversation had ended cordially. But, then, no matter the situation, Blake had always been cordial. It was that very kindness that defined him.

 
Over the ensuing days, a sort of general gloom settled over her soul.

  She had never considered how much she relied on his good word. How much hope she had secretly harbored. That somehow, against all odds, Blake would see her. Would discover the truth about LTF and not run off in horror. But, instead, look at her with admiration.

  What had she thought would happen? That he would fall down on one knee, profess his undying devotion, and sweep her off on his noble steed to a castle in the sky?

  She really needed to reassess how much bad literature she consumed.

  She was fifty—no, a thousand—ways a fool.

  Belle had briefly considered retreating for the rest of the London Season. Hiding away in one of her country houses, maybe renting a hunting lodge deep in the Scottish Highlands.

  But running from a problem had never been her way.

  And so she soldiered on. Cried into her pillow at night. Breakfasted with a heavy heart. Accepted callers each afternoon, greeting the pack of Gold Miners still hanging on as a form of penance. Whittled away each evening at some ton entertainment or another. They all bled together into a mass of gray nothingness.

  The only moments of light occurred when someone mentioned Blake’s name. Or when she caught a reference to the charming Lord B. in the scandal sheets. He had been seen driving in Hyde Park. Dancing at Almack’s. Attending the opera. Belle had even seen him once at a distance, standing next to a barouche, enjoying flavored ice outside Gunther’s.

  She hated how her heart leaped every time his name escaped someone’s lips. Hated how she lived for even the smallest glimpse of him.

  Which is how she found herself poking at her eggs over breakfast one morning over two weeks later, wondering how long hearts took to heal. Hers felt just as jagged and raw as it had when leaving Stratton Hall.

  “You need to eat more,” Miss Rutger murmured from behind her teacup.

  Belle suppressed a sigh. “We should both be grateful that I lose my appetite when I am upset, not the opposite. This year’s fashions will continue to fit me.”

  “Perhaps. But I think you will want a more solid breakfast in your stomach this morning.”

  “Miss Rutger, this morning will end like every other morning this week. I do not see—”

  A loud knock interrupted whatever scolding Miss Rutger was to have received. A moment later, the butler shuffled into the breakfast room. A letter on a silver tray.

  Belle politely took the proffered letter and nodded in thanks.

  And then properly looked at the folded paper.

  Every thought scattered from her brain.

  There, in that bold, beloved handwriting she knew so well:

  To LTF

  The trembling started with her fingers, but quickly traveled up her arm and settled firmly within her thumping heart. She opened the note.

  To my dear friend LTF,

  I have given much thought to our last discussion together, particularly to your goal all these years. I do believe I have found something that will help you achieve your aims. Please meet me in one hour in Hyde Park in the open meadow just north of the Queen’s Temple.

  Still your friend (even though you cheat at chess),

  Blake

  Belle stared at the letter for a solid two minutes, words jumping out at her.

  . . . my dear friend . . .

  She finally shifted her gaze to Miss Rutger who looked at her with too-knowing eyes.

  “You know what will happen?” Belle’s tone was decidedly accusatory.

  “Well, of course. I suggest you do not keep his lordship waiting.”

  Belle donned a pelisse, bonnet, and walking boots in record time. She did not wait for John Coachman to hitch horses to her barouche or for a groom to saddle her mare. She barely waited for Miss Rutger to strap a bonnet on her own head.

  As they hurried down Upper Grosvenor Street, Belle was too stunned to think beyond merely reaching Hyde Park. But once she and Miss Rutger reached the park gates and walked into the trees, her mind started functioning again.

  Blake had contacted her. Quite scandalously, now that she considered it further. What did this mean? Surely the tone of his letter implied a positive meeting. He wouldn’t request her company merely to publicly humiliate her.

  . . . still your friend . . .

  By the time they reached the Serpentine, Belle was regretting not eating breakfast as Miss Rutger had urged. Her stomach twisted and churned. What did he want with her?

  Once they reached the Long Water and crossed over to the path leading to the Queen’s Temple, Belle had decided she was grateful for her missing breakfast after all. She surely would cast up her accounts from nerves alone.

  Morning dew clung to the grass, dampening her boots and the bottom six inches of her pelisse. The park was sparsely populated. Thank goodness. No witnesses to her hurried, nearly panicked, walk.

  She and Miss Rutger topped the final rise, an expansive meadow before them.

  Belle stopped. Eyes so very wide.

  She wasn’t sure what she had expected. But this . . .

  This was not it.

  “Good heavens!” Miss Rutger exclaimed at her elbow. “What a sight!”

  A flurry of activity hummed through the meadow. Men holding ropes, others calling instructions. Spectators gathering.

  Belle clapped a hand over her mouth, blinking through her tears.

  In the middle of it all, a giant balloon rose. Blue silk edged with gilt designs. A small basket sat underneath.

  Surely he hadn’t . . .

  Of all the extravagant gestures . . .

  But it appeared he had.

  It didn’t necessarily mean anything, she firmly told her pounding, silly, hopeful heart. He probably just wanted to thank her. Good friend to good friend. Which was welcome in its own right.

  Swallowing, Belle crossed the last few yards. Down the hill, into the meadow. Weaving her way through the men tying off thick cords of rope.

  Until everyone parted and she saw him. Hatless and coatless, talking earnestly with another man. Dark green waistcoat pulled smartly down, chestnut hair catching glints of the morning sun. Shoulders broad and inviting.

  Oh my.

  And then he turned around.

  That first moment when their gazes tangled. How his eyes lit from within. His warm, welcoming gaze.

  He instantly strode toward her, everything and everyone fading away to just him and her and this and now.

  Her stupid, optimistic heart gave another painful lurch. Surely this could only mean good things.

  More than just “good friend” things.

  “You came,” was all he said, stopping in front of her, grasping both her hands in his.

  “Of course. How could I not? For a dear, old friend.”

  He smiled then. A slow grin that gradually expanded to overtake his face. Joy in his eyes.

  Belle was sure her own echoed his.

  “Come.” He offered her his arm. “As you can see, I have a task for you.”

  With a dreamy sigh, Belle nestled her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow, allowing him to lead her under the large balloon. Cables and rope stretched outward. Instead of caskets of hydrogen, several men held a long tube stretching from what appeared to be a gas-light main. Ah, the balloon would fly off of coal-gas. Fascinating.

  Fifteen minutes later, Belle found herself standing in a wicker basket, an enormous balloon over her head pulling them into the sky.

  Just her and Blake. Alone. Drifting toward the clouds.

  As soon as the basket left the ground, Blake claimed her hand, holding it low where no one else could see. Belle clung to him.

  He had donned his coat, but he remained hatless. With his free hand, he clutched one of the ropes securing the basket to the balloon, a crazy grin on his face.

  Belle was torn between enjoying the wonder of flight or merely staring at his beloved face.

  She chose that moment to look down.

  “Heavens, how
shall we ever return to earth?” The ground was receding at an alarming rate. Now was not the time to realize she suffered from a fear of heights.

  “Not to worry.” Blake leaned closer to her. “See the gentlemen there and there. They will tie off the ropes once we climb over the rooftops. At my signal, they will pull us back down. So it is all quite safe.”

  She had often thought Blake had set her free like a balloon, but perhaps that was not the right metaphor. Maybe he had been the perceptive voice, grounding her.

  Belle squeezed his hand. He gave a reassuring smile in return.

  She reminded herself to breathe. That he was just being his usual, kind self. That this dramatic gesture did not express more than mere friendship—though he was still holding her hand.

  Her heart pounded, refusing to listen.

  The world looked so different from above. People crawled across the ground. Enormous ox carts shrunk to the size of children’s toys. As they cleared the London roof line, a sea of chimneys extended before them, broken only by the rising bell towers of various churches. Looking back across Hyde Park, the enormous dome of St. Paul’s cathedral rose to her left. The high steeple of Westminster Abbey to her right.

  Even more miraculously, the sounds of the city retreated to a soft hum. Leaving them to float in an ocean of hushed quiet.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, leaning as close as she dared to him. “This . . . this is as marvelous an experience as I will ever have.”

  It was true. She was quite sure as she lay on her deathbed, she would remember flying through the sky, holding hands with her dear friend, the Marquess of Blake.

  “You are most welcome. As you have been flying quite competently in a figurative sense all these years, I figured it would only be fair to add actual flying to your repertoire.”

  Belle shook her head. Wonder spilled through her veins, bubbling like champagne.

  “I-I cannot fathom that you have forgiven me, my lord. I was so wrong—”

  “Hush.” He smiled down at her. Eyes kind and gentle. “I have thought of you and the past seven years almost constantly since we separated at Stratton Hall. I sat down and re-read every letter you have written me.”

  “You kept them?”