The Golden Season

by Brockway, Connie

  They were waiting for her.

  It was not vanity that made her think this; it was experience. Ever since she’d made her debut, she had been at the center of the public’s attention. From birth, she’d been on display. Her parents had well equipped her for the life she was to lead; her manners were exquisite, her deportment gracious. By ten, she knew to speak when spoken to, to be decorative when not, and what words would best please an aged princess or a gruff prime minister.

  But on the day her parents were driving up to an acquaintance’s villa high in the Swiss Alps and their carriage had overturned on a mountain pass, killing them both, everything had changed.

  One week she’d been surrounded by affection, elegance, adventure, and laughter—the next plunged into a world of muted colors, of ticking clocks and hushed corridors. There had been no distraction from her grief. The servants, the governess, the dancing instructor, and the housekeepers were all very kind. Very solicitous. Very . . . separate.

  When Eleanor had arrived to sponsor her debut in Society, she’d sobbed with gratitude. And when she’d been presented at court and saw again the familiar expressions of approval and admiration, she’d felt she’d been delivered back into the world of the living.

  She’d exerted herself to be the center of excitement and conversation and people, so that she would always be wanted, anticipated, and welcomed. She never made the mistake of taking Society’s approval for granted.

  And now her future hung in the balance and those social skills that had always come so effortlessly seemed suddenly to have abandoned her. An unnatural tautness settled about the mouth that wore smiles so easily, and an unusual stiffness accompanied her usually graceful step. She briefly closed her eyes, conjuring up a pair of strong phantom arms to enfold her.

  And just like that, her balance was restored and her sense of humor came to her aid. She was husband-hunting, not dying. And really, she told herself, it could not begin to approach the difficulty of deciding which modiste would fashion her gown for Spenser’s masquerade ball honoring Wellington during this summer of the Glorious Peace. In fact, it was less difficult. She knew exactly what she required in a husband: wealth.

  And with that, she took a deep breath, gathered her skirt lightly in her hand, and followed Eleanor up the stairs.

  Chapter Eight

  “Ah, Lady Grenville, how delightful. And here are you, too, Lady Lydia. Everyone is so kind to come to my little party.” Lady Pickler, her keg-shaped body draped in saffron-striped silk, glanced at Emily. “And Mrs. Cod.”

  First she had the audacity to dismiss Sarah and now Emily? Lydia’s back stiffened. “How amusing that you call kindness what everyone else in the ton refers to as—”

  “—pleasure,” Eleanor interjected before she could say “an onerous obligation.” The duchess linked her arm through Lydia’s, discreetly jabbing a fingernail into her side.

  Lady Pickler accepted the praise as her due. “One does what one can to make the Season gay. Not that it isn’t a great deal of work. I shall have to retire to my bed for a week come tomorrow. But you all so love my little dinner al fresco. How could I deny you?”

  “How could you?” Lydia purred.

  On the opposite side of the hall, a group of the ton’s most eligible scions spotted their newly arrived party and began making their way over. “Lady Lydia!” they hailed her, trying to navigate through the crowd at the door.

  Alas, Lady Pickler had other plans for the bachelors.

  “Ah!” she said, taking both Lydia and Eleanor by their elbows and spinning them around. She tugged them forth with the determination of a small barge crossing turbulent waters, Emily trailing in their wake.

  “Pardon us. Excuse us. Yes, yes. Oh my. No time to stop,” she chirped overbrightly at acquaintances who looked as though they would impede her progress by greeting either Eleanor or Lydia. “Can’t stop to chat now. Her Grace is most eager to see what improvements I have made to the park.”

  Having quickly shunted them through the crush in the house to the relatively empty terrace overlooking the yard, she deposited them with feigned regret at having to return to “greet those other people.” She assured them that there were many “wonderful new vistas to explore” and then all but pushed Lydia off the bottom step onto the lawn, flapping her hands playfully as she urged them to “get lost amidst the wilderness!”

  “I am sure she would like you lost,” Eleanor muttered. “Permanently.”

  “I don’t feel any need to witness the atrocities that woman perpetuates on nature, Lydia,” Emily said, puffing a little at having to keep up. “I see a bench over there. If you don’t mind, I think I will sit a while.”

  “But of course, Emily.”

  Crowds agitated Emily. Lydia suspected the asylum’s crowded facilities and the potential for chaos amongst its inmates could account for her distress. She didn’t have much time to ponder, however, because the crowds were overflowing the house and spilling out onto the terrace in her wake. It was time to shine.

  Like an actress taking her mark, Lydia drew herself up, immersing herself in the role that had become second nature. She greeted those she knew with outstretched hands and smiles and was greeted in kind. For the next half hour she chatted and flirted and told merry stories and listened appreciatively to those stories told by others. She accepted the gentlemen’s compliments gracefully and where called for, returned the favor to wives and daughters.

  She even managed to prise a smile from Jenny Pickler, who proved completely tongue-tied in the presence of gentlemen. It was a pity, Lydia thought, that she did not smile more often. She was a striking girl with inky hair and straight black brows and remarkable, clear skin. But her expression was so thunderous and unwelcoming, it was hard to appreciate her beauty.

  Her sympathies engaged, Lydia lingered to speak to the girl and discovered that the reason Jenny looked so funeral faced was because she aspired to become a bluestocking, one of the earnest—some would say overeducated—ladies whom the ton disparaged so vehemently. At least, the male element of Society. It was small wonder that Jenny’s parents forbade her from associating with the bluestockings, not if they wanted to see their daughter make an acceptable match.

  “Why ever did you tell them your intentions?” Lydia asked. “Tell someone your intentions and you are asking to be thwarted.”

  “What do you mean, Lady Lydia?”

  “Don’t ask anyone’s permission. I never do. Simply follow your head and let the chips fall where they may.”

  Jenny Pickler frowned, digesting this revolutionary idea.

  “Now, mind, that doesn’t mean you need to send an announcement to the Times about whatever it is you do. A little discretion is always advisable. But should you visit the lending libraries with a maid, or attend lectures with some sympathetic relative—and my dear, for the proper remuneration, there is always a sympathetic relation—by the time anyone notes you’ve packed your head with knowledge it will be too late. Simply go as you will. No one can keep you from becoming the person you mean to be.”

  Jenny did not look convinced. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re Lady Lydia Eastlake. You can do whatever you want with no one to gainsay you.” And then, realizing she’d just chided London’s reigning toast, she flushed. The surly expression dropped back over her features like a shutter.

  “Yes,” Lydia murmured, more to herself than Jenny as her thoughts returned to the project at hand. “Well, all things must come to an end.”

  “What do you mean?” Jenny asked sharply.

  Lydia eyed Jenny thoughtfully. She intended to reveal her interest in becoming married anyway and the sooner the better. She could accomplish that mission and do this girl a good turn by letting her be the bearer of the news. At least, it would give her something to talk about.

  She mustn’t be too obvious, however. “Oh, nothing. It is just that, well, I’ve been wondering lately if I should consider changing my situation.”

  “You
are going abroad?”

  “No, dear.”

  “Oh, you are thinking of purchasing a new town house?” Jenny asked.

  Good heavens, how was the chit to gain bluestocking status when she was so obtuse?

  “I’m not referring to my physical situation.”

  “You are converting to Catholicism?” Jenny gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

  “No,” Lydia said, resisting an impulse to shake the girl. “Though if I follow my current inclination, I will certainly be converting my name to another.” She spoke with heavy emphasis.

  For a second, Jenny stared at her in visible consternation. Then the dust cleared, as it were, and understanding dawned. “Oh. Oh!” Then, realizing the choice bit of gossip that she now possessed, her face brightened to something nearing animation.

  “Well, it’s been so nice talking to you, Lady Lydia, and I shall certainly take under advisement your suggestion regarding my intellectual pursuits, but I mustn’t take any more of your time.” She didn’t wait for Lydia to agree. She spun around and sped straight to her mother, who’d reappeared by the terrace door.

  “I see you’ve launched your missile into the midst of the fete,” Eleanor’s droll voice murmured from beside her.

  “Is it as obvious as that, Eleanor?” Lydia asked, watching Jenny make her mother’s side.

  “Oh, yes. I can think of very few things that would inspire Jenny Pickler to actively seek out Lady Pickler, especially since she actually looks eager to do so. Therefore, she is either telling her mother she has received a marriage proposal or she is telling her that you are looking for one.” She tilted her head. “Do you think that wise?”

  “Definitely. Lady Pickler is one of the ton’s biggest gossips. She will spread the word far more effectively than taking an advert out in the Times could have done.”

  With a whisper in her ear and a hand on her arm, Jenny urged her mother a short distance away from the group where Lady Pickler had been holding court. Lydia could follow the conversation simply by watching the changing expressions on Lady Pickler’s round face: first annoyance at being dragged away, then impatience, then skepticism, and yes, now amazement, as Jenny repeated Lydia’s words verbatim, followed by glee at the choice tidbit she had been handed, and finally horror as she realized Lydia meant to go husband-hunting in the same waters in which her Jenny was currently trolling.

  “Well done, Lydia,” Eleanor said approvingly. “By breakfast tomorrow, all of London will be speculating whether Jenny is mad or if you really do mean to marry.”

  Lydia turned. “Thank you. I hope Miss Pickler makes good use—” Her words died on her lips, for as she turned her gaze fell on a tall figure emerging from the house onto the terrace. It was him.

  Here.

  She spun back around.

  “Lydia?” Eleanor asked in concern.

  “Who is that?” she whispered tightly, though no one was standing near enough to overhear had she spoken in a normal voice.

  She stood facing Eleanor. From the expression on the duchess’s face she could tell the moment Eleanor spotted “that.” Her aplomb wobbled and for a second the unflappable duchess stood on the precipice of looking impressed. With a visible effort, she regained her composure.

  “I do not know. But only give me a moment and I shall find out.” Before Lydia could protest, she’d motioned over a footman. “Find out the name of the gentleman speaking to Lady Pickler. Be discreet but quick.”

  The footman bowed and hurried off, leaving Eleanor studying her younger friend.

  “Oh, you needn’t look at me so, Eleanor,” Lydia said.

  “And how is that, Lydia?”

  “Superior, smug, and amused.”

  Eleanor’s answer to this was simply to look more superior, smug, and amused. “Tell me, Lydia. From the way you reacted I would swear you have seen this gentleman before. How so? Your eyes met across a wooded glen, perhaps?” she asked sardonically.

  No, across a dusty, cluttered store. “Why are you so certain I have seen him before?” Lydia asked.

  “Well, generally when you see someone new you don’t color up like a boiled lobster, duck your head like a chambermaid caught gawking at the master, and hiss questions with no proper pronouns. ‘Who is that?’ indeed.”

  “I remarked him when I was shopping the other day.”

  “And did he remark you?”

  “No. Most definitely not.”

  “Then why are you standing to the side quaking and tossing glances over your shoulder?”

  Begad, she was quaking. Silly. There was no possible way he would equate the shopgirl with the creature she now presented. She lifted her chin. “I’m not. How odd of you to think so, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor was not deceived, but she was too good a friend to press Lydia. At least, not here and now.

  Lydia glanced at the gentleman. He was not looking at her, Lydia noted with a mix of relief and disappointment. His head was bowed to hear whatever Diane de Mourie was lisping up at him, his expression courteous and interested and . . . oh my, wasn’t he glorious?

  He stood at least half a head taller than any of the other gentlemen present, but carried the additional height so easily and was so well proportioned that one did not note it until another man passed near him. He’d clasped his hands lightly behind his back, a stance that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders in the blue broadcloth jacket. Encased in biscuit-colored trousers, his long muscular legs owed nothing to artifice. His dark gold hair was clipped short, an easy style with no artfully arranged tumble of locks. He wouldn’t see the point in looking purposefully disheveled, she thought on a moment of inspiration.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” The footman had returned. “But the gentleman speaking to Lady Pickler is Captain Edward Lockton.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened at this information and she dropped a coin into the footman’s waiting hand. “Thank you.”

  He pocketed the coin, bowed, and left them.

  Lockton. Lydia vaguely recalled some pretty young pup at a ball last year scraping together the courage to ask for a dance. Wasn’t he named Lockton?

  “What is it, Eleanor?” Lydia demanded. “You know the name, I can see that. Who is he?”

  “Josten’s youngest brother. Josten being Marcus Lockton, Earl of Josten.” She gave a light laugh. “I had heard he’d returned from his duty in His Majesty’s navy. I should have recognized him. All the Locktons are unrepentantly ravishing.”

  At Lydia’s questioning look she elaborated. “Josten was one of the ton’s most eligible bachelors when I made my bow.” She smiled in recollection. “I quite favored his company for a while. But I aspired to rule the Polite World and he did not.” Her smile faded.

  “What happened to him?” Lydia asked. “Why have I never encountered this paragon?”

  “Oh, he’s still about. He just doesn’t fly high or often. He married Nadine Hiddystole, a pretty little widgeon without two ideas to keep each other company.”

  “And why has this kept him from enjoying Society?” Lydia asked. She lowered her voice. “Is she unacceptable? ’

  “Heavens, no. Very respectable. No, it’s something even more outré than that. Josten prefers the company of his wife to ours.” She turned a bright smile on her friend, but Lydia imagined there was something painful beneath this last gay bit of practiced astonishment. “And, dare you believe it? She, his.”

  Lydia did, indeed. Her parents had been a similarly fond couple—except they were never alone, always at the center of a social whirl that was international. She assumed Josten and his wife must be very dull, sitting in their country house together with naught but themselves for company.

  Why, what would one speak of without a constant influx of new people to talk to or gossip about . . . ? The thought was unexpectedly lowering. Was that all she was? A receptacle for gossip and mimer of other people’s ideas?

  “Not only did he withdraw to rusticate with his new wife, but after
he became earl, he insisted his widowed sister, Beatrice Hickston-Tubbs and her brats come live with them,” Eleanor went on, adding again in a soft murmur, “And I had higher aspirations.”

  So Josten was a generous man. All for the good. But the brother wasn’t the man. “Yes. But what do you know of him, Eleanor. Tell me.”

  Eleanor looked up, startled out of her musing. “A definite contender,” she said in a businesslike voice. “He’s a naval captain. Or was. He retired after Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo in spite of the admiralty pressing him to remain. They even promised him a commission, and you know how hard those are to come by now that there are no French or Spanish ships to blow up.”

  Eleanor lowered her voice. “And speaking of which, the rumor mill says that during his last commission he netted a captain’s share worthy of the wounds he suffered.”

  “Wounds?” He’d been injured? How? Lydia wondered worriedly. Her concern was such that she didn’t even notice she hadn’t asked the question that was most relevant to her particular situation, that being how much the captain’s share had been. “Is he all right?”

  “Apparently he survived.”

  “Tell me of his family,” Lydia said.

  “Oh, they are very well off,” Eleanor said composedly. “They’d have to be to support the current generation. A litter of dandified greenheads and goosecaps always in some hobble or ’nuther. The kits have discovered gambling and the young heir especially has a penchant for gaming hells and the tapis verte. Smyth blistered the boy for a ruinous amount a few weeks back and Josten let him stew damned low in the water trying to raise the ready before sending the captain to settle up. But he did.”

  Wealthy, well connected, well mannered . . . Why wasn’t he looking at her? Gentlemen always looked at her, openly, covertly, too forward, too shy, but they always looked. He hadn’t even glanced in her direction.

  She looked down at her dress. The color was too bland; it made her hair dull. It did not drape properly; it hung. Even the weather refused to cooperate; the diffuse light made her appear sallow. And her bonnet obscured her only really outstanding features—