The Golden Season

by Brockway, Connie

  He stopped pacing, alert to the sound of the approaching jingle of harness braces and the strike of hooves against the cobblestones. A moment later her carriage drove under the gate into the park. His pulse quickened at the sight of Lydia, the sun glinting off a small bonnet perched atop her dark brown curls. He moved off the footpath, crossing to the road to intercept her carriage.

  She spotted him at once and her face lit with pleasure. She leaned forward on her seat to tap the coachman, but he was already pulling the barouche to a halt.

  “Captain,” she hailed him, “you are afoot. Never say you were tossed overboard?”

  “No, ma’am,” he answered with feigned sobriety. “I embarked on my current voyage without a vessel.”

  “Ah!” she said. “Luckily for you, I am a patriot. I would never leave a naval hero foundering on dry land.”

  “Is it so obvious?” he asked, taking hold the near horse’s headset to keep him from dancing in place.

  “Only to me,” she said. “Climb aboard, sir, and let me deliver you to whatever port you are heading.”

  “In truth, ma’am, I have no specific destination in mind. The day is fine, rare enough this summer, and I thought simply to enjoy a stroll.” He patted the horse’s neck. “Might I convince you to join me whilst I reacquaint my legs with the notion of walking on solid ground?”

  Surprise widened her eyes. Walking was almost unheard of for the ton, for if one had the wherewithal for a carriage, one showed it off. But he did not have the wherewithal for a carriage and he needed to acquaint her with that fact, and others of a similar nature.

  “I would like that,” she answered, adding to her driver, “John, take the carriage to the bridge and wait for me there.”

  Ned held out his hand. She reached down and took it. Her bones were delicate as tern wings. She alighted at his side, smiling up at him as he reluctantly released her hand and rapped on the carriage’s side to alert the driver he could pull away. He gestured for her to precede him.

  “Had I known I would be on the strut quite literally, I would have worn a walking dress, not a carriage riding dress,” she informed him.

  “Is there really a difference?” he asked curiously, falling into step at her side. He was no connoisseur, but he had an attentive eye—especially where she was concerned—and the pale yellow gown seemed to him to be the first stare of fashion.

  “Of course there is,” she said with feigned incredulity.

  “And pray tell me, what is that difference?”

  Mischief sparkled in her sidelong glance. “Well, one is for walking,” she said gravely, “and the other for riding in carriages.”

  “Ah. Thank you. All has been made clear,” he replied in the tone of one who has had been made privy to a great mystery.

  She could not maintain her innocent pose long. Laughter broke from her lips. “You oughtn’t encourage me to be facile by playing so readily into my hand,” she said.

  “Why not?” he asked, leading her along the footpath that eventually found its way to the Serpentine River.

  “Because you will encourage me to think myself waggish, and then I shall grow proud and believe myself to be above convention and from there”—she shook her head sadly—“ruin.”

  “Ruin?” he echoed. “Surely nothing so dire?”

  “Well, what worse fate can befall a woman such as myself than to be excluded from Society and unwelcome in homes where once I was granted free access? That is the unhappy result of acting outside the boundary of convention.”

  His pleasure in her company faded before her words, reminding him as they did that she was a creature of the beau monde as much as he was of the sea. Even if she should agree to marry him, could he ask her to leave everything she knew and by her own words, declared herself to love? She was watching him expectantly, clearly puzzled by his silence.

  “But, ma’am,” he said, “though I am loath to point out the obvious, in the short time I have had the pleasure of knowing you, you have acted in original ways with some frequency.”

  “It is a narrow line between original and bizarre,” she said. “One must rely on one’s friends to make sure one does not dare too much, or venture to close to it.”

  She stopped and he followed suit, turning to look down into her upturned face. The brim of the bonnet cast a crescent of shadow over her face, steeping it in cool tones of blue and green. She searched his face.

  “We are friends, are we not, Captain?” she asked, touching his sleeve. A frisson of awareness trembled through him. “Friends.”

  He stared at her, on the cusp of telling her he wanted far more than friendship from her, needing desperately to explain his situation before asking for her hand in marriage. But a public footpath was hardly the place for such a conversation. So instead he smiled and made what pledges were more appropriate to the moment. “I would count myself a most fortunate man if you would consider me such, ma’am.”

  His answer did not bring the smile he’d hoped. Indeed, for a second he thought he saw chagrin in her expression. But then she turned her head away so quickly he could not be certain, and when she glanced back, her countenance was clear.

  They had come to a place in the footpath where it divided. One leg turned toward the gardens that grew north of the Serpentine and the other followed the south bank paralleling Rotten Row with its confluence of carriages, riders, and foot traffic. Assuming Lydia would like to join the late-afternoon mill, he started toward Rotten Row. Instead, she turned north.

  He hesitated. Emily was not with her and her driver had gone ahead and she had just been telling him that she cared for her reputation. So, too, did he, and he was therefore obliged to protect it. But they were in full public view and he could have the pleasure of her undivided attention for a short while longer. . . . He followed onto the north path at her side.

  “I have heard reports that Lord and Lady Young’s fete last night was a success,” he said.

  “It was a colossal crush,” she said. “Five ladies fainted and had to be carried from the house for want of air. In other words, a stunning success.”

  She had turned her head while they walked, looking straight ahead, her tone conversational and breezy. “I believe that you’d said you were planning to attend . . .” She trailed off, inviting an explanation.

  He did not want to tell her that he’d spent his evening in a gaming hell rather than with her, even if he had been there solely to extradite his nephews. He’d stayed, he’d played, and he’d come damn near to giving a thorough thrashing to a man simply because he irritated him. When he’d returned to his rented apartments he’d reeked of stale sweat, stale tobacco, and stale gin. Not his finest moments.

  He would not embarrass either Lydia or himself by recounting the sordid tale. “I was, ma’am, but at the last moment an unforeseen obligation claimed my attention.”

  “Oh.” A light apricot color bloomed in her cheeks. She believed she’d been rebuffed.

  “I would much rather have been in more congenial company,” he told her.

  A gratified smile flirted across her full mouth and they fell into companionable silence as they walked. They passed a thicket of evergreens and came out on a grassy knoll overlooking a large field. In the center of the field was a circular boxwood maze.

  “The Morrow Maze,” she said, nodding in the direction of the tall, thick hedge. “Have you ever been through it?”

  “No. I confess I did not know of its existence.”

  “That’s because no one uses it. It’s terribly difficult to navigate.” She favored him with a knowing nod. “People have been lost in there for days.”

  “Days?” he repeated skeptically.

  “Oh, yes,” she replied with certainty. “Rumor has it that one of Prinny’s mistresses was lost in there for two whole weeks and when she finally emerged she’d lost so much weight, the prince would no longer have her.”

  He smiled. The Prince Regent’s partiality for plump women was well known. �
�And have you risked your health by venturing in?”

  “A few times when I was a child,” she drawled with extravagant nonchalance. “I would not dream of boasting, but I admit that I did not find it much of a puzzle. I have always been something of a navigator,” she confided, her eyes brimming with mirth. “But one mustn’t look down at those who don’t share one’s gift.” She fluttered her lashes shamelessly, most definitely looking down at him.

  “You are not perchance suggesting that I lack skills as a navigator?”

  “But you are a captain. Some other person handles that responsibility, doesn’t he?” she asked innocently.

  “I assure you, madam, I am fully capable of navigating my own ship. I daresay a few acres of shrubs wouldn’t prove too great a challenge to my skill.” He could not believe she’d gammoned him into this conversation. It was absurd. But that was one of her greatest attractions, her whimsy and high spirits and joie de vivre. His family always took whatever he said so earnestly. She invited him to play. Nay, she insisted on it.

  “Challenge, Captain?” she said, her eyes widening when all the while she’d been maneuvering him to just this place. “Are you inferring that I have challenged you to a contest of some sort?”

  “Have you?”

  She grinned. “Yes!”

  “And I accept.” He couldn’t do anything else; he was helpless in the face of her enthusiasm. “What specifically is the challenge?”

  She pointed at the maze in the bowl below. “See there? You can just make out the top of an ancient tri-colored beech tree directly in the middle of the maze. It is standing beside a small fountain in a circular clearing. It is the very heart of the maze.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  “Now, you can enter the maze from one of four directions,” she explained. “The south, east, and west entrances each have a different route to the center. Once you make the beech tree, however, you can exit the maze directly by a straight path that leads north out onto a sheep meadow.”

  She reached down, plucking three blades of grass, and rose. “We’ll draw blades to see who goes in from what direction. Shortest takes the west entrance, the middling blade the south, and the longest goes east. North doesn’t count, of course. Whoever makes it to the center and touches the beech tree’s trunk first wins. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” he said. “But first I would like to know what prize we are playing for.”

  “Is not pride enough?”

  “No,” he said, surprising her. “Not after all of your crowing, ma’am. Come. Prove to me you are in fact the gamester you pretend to be. Back your hubris with tangible coin and it must be something you value,” he warned.

  Her extraordinary eyes flashed with surprise. “Captain, I mistook you. When does a sea captain have the time to sharpen his gaming skills?”

  His smiled faded a little. “Each time a captain sails his men into harm’s way, he is playing roulette with fate, ma’am.”

  He realized his mistake the moment he spoke and saw the stricken expression on her face. He hadn’t meant to say so much, but everything about her invited him to act on instinct and emotion, rather than only after careful consideration.

  He smiled, determined to reclaim their former lightness. “But there is an important difference in the gambling I am prepared to do now, Lady Lydia,” he said.

  The sadness faded from her countenance, too. “What might that be?”

  “When I captained my ship, I needed to win. Today, I simply want to. Now name your stakes.”

  She smiled, the light of competition rekindling in her eyes.

  “Winner’s choice,” she declared.

  He started. As a woman of the world, Lydia would well understand the implications of such a wager; should he win, she would be honor bound to forfeit whatever he demanded. It was either an extraordinarily bold or foolish act. Or a trusting one.

  She awaited his answer, her chest rising and falling rapidly, evidence of her agitation. She knew what she ventured. But she met his gaze and hers did not waver.

  “You place a great deal of trust in me, ma’am,” he said, keeping his voice mild.

  “Yes.”

  “And you are sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I agree, ma’am. Winner’s choice.”

  She released her breath. “Good,” she said, “because I am not going to lose. So the question really is, do you trust me, Captain?”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “And that,” she said, “may well prove your undoing,” She held out the hand still holding the three blades of grass. “Take one.”

  He chose the east entrance. She picked the west.

  “Now,” she said, “we must give each other time to make it to our respective positions. Then call out when we are ready to begin.”

  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

  “Played games?” she asked innocently. And with a wicked grin, she took off down the footpath leading toward her maze entrance.

  He followed at a more leisurely pace and upon making his starting point called out, “Are you ready, Lady Lydia?”

  “Yes!” came her rejoinder, suspiciously south of where he reckoned the west entrance to be . . . Why, the little cheat had already entered the maze.

  “You may begin!” Her voice definitely issued from a different position than her former one.

  He didn’t bother replying. He strode into the maze and at once was enveloped in a green world of cool shadows and muted silence. The living walls of sheared boxwood towered eight feet high, dense and impenetrable as solid stone. He held his breath, straining to hear Lydia, but the greenery absorbed sound, leaving behind only hush and murk.

  No wonder it was not a popular place. Within its walls there was no possibility of being seen and admired by one’s peers.

  He started along the corridor, the pea gravel crunching underfoot. That Lydia knew this maze better than she’d let on, he had no doubt. But he was determined to win the prize. He would navigate this green ocean like a rocky coast.

  He looked up, studying the shadow and light brushing the tops of the boxwood, taking his bearings from the position of the sun. If he took more western paths than the others, he ought to eventually find his way to the center and not double back on himself.

  As plans went, it was a perfectly adequate one. It did not, however, hold up to an empirical test. Within a short time he was turned around and back where he started. He made a second attempt, this time choosing a different route. Unfortunately, this choice proved no more successful than the first with the added onus of getting him farther in the maze but no farther along toward finding its center.

  He stopped again, looking about at walls that were as featureless to him as a smooth sea is to a landlubber. He had only to find one enormous beech tree. How hard could it be? He ought to be able to see the damn thing. But the maze corridors were too narrow to allow a view over their tops and too dense and prickly to climb.

  With no choice now, he soldiered on, his only consolation being that he once thought he heard a woman’s voice grinding out a very unladylike epitaph and concluded that despite her confidence, Lydia was having a few difficulties of her own. His smile was less than sportsmanlike.

  In the end, it was not his skill as a navigator that led him to the beech tree, it was a rabbit, an enormously fat, complaisant rabbit. It emerged from one of the openings Ned had already investigated—or at least he thought he had—and began hopping nonchalantly down the passage, clearly intimate with the maze and oddly indifferent to Ned’s presence. Presumably it made its home here, away from the din and dangers of the rest of Hyde Park and, judging by its immense girth, the creature was well acquainted with the sweet grass lawn at its center.

  He decided he could do no worse following it than he had stumbling about on his own. Eventually it would either head out of the maze or to the center to dine. He kept well back of it, fearing that if he drew too close, it would scoot into the hedge, the only
current deterrent being that it was easier to follow the path than push its mammoth girth through a thicket.

  Twenty minutes later he was about to give up, tired of waiting for the rabbit to stop and scratch its ear for the thirty-eighth time—the damn thing must be covered in fleas—when he spotted a patch of light issuing from one side of the maze wall. He strode past the unconcerned rabbit and stopped dead in the middle of an arch that opened right on to a small circular lawn. In the center, a giant beech tree spread its pink and cream and green-veined leaves.

  He looked across the clearing to the other side of the maze and spotted another opening. There was no sign of Lydia in it. He’d won. Despite her attempt to hoodwink him, he had made it to . . .

  Thirty feet north of the opening, the hedge began to shake and shed its leaves. He watched in wonder as a figure on its hands and knees struggled through a narrow gap at the bottom of the hedge pushing a squashed bonnet ahead of it. Lydia.

  With an unladylike grunt she burst free of the shrubbery and clambered to her feet, spitting out a long strand of hair from her mouth and swatting at her gravel-covered skirts. She was still swatting when she looked up and spotted him.

  She froze.

  He smiled.

  Her eyes rounded.

  His smile turned into a grin. There was no way he was going to let her win after she’d—

  She lifted her ruined skirts and sprinted toward the tree. He broke into a run. His legs were longer, but his breeches were damn tight and she’d raised her skirts well above her knees. They dashed toward the center like magnets to common steel, her legs flashing, his eating up the ground. She pushed hard; he pushed harder still. Ten yards, five, two. She stretched out her arm and——he looped an arm around her waist and swung her in a circle, whisking her fingers from within inches of the beech’s gray skin. She yowled in protest, but he kept her against his hip, hanging horizontal to the ground. He reached out his free hand and rapped the beech’s trunk with his knuckles.