Thomas sighed. “As long as it does not require me to dance.”
“An evening card party, perhaps?”
Thomas sipped his port. “As long as there is no poetry reading.”
Philips rose with a chuckle. “No guarantees, sir.”
Thomas watched him go and muttered, “God help me. All this fuss, and I was perfectly happy with books and brandy.”
But somewhere deep down—very deep—he knew Philips was right.
It was time.
∞∞∞
June 1788 — Hyde Park, London
It was a fine spring afternoon when Frederick Bennet, recently having reached his majority and flush with the independence of his new partnership with Gardiner & Co., decided—on a whim—to take a stroll through Hyde Park. He had passed it many times on business, but never stepped footinside. His days were usually spent immersed in ledgers and correspondence, but today he was restless and eager to breathe air that did not smell of ink or imported spices.
He wandered along the Serpentine, watching nursemaids with their charges, fashionable ladies airing their bonnets, and elderly gentlemen sitting stiffly in the sun pretending not to doze. As he passed a bench under a tree, he noted a young woman sitting with a book in her lap—clearly a novel, judging by the amused little smile playing about her lips. She was dressed modestly, more like a governess or companion than a lady of fashion, though her bearing suggested intelligence. He chuckled softly to himself, and kept walking.
Just then, a small shriek rang out a few yards ahead.
A girl—no more than sixteen—was flailing at her skirts, where an enthusiastic duck had taken an unhealthy interest. She spun in circles trying to ward it off with her parasol.
Frederick hurried forward and stepped between the two, waving his hand firmly until the duck gave a disinterested quack and waddled back toward the water. The girl’s cheeks were flushed pink, her hair coming loose from its pins, and she burst into slightly embarrassed laughter.
“My hero,” she said, breathless. “I thought the creature meant to devour me.”
Frederick gave a formal bow, lips twitching in amusement. “I daresay it mistook your hem for breadcrumbs, miss.”
She grinned, brushing at her skirts. “Thank you, truly. I should hate to have been consumed in full view of half of London.”
“I am glad I was in the right place at the right time to be of assistance,” he said before bowing and turning to leave.
“Wait—what is your name?”
He turned back in surprise. “Frederick Bennet.”
“I am Catherine,” she said, her voice suddenly shy. “I—I walk here most afternoons at this hour.”
“Do you?” he said with a slight smile. “This was my first time, but… perhaps not my last.”
She looked pleased, but just then her expression shifted. She glanced quickly over his shoulder and paled slightly. “Oh—I must go.”
Without another word, she turned and hurried away, joining an older woman who had begun walking briskly toward her from a shaded path. The woman did not even glance in Frederick’s direction.
He watched them go, frowning thoughtfully. There had been something peculiar in the girl’s abrupt departure—perhaps she was a companion or ward under strict supervision. But as he turned back toward the gravel path and resumed his stroll, he found he was already wondering whether Catherine would be walking there again tomorrow.
Chapter 6: 1789-1792
July 1790 — Matlock Village
The music swelled as the country set began, and Frederick Bennet stood near the edge of the assembly room, his gaze fixed on the dark-haired young woman weaving gracefully through the figures of the dance.
Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam.
He still marveled at how such a name belonged to the girl he had first met amid laughing ducks and falling skirts in Hyde Park. That had been over a year ago. Since then, through small miracles of timing and shared intention, they had managed to meet a dozen more times in the park—always brief, always chaperoned or under the open scrutiny of London society, but always enough.
