Lydia Bennet's Story (22 page)

MR AND MRS DARCY, accompanied by Miss Georgiana Darcy, arrived late in the afternoon, having travelled down from Derbyshire over the last couple of days. Lydia did not see them before dinner, as they went immediately to their rooms to take some rest after their arduous journey. She was thankful that when she did see him, though perfectly civil, her brother-in-law never had much to say to her, and as he was always fussing around his younger sister, she was free to converse with Lizzy as much as she liked.

“You are looking very well, Mrs Darcy, nicely fat if you take my meaning.”
“I do, thank you, Lydia.”
“Your muslin becomes you very well. It is a very fine one.”
“Thank you, Lydia.”
“I was wondering, Lizzy, last time you wrote, you promised to send me a muslin you saw in Bakewell. Well, it never arrived, and I think perhaps it might have got lost off the carrier’s cart; I have been meaning to write to you of it but it slipped my mind. What with the ball and everything, it suddenly came back to me; you see I have nothing smart enough to wear and there is so little time to get anything made up.”
“I have it with me,” answered Lizzy promptly. “I had it made up for you; we were always a similar size, except of course I have left the length. You always were the tallest! Mrs Reynolds made the pattern and it is to that lady you must write your thanks.”
“Mrs Reynolds will have worked very hard on your gown, Mrs Wickham. She is a marvel. Mind you, do not forget to write and say thank you,” added Mr Darcy, turning from Miss Darcy to address Lydia directly.
Despite his manner, Lydia thought her sister had changed him for the better. Theirs, for the most part, was an equal partnership, which Lydia observed with some envy; each gave in turn and respected the other, which she was sure was a rare quality to be found in most marriages. There was hardly ever a cross word between them, and if there was any disagreement, it was aired and discussed in the most civilised manner. And Mr Darcy was almost certain to be the one to give in first. He clearly worshipped Elizabeth.
“Are you quite well, my dear? You look a trifle pale this evening,” he asked his wife as she sat picking at her food. “Perhaps an early night might suit you.”
“Yes, I am a little tired, I confess; the journey has sapped me of all my energy. An early night will restore my good spirits, I am sure.”
“Miss Fitzalan is delighted about the ball,” said Lydia, hardly waiting for her turn to talk, “though she is insisting on being accompanied by Mr Taciturn.”
“Lydia, that is unkind,” Jane remarked. “He is a man of few words, but he does not know any of us very well.”
“I can’t think why he wants to come,” Lydia insisted. “He doesn’t talk except to give his opinions, which no one cares about; he doesn’t dance and will look at everyone who does with an expression of abhorrence. If only Isabella were in a home of her own, I could talk to her just as I please. He is always there, hanging about in the background. You should have seen his face when we were talking about Harriet’s growing stomach.”
“Lydia, I should hope you know better than to go discussing such things in front of young men; it is not seemly,” Lizzy scolded.
“Well, perhaps he has now learned his lesson and will stay at home in future,” Lydia retorted.
“Has it occurred to you that he might enjoy the company of his sister and her friends, that he was trying to be sociable?” Jane questioned. “He does appear to be ill at ease in company, but perhaps Isabella thinks you bring him out of himself.”
Lydia scoffed. “The only reason he comes with his sister is to spoil our fun, and because Isabella is so charming and thinks so well of her brother, she cannot see that he is in fact jealous of me. He cannot bear the thought of her spending two seconds together with anyone else and wants her time and attention exclusively. Between him and their mother, poor Isabella is worn to a frazzle.”
Mr Darcy sighed audibly and scraped his chair back in agitation.
“It may well be that she will have a home of her own soon,” said Mr Bingley, putting down his knife and fork to raise his glass and inspect its contents.
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Lydia, dashing her cutlery down impetuously and causing a great clatter.
“I do not think Charles means to talk out of turn, and I daresay Isabella will tell you herself, but it is common knowledge that a young gentleman farmer has been calling on her,” added Jane. “But I have no wish to gossip; I am sure she will tell you all about it herself.”
“Yes, Frederick Rowlandson, a capital fellow; he owns a pretty property at HighCross, set in many acres,” expanded Mr Bingley. “I shouldn’t wonder if she is not made a very happy woman—a very prudent match indeed. Your friend is a sensible girl I think.”
“I wonder at her not telling me about him this afternoon,” Lydia answered, ignoring Mr Bingley whom she was sure was trying his hardest to vex her, “but then we were not able to be confidential with one another. Well, I hope for his sake our dreary rector is out tomorrow when I call on Isabella. Sister, may I have a carriage?”
Lydia quite missed the exchange of raised eyebrows that passed between her sisters and brothers as she excused herself with great speed from the table, declining dessert or any more wine.
“Yes, of course, there will be a carriage at your disposal; after breakfast if you wish it.”
Jane and Lizzy were both relieved to see her go. Jane always felt uncomfortable at the tensions which family life inevitably incurred and particularly those that abounded when Lydia came to stay. Lizzy was well aware that her sister’s presence irritated Mr Darcy, throwing him out of all good humour, and once Lydia had removed herself, he became cheerful once more. It was pleasant for them both to have some time with Jane and Bingley, and being here would introduce Georgiana to more society. She was more than a little quiet this evening. Lydia’s presence, Lizzy was sure, always brought back unpleasant memories for Miss Darcy. Not that Lydia had ever given her cause to regret the past, but an incident concerning Captain Wickham, before Mr Darcy was intimate with the Bennet family, made it very awkward to have his name mentioned within Miss Darcy’s earshot. Lydia had been advised of the circumstances shortly after her marriage and been told that on no account was she to discuss her husband in front of Miss Georgiana. Lydia had, at the time of discovery, been shocked at the disclosure that her husband had forced his attentions on Miss Darcy, made her believe that he was in love with her, and suggested an elopement. Apparently, he had followed Miss Darcy to Ramsgate, but fortunately, before Captain Wickham could persuade her to run away, Mr Darcy had appeared to save the day. This episode had naturally led to the withdrawal of all connection with Wickham; Mr Darcy had never forgiven him, though he had been obliged on his wife’s account to make some reparation.
Lydia retired to her room to mull over the events of the day. She reclined on a sofa at the foot of her bed and plumped a silk cushion behind her head. She was not quite ready for sleep, and her eyes sought out the view, resting on the wooded landscape in the distance, the tops of trees tinged with copper at the end of a beautiful day.
So Isabella had a young man. Strange to think she had not mentioned him in her correspondence, but then they did not write as they used to do. There was always something else to do and she just never seemed able to find the time. Besides, it was not always easy to write in the happy vein she would have desired. She was quite excited at the prospect of seeing her friend on the morrow. Lucky Isabella, thought Lydia, to have attracted a young farmer who had both property and land. To be near to her beloved mother, but quite far enough away from her brother, would be a great advantage, Lydia considered, with amusement. She could not wait to hear all of Isabella’s news!

AS SOON AS SHE had breakfasted, Lydia hastened away to her carriage and was soon bowling along the drive and ascending out of the park where, for an instant, she looked back at the house in all its handsome grandeur. They cantered through the wood and out into the lanes, heading for the rectory at Monks Holt just two miles away and were soon stopped before the gates of a very ancient looking house, not as modern as Lydia’s preference would have had it, but large and substantial nevertheless. She walked up a path of old mellow brick with tiers and banks of flowers nodding on either side before lifting the huge iron knocker on the old oak door.

There was silence. She was sure they were expecting her; Isabella had insisted she come as early as possible. She knocked once more as loudly as she could. Again there was silence, but eventually, she heard distant footsteps, then the door opened, and there stood a short, plump girl, wheezing with all the humour of a very good housekeeper, who showed her in with a welcoming smile.

“Forgive me, Mrs Wickham. I was sitting with Mrs Fitzalan upstairs and, what with there being so many steps to come down and me not as agile as I should be . . . well, come in and I will show you to the sitting room. Miss Isabella asked me to say that she is sorry she is not here in person to greet you, but she has just stepped out in order to fetch her mother’s tonic draught and won’t be long. I’ll tell the rector you are here.”

“Oh no, do not disturb him. I am quite happy to sit and wait,” Lydia replied anxiously. She wished to avoid Mr Fitzalan if she could.

They passed along a panelled hallway, dim and gloomy after the bright light outside, before Lydia was shown into the pretty sitting room. With oak beams and mullioned windows, the house was very old and of a bygone age. Bars of sunlight blazed over the furniture, large stuffed sofas covered in old, faded damask graced either side of the fireplace, carved tables were set in the alcoves, and ancient throne-like chairs with rush seats ranged along the walls. Lydia was very fond of Isabella’s home, though she thought how she might improve it with some alterations to the structure and a few choice modern fittings. It was a charming family house. Lydia walked over to the casement window to look out onto the terrace and formal garden, which was still laid out in the old style in hedges of knots. White doves pecked at the intricate pathways and flew beyond the high yew hedges into a painted dovecote and a sleepy cat, sunning himself on a seat, stretched his limbs and rolled over to luxuriate in the warmth. She was admiring the view when a figure turned a corner around a hedge, appeared with a trug and a garden fork, and busied himself by the garden wall. Lydia craned her neck to see. The tall muscular gardener, clad only in a white shirt, tucked into his breeches, with the sleeves rolled up, displaying a very fine pair of legs to Lydia’s way of thinking, was partly obscured by the hedge. He stood, his back towards her, tying up a straggling rose that had fallen away from the wall. She could not help thinking what a fine figure of a man he made. His dark hair was almost wild; the breeze shook his curls and billowed at his chemise, so that his strong, lean body was exposed. In the next moment, he turned and Lydia could not hide her astonishment. Her mouth fell quite open as it became clear exactly whom she had been ogling with such admiration. That he had seen her expression she was sure, for despite dipping behind the curtain as quickly as she could, their eyes had met. Alexander Fitzalan had fixed her with his piercing blue eyes and his mien was one of gravity.

She could not think how she had not recognised him; she should have known his dark head anywhere, but to see him in such a state of undress and without his clerical black, which seemed to be as much a part of him as a beetle’s black armour, had taken her completely by surprise. She sat down, feeling flustered, and prayed he would not come and speak to her. After five minutes, she began to feel quite safe and was ready to breathe again without turning in alarm at every creak of the floorboards and every footstep that passed by the door. She began to loll in the chair, closing her eyes in the warmth of the sun and admonished herself for her folly. But the turning of the door handle was enough to set her upright once more, and to her dismay, her composure disintegrated as the person she least wanted to see stepped into the room.

“Mrs Wickham, I had no idea you were here,” Mr Fitzalan declared. “I hope you have not been sitting long on your own.” He stood before her in his usual black garb, and Lydia could not help but wonder if she had seen an apparition out there in the garden. “My sister had an errand to attend to, but she thought she would be returned before you arrived. I cannot think what must be detaining her.”