Lydia Bennet's Story (26 page)

“You know nothing about me,” she said, flashing her black eyes at him in anger. “How dare you presume that I should wish to see your sister suffer or imagine you know anything about me. I am perfectly content with my life, thank you very much, and I would ask you to keep your opinions of my affairs to yourself in future. Let go of me!”
Lydia wanted to walk away, run from the dance floor, but to do so would indicate quite clearly to the assembled company that something was amiss. She forced herself to stay, and when he gripped her hand, she wrenched it away as surreptitiously as she could.
As soon as the dance was over, she excused herself and slipped out into the garden. Once away from the house, she ran as though her life depended on it. She was close to tears but determined to compose herself. How dare he speak to her like that? She would show Alexander Fitzalan that he could say what he liked; she was not to be upset by him. Why did all men seem to take their pleasure from being cruel? To pronounce that she had danced with Mr Rowlandson because she felt wronged was hateful of him, and she could not get his words out of her head. For the life of her, she could not think why she was so bothered by his opinions; he was such a po-faced, mealy-mouthed, arrogant ninny, not worth her consideration. When she was halfway down the front drive she paused, knowing it would be folly to go much further. It would be hateful if she was missed and they sent out a search party for her. She started to turn back, and it was then that she thought she heard footsteps on the gravel behind her. Stopping to listen, the crunching of stones underfoot was heard again.
“Who is there?’ she cried. She swung round, her fists up ready to lunge at any footpad or vagabond who might be lurking in the dark.
A lone figure, dirty and unkempt, stepped out onto the path looking for all the world like a wild gypsy, with straggly hair and several days’ growth of beard.
Lydia opened her mouth to scream but the assailant was upon her in a second, his hand clamped over her mouth. “How about a kiss from a pretty lady for a poor weary man,” he whispered hoarsely.
Lydia kicked and struggled but it was no use. His hands were everywhere and his mouth was on her neck.
“Come on, my lovely, you cannot say no to me,” he said, releasing his hand from her mouth and clamping his lips on hers.
“Good God, Wickham!” shouted Lydia as she pulled away crossly, recognising his voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”

EVEN IN THE DARK, Lydia could see Wickham’s dishevelled appearance. He was grimy, unshaven, and dusty, as well as rumpled as though he had been sleeping in his clothes.

“Lord above, Wickham, what has happened to you?” “It is a long story and one which I have no desire to bore you with, suffice to say all my money is gone, stolen from my person. I have only the clothes on my back.”
“Just look at you, George. I have seen better turned out beggars.”
“Thank you for your compliments, my dear. I am delighted to see you too.”
“Were you gambling? Did you lose all on the cards? And why do you keep looking at me with such a guilty expression? Do we have anything in the world left?”
“Truly, my dear, I was attacked. Pounced on by a cutpurse and a damned woman to boot.”
Lydia’s imagination conjured up a picture of the woman described to her by Caroline Bingley and wondered if she was responsible for his misfortunes. “Well, I do not know what we are to do. Mr Darcy is here, and if he or my mother should discover that you are in the house, there will be hell to pay. Lizzy and her husband are not due to leave for a day or two yet, and my mother has let it be known that she is to give you a good thrashing.”
“I have no desire to be sociable I can tell you. At this moment, all I wish for is a decent night’s sleep in a soft bed. I have slept under hedgerows for the past three nights.”
“You must not be seen, do you hear? You will have to slip in by way of the servants’ entrance.”
“Anyone would imagine that you are displeased to see me. Tell me in truth, how much have you missed me?”
“I suppose I will have to tell Jane you are here,” she continued, completely ignoring his question. “She will no doubt tell Lizzy and then the whole house will be upset. Really, Wickham, this is most inconvenient. You are not due for another week, and I have not yet fulfilled all my plans. You vex me exceedingly.”
“Well, that is a nice way to greet your husband, I’m sure. Where’s my sweet kiss?”
“Left on the cheek of your hussy in Bath, I daresay! And that’s another thing . . . whilst I couldn’t care less who she is, I would prefer not to be told about her by Caroline Bingley of all people. If you wish to have these liaisons, then I desire you not to strut them about the vicinity for all to see. No one is fooled by the story that she is your sister, and I expect the tittle-tattle has circulated the entire ballroom this evening.”
“Upon my word, Lydia, I am taken aback. You wound me in your misjudgement. Miss Bingley must have misheard me. The lady she saw accompanying me down Gay Street was my cousin Nancy, whom I just happened to see that very morning. We were talking over old times. Trust Miss Bingley to put about such poisonous rumours.”
“Do you swear that is true?”
“On my last breath. How could you doubt me? Now, which way shall we go in?”
They had walked the length of the gravel drive towards the house and now took care to keep within the dark shadows made by the trees along the avenue. The dogs started barking as Lydia urged him to hurry.
“Have some food sent up,” he said as they reached the side door. “Don’t be up too late, Lydia; you know how I hate a cold bed.”
She watched him steal up the back stairs before going in search of some food for him. The last thing she wanted was to find him making an appearance downstairs. She was in desperate need of some fortification. In spite of the heat, she felt cold to her bones and thought a little warm negus might do her some good. She set forth to the orangery, which was beautifully illuminated with coloured lamps, sending long shadows across hothouse palms and plants; tables were laid for supper, groaning under the weight of turkeys, hams, fricassées, and ragoûts, poached salmons, jugged steaks, pyramid creams, and syllabubs. Lydia needed some time to gather her thoughts; she could hear the strains of the orchestra and the noisy accompaniments to a country dance, but her mind was racing, all thoughts of Mr Fitzalan’s scolding having been completely eradicated by the shock of seeing her husband, and she determined that, above all, tonight if she could help it, she would sleep in another bed. What a fuss there would be when Mr Darcy discovered that Wickham was in the house. She could not think what she should do. Perhaps it would be wisest not to mention that he was in the house except perhaps to her sister Jane who would know best how to handle such a difficult situation. She helped herself to a plateful of food and a glass of wine before instructing a servant to take it up to her room for her husband, and then, deciding she had done all she need, she hurried back to the ballroom. After all, there was no reason why Wickham’s appearance should spoil her fun; the evening was young and she would like another dance.
“Lord, I’m fagged,” she declared, as she threw herself into the seat next to Kitty. “Are you not dancing?”
“Mr Coates has danced with me twice and has gone in search of ices,” her sister answered as she observed the dancers. “Who is that dancing with Lord Howard’s son? They have danced three times in a row.”
Lydia surveyed the scene. She could see Jane and Charles Bingley, dancing as animatedly as possible, looking much the picture of matrimonial bliss and at great odds to the people next to them, who barely had a civil word to say to one another. Following on in the line after them were two dancers who appeared to be very smitten with one another. Never had Lydia found herself so interested in watching another couple’s behaviour. She observed the way the lady looked into the eyes of her partner and how she whispered in his ear with great informality, making it clear of her wholehearted regard.
“That is Isabella’s friend, Eleanor Rowlandson,” Lydia answered. “Oh dear, Mr Fitzalan has missed his chance; he will never get her now.”
“Look, Mr Fitzalan is watching them, pretending not to notice, and looking as if he is deep in conversation,” whispered Kitty. “ He does not look in the least amused.”
“Oh, that is his permanent air,” Lydia explained. “Have you ever seen him smile?”
“Perhaps not much, but he is very handsome and has a fine figure.”
“Yes, I cannot deny him that, and in shirt and breeches he is quite a picture!”
“So you do think him attractive then?”
“Oh, do not mistake me, I think him the dullest creature,” Lydia cried. “He is so correct in everything, so polite, so concerned, so dependable. If he were ever lucky enough to attract a woman, he would bore her to death within minutes of their acquaintance.”
“A man with steady principles is surely preferable though,” Kitty replied, looking down at her gloves to smooth out their wrinkles. “I am sure I do not wish to marry a man who cannot be reliable and trustworthy. Indeed, Lydia, I would prefer the faithfulness of a boring clergyman any day to that of an undependable redcoat, no matter how passionate and exciting. And I would rather marry Mr Collins and be the last to marry in Longbourn than suffer an expeditious marriage which ended after six months without either partner esteeming the other.”
“I should be vexed with you for so blatantly giving your opinions on what can only be a judgment on my own particular arrangement,” Lydia answered, “but I find it impossible. However, on two points I cannot agree. I could never love a clergyman nor marry my cousin Collins, not if he owned all the hat shops in London town!” Kitty laughed. “To tell the truth, nor could I.”
Mrs Bennet appeared. “Do let me have a share in the conversation. What is it you two are amusing yourselves with? I could hear you laughing on the other side of the house.” She eased herself into the space between them and gestured to Kitty to move further along the seat. “I know, it is Miss Bingley’s gown, is it not? Such a hideous shade of yellow, it quite washes out her complexion. If that is what is considered to be à la mode, I would rather be à la dowd!”
“We were talking of commonplace clergymen, mama,” said Lydia who winked at her sister, knowing that her mother’s wrath would be soon incurred at the thought of Mr Collins.
“There is nothing funny whatsoever on that subject, to my mind, and it is a good thing that those persons who consider themselves the rightful owners of Longbourn House have taken themselves off to Kent and are too frightened to show their faces in Hertfordshire very often. And when he does call, he only puts his head in to assure himself that I have not sold the best silver for my own profit! I have half a mind that Lady Lucas is doing the same thing when she calls, and I am sick to death of answering queries on her daughter’s behalf. Don’t talk to me of clergymen.”
Lydia’s attention was drawn to the sight of Mr Fitzalan and Miss Rowlandson, who were now dancing in the set. “Mr Fitzalan is a very good dancer, do you not think, mama?” asked Kitty. “And he is a clergyman.”
“Is he indeed?” her mother exclaimed. “I am surprised, I confess. I never saw a clergyman so nimble on his feet.”
The three ladies were silenced as they watched him. “And he has a pretty leg!” their mother exclaimed.
“Oh, do look what a comical pair Miss Bingley and Mr Heathcote make,” Kitty giggled. “He will have his eyes poked out if he is not careful.”
“Well, I do not think there is much danger of that,” quipped Mrs Bennet. “I’ve seen more bosom on a cold-pressed turkey.”
“Lizzy is dancing with a lot of vigour,” Kitty commented, suppressing a laugh at her mother’s forthrightness.
“She’ll regret it in the morning when her ankles have blown up like pigs’ bladders, all puffed and swollen, you see if I am not mistaken,” nodded Mrs Bennet, the plumes on her head shaking with the agitation. “When I was having you, Lydia, you gave me no end of trouble. I blew up like a Montgolfier balloon and looked like a ship in full sail. Not that much has changed; you are still a cause of worrisome heartache for me.” She paused to gaze at her daughter. “Cat got your tongue, Mrs Wickham? You are very quiet this evening. Have you nothing to say?”
The truth was that Lydia was transfixed, unable to tear her eyes away from Mr Fitzalan and his partner, despite all entreaties to do otherwise. She was surprised to see that, despite all expectations, he was a very good dancer. She could almost envy Eleanor for his manner alone, which was not at all the behaviour he had exhibited when dancing with her. She had no recollection of their dance at all, apart from how she had been scolded and the memory of his hateful words. He was now smiling at Miss Rowlandson and escorted her with such care that Lydia was made to recognise the feeling that quickened her breathing and churned her stomach as a stab of pure jealousy. She didn’t think Wickham had ever looked at her with such sincerity and could not help imagining how it would be to have a partner in life whose attention was entirely her own, someone who was not just looking for the next pretty face or the next flirtation. The dance came to its conclusion, and Lydia noticed that just as he was asking to partner her again, Ralph Howard was stepping up to claim her once more. Eleanor’s attentions were swiftly diverted, and Lydia observed the disappointment with which Mr Fitzalan regarded the pair of them taking to the floor.
Mr Bennet appeared before them. “Kitty, come along, you have been sat here too long in idle chatter with your sister. We will find some refreshment; a glass of punch is what I require.”
Lydia knew full well that her father took every chance to separate the two sisters and that he did not relish her expeditions back into Hertfordshire, feeling that she was a bad influence on Kitty. Both girls were careful to meet in secret whenever they could, though Lydia admitted she liked to vex her papa by flouting his rule that they were not permitted to spend any time alone.
“I must go and find Jane while I think on it,” Lydia said, remembering that her husband was upstairs and that her sister needed to be informed of his arrival. She took in her father’s ill looks and, excusing herself, found she was crossing the floor, deliberately walking past Mr Fitzalan. She did not move that way for him to ask her to dance, she told herself, and when he ignored her, she felt more vexed than she could say. He did not acknowledge her in any way; he averted his eyes and turned to walk in the opposite direction.
She could see Jane in the distance, looking hot and bothered and rather perplexed. She did not have her usual composure, and when it became clear that she was engaged in heated conversation with a lady, Lydia’s curiosity was more than a little aroused, as was a large section of the assembled company. Jane was purposefully running round after a lady who seemed to be in a state of some anguish. Indeed, Lydia thought, she was not the sort of person her sister usually consorted with; she was buxom, blowzy, bedecked, and be-ribboned in the most outlandish dress. Her face, which was painted with smudges of rouge, peered out from under a large puce bonnet over which waved a dozen ostrich feathers of the most garish colours Lydia had ever seen.
“Where is he? I know he’s here. Mrs Bingley, you had best let me see him!”
Jane, who was doing her utmost to talk calmly to the woman, was now joined by her husband, who became almost agitated in his efforts to calm her. The woman shrugged off his arm as he tried to steer her out of the ballroom, and she began running round the room, her large bosom wobbling with the exertion as she waddled about shouting her head off. “Wickham, Wickham! Where are you? I know you are here! George Wickham! Come out where I can see you!”
Lydia was rooted to the spot with horror. She could see Lizzy now, heading off the woman before she ran another circuit, letting her know that she would be listened to if she calmed down. It was suggested they go to the library where they could talk properly.
“Come out, George,” the woman shouted, “I know you’re hiding. You didn’t expect to see me did you? Wickham, where are you? Wickham!”
Jane and Lizzy carried the woman off, an arm each, as she shouted continuously and dragged her heels, despite Mr Bingley’s gentle requests for quiet as he brought up the rear. Lydia had a horrible feeling that she knew exactly who she was, but she could not bear to think of it.
“Ah,” said Miss Bingley in Lydia’s ear, “I can always recognise a woman of gentility at fifty paces. It is Wickham’s sister, I believe, and looking as elegant as when I saw her in Gay Street. You must introduce me some time.”
Lydia spun round, aware that the whole room had stopped to see the fracas. Everyone, it seemed, was engaged in observing her countenance. Miss Bingley made a hasty retreat as she caught sight of Mrs Wickham’s expression. Mrs Bennet started to cross the room with speed and Lydia turned on her heel in response, anxious to make her escape and determined to follow the others to the library. Mr Darcy took charge in the ballroom, instructing the orchestra to resume playing, and a lively country jig soon had everyone marching to the dance floor, there to have over what had gone on a moment before.