Lydia Bennet's Story (32 page)

Thursday, May 19th
I must admit that I feel sorry for Alexander. Miss Rowlandson appears to have her eye on riches and has thrown herself at a certain gentleman with greater claims to fortune than Isabella’s poor brother. I do not think I have the heart or desire to encourage him to pursue that minx, but I do wish to advise him if I can. He has been so generous with his time in helping me, and I grow fond of him. I would not like to see his heart broken, especially by a young woman of little worth! I don’t doubt she considers herself the very epitome of fashion and fair looks, with her fine silks and jade eyes, but I intend to watch that madam closely.

Isabella grows more in love with Mr Rowlandson. He is a most charming fellow, and they make the most delightful couple. I do hope he does not keep her waiting much longer. If he should ask for her hand, she would be the happiest girl alive, and if he does not act soon, I think I shall take him in hand and drop a few hints! I am certain that will not be necessary and that love will declare itself before much longer.

As for myself, although it is hard to be a witness to such happy courting, I could not be more pleased for them both, even if watching them stirs the memories I thought were forever buried in my heart. It would be a wondrous thing to be in love and feel it returned to the same degree, yet I do not consider it likely to ever happen to me. Perhaps I am not deserving of such a fate—I am not good or virtuous like Isabella or my sisters Jane and Lizzy, who certainly have earned their right to happiness. Well, at least I do not have to spend the rest of my days with George Wickham, which in its way is my prize and comfort!

THEY ENTERED THE ROOMS on the following evening an elegant trio; Alexander graced on either side by such elegance as had the whole room craning their necks to follow them about the place. As soon as they could, the girls made their way into the ballroom whilst Alexander went in search of their friends on Isabella’s instructions. There were so many people that there was hardly a seat or bench left in the room. Spotting a gap on the second tier, just fit to accommodate two girls, they made their way along, apologising for stepping on toes or making those not slim enough to flatten themselves against the bench stand up. Finally, they were seated between a dowager on one side and an old tough on the other and could see all before them; the fine, the lovely, the plain, the ugly, wives and husbands, mistresses and adulterers, friends and lovers, all parading and performing before them, as though on a vast stage.

Lydia scanned the room and distinguished sight of Mr Fitzalan, whom she could see conversing with the Rowlandsons. He could not fail to arrest her attention, especially as he looked so unlike the clergyman from Hertfordshire that she recognised. She had to admit that he was more handsome than he had ever been before in her eyes; the cut of his coat was as superior as any in the room, his black hair curling into his collar, and his eyes casting as many sparkles as the chandeliers glittering above her head. Quite how long she must have been staring in his direction she had not realised until Isabella laughingly commented that she had not comprehended how much Lydia appreciated a chimneypiece. She blushed, admitting the truth of Isabella’s words to herself, thinking that there was plenty to admire when Alexander Fitzalan was placed before one, even if all his attention was directed at Eleanor Rowlandson who clearly engaged him. In the next second, it was almost as if he felt the intensity of her regard, for he looked up as if he perceived her contemplation of him. The room seemed to dim. All Lydia could see was the sapphire blue of his eyes, lustrous lights as bright as any flame, glimmering on an invisible beam which flared between them. She turned away for to look another moment would have betrayed her feelings, emotions she did not dare to recognise.

“Look, Lydia, there is Alexander, he has found them. I wonder that you did not see him yourself, you were so engaged with the view in that direction,” Isabella declared.

“Lord, it’s hot in here. I must get some air,” Lydia announced and stood up.
“I will come with you,” Isabella kindly offered, and so they both struggled the way they had come, until they were in sight of the doors at last.
Out in the corridor, the heat was not so oppressive and Lydia could breathe at last, although she was pallid and her heart hammered.
“Are you quite well? Oh, I knew we should not have come.” Isabella took her friend’s hand. “Stay here, I will fetch you a drink; you do look most ill.”
Lydia slumped against the wall. What on earth was she thinking? Why did the sight of Alexander talking with Miss Rowlandson unsettle her so? She turned to put her head against the cool surface but a hand on her shoulder made her turn. She was very surprised to see Mr Fitzalan standing there, but was so very glad to see him that she could hardly speak at all.
“Lydia, forgive me, but you appear to be rather pale. Isabella tells me you are unwell. I think perhaps it was a mistake to have brought you here. We should never have come out this evening. I will take you home.”
Lydia nodded and smiled. “I am quite well, Mr Fitzalan. I was just a little overcome.”
He offered her one of the glasses of wine he was carrying, his fingers brushing hers with the lightest touch as she took it, and Lydia was confounded by her reaction. As if she juggled molten glass, she instantly dropped the vessel, which broke into a thousand tiny pieces. She leapt out of the way, avoiding the worst of the spills, which fortunately missed her gown but spread quickly across the floor and formed a large pool.
“Forgive me, Mr Fitzalan. How foolish of me,” she cried, discarding her gloves and kneeling to attend to the mess on the floor.
“Do be careful, Lydia, there is broken glass; allow me or you will cut your hand.”
He knelt at her side, but it was too late; a small dagger-like shard had pierced her skin and blood was pouring from her finger. He helped her to stand and demanded that she should allow him to inspect the damage. He gently wiped the wound, mopping away the blood with a handkerchief he produced from his pocket.
“Keep your hand very still,” he said as he gripped her fingers firmly. “I am going to attempt to remove the glass. I will try my best not to hurt you.”
Lydia watched his face and felt moved by its tender expression. His very closeness made her feel uneasy, and she did not wish to think why. She would not admit that she found the curve of his arrogant mouth attractive in any way as he bit his lip in concentration before extracting the glass with consummate ease, nor would she acknowledge that his firm grasp and the merest stroke of his fingers was unsettling in the least. She was staring at him so intently that he looked back at her for a moment. It was over in a second, their conversation resuming forthwith, with all attendant anxiety.
“There, I’ve got it. I think all will be well now. The bleeding will stop in a moment,” said Mr Fitzalan, folding the linen and binding her finger.
“Thank you for your kindness, your consideration. Indeed, I am indebted to you. But let me not detain you from your dancing. Miss Rowlandson will be waiting for you,” she said. “She will not say no if you ask her to dance,” she added, “and if I were you, I would not leave it too long.”
“You still believe Miss Rowlandson admires me?”
“You must not give up so easily. I would say a little encouragement, a few compliments, some harmless flirtation, and the deed will be done. She will be in love with you.”
His face instantly reflected that same reserve and indignant disdain as preserved as ever she had seen them. “Indeed, I am against such nonsense. Forgive me, but I must take my leave. I trust you are recovered enough.”
“Quite well enough, Mr Fitzalan, do not concern yourself.” She watched him walk away, wondering how she could have felt any sense of sympathy for him, and hoped Miss Rowlandson would be dancing with Ralph Howard. She would not waste her time or breath again. It made her quite cross to think how she had put herself out. She tore off the dressing on her finger and threw the handkerchief down on the floor. The bleeding had stopped; she had no use for it now. She stared at the crumpled cloth stained with her blood. It was lace-edged with his initials, A. F., embroidered in one corner in blue silk. More vexed than ever, she knew she could not leave it and snatched it up, stuffing it in her reticule. The old familiar feelings of despondency and wretchedness threatened to overcome her. Why did she bother trying to be civil to Mr Fitzalan? He was not worth the trouble, and why she allowed herself to be upset by him she could not say. But she must overcome her feelings. She must be calm if only for Isabella’s sake. As soon as she had recovered her temper enough, she went in search of her friend. She quickly saw Isabella on the arm of Mr Rowlandson, who had taken her off to the dance floor, and was instead faced with the sight of Mr Fitzalan in conversation with Miss Rowlandson and Mr Howard, who beckoned to her just as she was pretending that she hadn’t seen them.
Lydia approached, said good evening, and curtseyed, trying her best to look as though she was not disturbed by the sight of Mr Fitzalan, who stared at her with what she imagined must be utter contempt. Mr Howard was fortunately in a very talkative mood, at least for five minutes, before he undertook to accompany Miss Rowlandson to the floor, leaving Lydia and Mr Fitzalan to watch them dance.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Lydia was at a loss as to know what to say. She could only observe the animated way in which Mr Howard and his partner were enjoying the dance, how their bodies moved with the other, how they only had eyes and words for each other.
“Miss Rowlandson and Mr Howard make a pretty exhibition,” Mr Fitzalan commented. “They are well matched and keen to partner the other. I find I am quite happy to observe their growing affiliation; each seems to complement the other to perfection.”
Lydia could not think how to reply. She could hardly agree with him.
“How is your finger, Lydia? Are you feeling better now?” he asked tenderly.
“It is much better, thank you.”
“Yet you are very quiet. Forgive me. I know I am at fault once more. I apologise. I spoke harshly back there in the corridor; I am sorry.”
Lydia relented. She knew she had no reason to be so cross with him. “No, I am sorry. I do not think. I just open my mouth and all the wrong words come out.”
Alexander laughed. “We are both very sorry, are we not? Let us stop saying sorry and do something else instead.” He hesitated. “Would you do me the honour, Lydia, of taking my arm and dancing with me?”
“I would like that very much,” she answered, “if you are sure you wouldn’t rather wait for the beauty with the emerald eyes.”
“Emeralds are all very well in their way,” he replied returning her familiar stare which immediately took her off her guard, “but I prefer the coal black of polished jet, which is far more unsettling to my mind and more beautiful than any sparkling gem.”
She was completely taken aback. That he had made a reference to her own dark eyes she had no doubt, and now she struggled to recall exactly what he had said as he took her by the hand and led her onto the dance floor. To dance with Alexander was a joy mixed with so many different emotions that Lydia found it hard to concentrate on her steps. Neither spoke a word for the first few minutes, so conscious were they of impressing one another. Lydia was determined to show him that he did not miss out for not dancing with Miss Rowlandson, and he was anxious to prove not only that he could dance but also that he could do so very well.
“Well, Miss Lydia, I hope I have surpassed all your expectations,” Mr Fitzalan begged. “I think you must now own that I can at least dance after a fashion.”
“You are proficient, certainly,” she smiled, “but it is clear you are looking for a compliment and that only makes me feel like abusing you for your arrogance. However, I will say yes, without doubt, you are . . . quite good.”
He laughed. “You are too generous with your compliments, but I also know you better than you think. I am aware that you like nothing better than to tease me.”
“Tease you? Mr Fitzalan, what can you be thinking? I would not dare!”
“As for myself, I suppose I must admit you are the superior in regard to dancing, but I cannot decide which of your particular talents have supremacy over all: your dancing ability or your penchant for talking non-stop, especially with a view to wounding me.” He looked at her gravely for an instant before he burst out laughing at her worried expression. “You have met your match, Miss Lydia, what do you say to that?”
“Let the fun begin!” she cried. “But I warn you, it will be impossible to get the better of me!”

Friday, May 20th
I have woken from a fitful sleep and am tormented by my dreams. My friends are very good and doing their best to cheer me. Alexander was especially thoughtful last night. He even flirted with me a little, which I am sure he did to prove to me that he is capable of charming a woman. He held me so very gently in the dance, and I have to admit he is an excellent dancer. But whilst it is amusing to be in Bath, and I can pretend that I haven’t a care in the world, I know that I am going to have to face certain truths. I will not be returning to my home in Newcastle ever again, and the likelihood is that I will have nowhere else to go but return to my childhood home Longbourn. I am certain that however generous Lizzy or Jane will be with money, they will neither of them offer me a permanent home, especially as they are intent on filling their houses with umpteen numbers of children. The thought of having to return to my parents and to have all the neighbours look at me with pity, to end my days as an old maid, is more than I can bear. I have no independence, and there is nothing I can do to gain it. To be beholden to my father and then to have to throw myself on the mercy of the Collinses are circumstances I shall not even contemplate.