Lydia Bennet's Story

by Jane Odiwe

  Miss Westlake smiled and muttered pleasantly enough, but Wickham barely nodded in their direction, let alone addressed them. He seemed only interested in his partner and was, therefore, most attentive to the beauty that sat beside him, as was she in her turn. Lydia was so cross she could not even be civil to Harriet and stood in sulky spirits as they waited for everyone else. Out of the corner of her eye she could see them whispering, and although she attempted to appear in absorbed contemplation of her surroundings, she could not help glancing up at them on occasion. They ignored her, so totally engrossed were they in each other. Lydia grew quieter and more vexed by the moment.

  Fortunately, she did not have to wait long before the Colonel and Mr Denny arrived in the Colonel’s coach and waved at the sight of them. Mr Pratt and Mr Chamberlayne soon joined them on horseback and then they were off on their way, travelling with speed out of Brighton, following the coastal path, Lydia urging on their coachman to overtake Mr Wickham if he could.

  “Some people will never know what it is to have good manners and, for all their lofty perspective, needn’t think they are so far above me as to have the right to ignore me,” Lydia complained.

  Harriet was intrigued. “Who has been so rude as to slight you, Lydia?”

  “Mr Wickham and his lady barely had a word to say,” she replied. “He did not utter a word nor acknowledge us in any way, did you not notice?” Lydia cried. “I am most put out!”

  “That is most unlike him,” said Harriet. “He is usually such an affable young man. I cannot say I noticed anything particularly, I was too busy looking out for Henry.”

  “His friend was almost as bad, twittering away to him without once including us in her conversation,” Lydia continued. “I’ve never witnessed such rudeness. She is certainly throwing herself at him. Did you see the way she was looking at him? I was almost sick at the sight of such fawning!”

  “Forgive me for saying so, and perhaps I shouldn’t repeat this,” admitted Harriet, “but Mr Chamberlayne has intimated that Mr Wickham is very keen on Miss Westlake. Lovers never do have eyes for anyone else.”

  “Well, from my observation,” said Lydia, “I did not see any partiality on his side. Do you truly think he has feelings for her?”

  “Well, they have certainly been spending a lot of time in each other’s company,” admitted Harriet. “I would think it likely!”

  Lydia was quite taken aback. She did not know why she felt quite so vexed, but as the others mused over the possibilities of the lovers’ constancy, she could not help thinking that his attentions towards herself mattered far more than she ever would profess aloud.

  After a pleasant ride through open countryside, they arrived within the hour, coming to a halt at the edge of a large park with wooded grounds. They glimpsed a single track leading to its heart, which begged them to follow its course. Colonel Forster handed the ladies down from the coach; they were all vastly pleased to be able to stretch their legs at last, and Lydia was anxious to discover the delights within. The Colonel led the way, Harriet clutching onto his hand with grim determination, convinced that she was going to meet with her death before the afternoon was over.

  “Are you quite sure it is safe, Henry dear? There could be footpads lurking and any number of murderers in these woods. I don’t like it!”

  “Oh, it’s thrilling,” shouted Lydia, her excitement at the prospect of any kind of adventure raising her spirits. “I hear not all footpads are murderers and some are quite handsome. Are you sure you would not enjoy an episode in a darkened grotto with a masked man, Harriet?” she whispered before laughing out loud at her friend’s screams of terror and delight.

  They had been walking three or four abreast until the path narrowed; the trees became denser, their gnarled branches vaulting over their heads in gothic style. Everyone fell into single file, each becoming lost in their own thoughts, and, apart from the calling of a bird in the branches above and the snap of twigs underfoot, the entire company was quiet. Although the sun had decided to come out at last, the woods were deep in shadow. The scent of cool ferns and moss assailed the senses, a perfume to awaken the spirits. The cold green tunnel threatened to engulf them, tree roots clawed across the damp earth to trip the unwary, and Lydia twice caught her muslin on brambles which snagged and snapped back, scratching her bare arms.

  “Do be careful, Miss Bennet,” called Mr Denny and Lydia turned to smile at him. Dawdling along at the back, she could see, were Mr Wickham with Miss Westlake, who was crying out for him to take her hand, lest she fall over. He seemed only too eager to comply. Lydia was so busy observing their antics that she did not see the tree root which caught her foot, sending her sprawling. She could only hear the muffled titters of laughter behind her as Denny helped her to her feet, and she knew that Mr Wickham and his friend were laughing at her clumsiness. How wretched she felt. Why had she not been more careful? They must think her a blundering oaf. She brushed the leaves from her gown, feeling overwhelmingly subdued and rather vexed with herself. Why did she mind so much what Mr Wickham thought about her? She determined on the spot not to mind what he did or said; she would not be so easily upset.

  Everyone sighed in admiration as they came out of the woodland walk, at last into the open, and were faced with the grotto entrance a few feet away, set into towering rocks, which formed part of the bank before them. It was fashioned like a Grecian temple; the ivy covered door stood invitingly open.

  “May we explore?” Lydia begged. The full-length windows of the porch entrance gave a tantalising foretaste of what lay within, and she longed to take a look.

  “There are lanterns, candles, and a tinder box kept in a recess in the porch if anyone is brave enough to explore further,” said the Colonel, “but do take care; there have been tales of sheep losing their way along the passages, only to be found later . . . a pile of bones.” He laughed, enjoying the effect his commentary was having upon an avid audience, and then added, “I’ll give a bottle of my best wine to the first person to find the name in shells.”

  The Colonel, Denny, Pratt, and Chamberlayne entered first, leaving Lydia, Harriet, Miss Westlake, and Mr Wickham to bring up the rear. Lydia tried to engage Mr Wickham in conversation and was in mid sentence before she realised that he was not listening to a single word she was saying. As soon as he could release himself, he was off at Miss Westlake’s side, and by the time Lydia had sorted out a lantern with all the trouble of lighting it, he and the rest of the party had disappeared. She began to feel very cross again with George Wickham, who it seemed only enjoyed her company when it suited him.

  The porch entrance was very beautiful, the walls being inlaid with hundreds of pieces of shell, flint, and glass, all put there by many hours of work, a labour of love indeed. There were three passages, one directly in front and two side passages, leading to various chambers and tunnels.

  “Which way did Henry go, Lydia? I cannot see him anywhere. So intent is he on being the intrepid explorer, he and all those other so-called gentleman have left us quite behind.”

  “Well, they are not far away,” Lydia answered, leading Harriet to the right, down a dark passageway where they found themselves in a large round chamber with stone seats set back into the walls. They searched as well as they could in the dim light but could not find anything that looked like a name amongst the shells. Harriet admitted that she had begun to find the whole idea rather tiresome when Lydia persuaded her to venture into the connecting passage, suggesting that they might find Henry. “I think I hear them, don’t you?” Lydia declared, cupping her hand to her ear and striding on ahead.

  “No, I think you are mistaken,” Harriet cried in response. “Wait for me, Lydia, you are going too fast!” Harriet was becoming increasingly anxious, and her companion was starting to feel she was rather spoiling her fun.

  Lydia ignored her and hurried along, the lantern lighting up the narrow tunnel, which ran along i
n a straight line. The air was thinner, the walls slimy to the touch, and there was a pervading smell of damp.

  “Ooh, I don’t like it, Lydia. Where have they got to?” Harriet ran to catch up, trying to cling onto her friend’s arm for reassurance; unfortunately, Lydia was becoming quite out of patience.

  “There is nothing to worry about, Harriet. We have a lantern, we can always retrace our steps, and I am sure I heard Henry’s voice just now,” she lied.

  They had entered a smaller chamber, exquisitely decorated, where the walls were pierced with mother-of-pearl and pieces of silvered glass that twinkled, displaying a thousand reflections that illuminated their lanterns’ candle flames.

  “We have discovered a treasure cave,” Lydia cried. “Just look, Harriet. Have you ever seen anything so lovely?”

  “It is beautiful,” Harriet exclaimed, “but where is everyone? I should have thought we must meet someone by now. I confess this place is starting to unnerve me a little.”

  “Nonsense, Harriet,” Lydia cried. “They must have all taken the left fork, that’s all. We will run into them at any moment, I am sure.”

  No sooner did she speak than they heard the boom of a man’s voice a little way off. Before Harriet had a chance to call out, Lydia snuffed the lantern.

  “There, what did I tell you. Let’s keep quiet and jump out on them; what a good joke we will have,” she whispered.

  “Do you not know that I am afraid of the dark?” Harriet cried at once. “I am quite terrified! Oh, Lydia, why did you do that? It is so black; there is not a chink of light!”

  “Harriet, we are perfectly fine,” Lydia assured her. “We are not in any danger!”

  “How do we know that the voice belongs to someone we know?” Harriet whispered in terror. “It could be anyone, even a murderer! It does not sound like Henry to me!”

  “Of course it must be someone we know,” Lydia moaned. “Stand still and be quiet or they will realize we are here!”

  “Well, I am not going to stay here to be frightened or starved to death, I am going back,” Harriet retorted. “Henry will be worrying where I am.”

  “Suit yourself,” Lydia told her, “but you would be much better off waiting here with me for the lantern to be lighted again.”

  She would not be told, and feeling her way along the craggy walls, Harriet set off in the direction they had come, complaining of ill usage as she went.

  The voices grew nearer and were heard more loudly. They belonged to Miss Westlake and Mr Wickham. Lydia strained her ears, but she found it almost impossible to hear what they were saying. They were in the next chamber and it was plain they were in dispute over something.

  “I will not listen any longer to your foolish plans, it is hopeless,” she heard Miss Westlake say. Wickham answered, but his voice was so deep and low, she only caught the words “love” and “money.”

  “It will only make matters worse; I never heard of a scheme more doomed to failure,” his agitated partner replied. “I am going now, are you coming?’

  Without waiting for his reply, Miss Westlake left him without speaking another word and scuttled down the passageway in the opposite direction. After a moment or two of listening to him cursing the world and every female in it, Lydia called out his name before she knew what she had done.

  Chapter 10

  “WHERE ARE YOU, MISS Bennet? What has happened to your lantern?” called Mr Wickham. As she lied and told him the candle had blown out by itself, Lydia heard his steps come closer until at last he reached out to touch her. She stumbled backwards in the dark; his touch, though gentle, made her heart hammer.

  “Where is your lantern?” she asked, recovering herself enough to speak, knowing that Miss Westlake must have taken the one they shared. “I suppose you have given it to your cross companion.”

  Wickham sighed deeply.

  “I must admit I overheard you both talking,” Lydia continued. “At least, I gathered you were in disagreement with one another. I didn’t hear all that was said, but one thing seemed very clear.”

  “And what might that be, Miss Bennet? Pray tell, for I have never found dealing with any lady to be clear cut.”

  “You are in love with Miss Westlake, are you not?”

  There was a silence, and Lydia wished she had not spoken. How could she have said such a thing? How would it sound to him? She wished she had kept her tongue.

  “No, I am not,” he replied eventually, his voice very low. “I am not in love, you must know I am not.” He paused and she heard him sigh again. “I have never been in love in my life,” he continued. “Indeed, Miss Lydia, I do not know if I am capable of ever loving anyone. I confess I do not know what will become of me.” He took a step towards her, and though she was inclined to move back, her legs seemed to have lost their power to take any action at all. “Who will teach me of love, Miss Bennet?” he asked. “Will you?”

  “Please stop being silly, Mr Wickham,” Lydia replied as firmly as she could. She did not know how to answer him. He unnerved her and left her feeling completely defenceless. “You have made sport enough of me today; I declare I quite hate you for your teasing ways.”

  There was no space left between them. Lydia could feel the damp of the wall penetrating the thin fabric of her gown.

  He clutched and held her hand. “Forgive me?” he asked. “I cannot bear to think of you hating me.”

  “I think we should go back, Mr Wickham,” she said, shaking her hand free. She still felt cross at the manner in which he and Miss Westlake had snubbed her, laughed at her, and there was something in his soft voice which made her feel uneasy. She felt helpless and unable to think as she should.

  “Let us not be enemies, Miss Bennet,” he implored. “I so dislike being at odds with you, my little friend. I much prefer to see you when you are happy with me, and I can recall many occasions when you have been more than delighted with my behaviour. To name but one instance, I can never forget the expression on your face when you accepted my gift of gloves in town the other afternoon. I avow it was not one of reproof.”

  He pulled her towards him, grasping her upper arms tight, kneading his fingers into her tender skin. Goose pimples tingled at his touch.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she demanded, hating him for having seen the truth of her feelings. “I was very grateful for your kindness to me on that day.”

  “I am sure I cannot describe it,” he said, “but it is my dearest wish to see that look on your countenance again one day.”

  He slipped his hands under her arms, his thumbs brushing the flesh liberated by a wanton fichu that had fallen to the floor. She caught her breath. He leaned in towards her, forcing her hard against the damp wall before he caressed her cheek with his lips. She gasped; he was pressed so close she could feel the ivory buttons on his waistcoat and the fob within the pocket of his buckskin breeches leaving their rigid impression. His lips sought hers, and she allowed him to kiss her with greater urgency.

  “There!” he declared as he pulled away. “I am sure that must be something like it. If only there was light enough to see your beautiful eyes with their knowing expression.”

  Her feelings were in such confusion she could not breathe and did not know what to do. “How dare you,” she cried at last, with as much feeling as she could, and tried to push him away.

  Wickham laughed and pressed himself against her. “How I love a challenge; are you taunting me, Miss Bennet? Do you dare me to kiss you again?”

  The truth was that a part of her longed for him to kiss her again. She did not think she could refuse him. “I am not . . .” were the only words she managed to utter before he had his mouth enclosed on hers again. She could not resist and found that, not only was she letting him embrace her, but she was kissing him back; that is, she kissed him until the recollection that he was there with Miss Westlake floated across her mind’s
eye and she pushed him away with some force. Lydia was so vexed with him for making her feel so completely in his power that she could not find the words to express her emotions. She did not know what to say; she just knew she should leave.

  “I think we should go back,” she said. “I suddenly feel very cold.”

  “If that is what you want,” he said catching hold of her hand again and suppressing a laugh, “but you are not cold, Miss Bennet; you are a flaming arrow, my sweet little girl, burning a way through my heart. Please tell me that you are my friend before we return and that you forgive me for stealing a kiss. I could not help myself; your eyes have been begging it of me since we came to Brighton.”

  “I will forgive you, Mr Wickham, but I beg you will not take such liberties again,” she cried. “We must go back or they will send out a search party.”

  “You are quite right, come along, Miss Bennet. Everyone will think we have got lost or that you have seduced me.” He took her hand and pulled her along in the darkness, laughing as he went. “Come along, my sweet Lydia, my dear little friend.”

  “Oh, Mr Wickham!” she shouted as they set off into the passage. “You make me quite despair!”

  They were out again in the sunshine soon enough and everyone was congratulating Mr Denny on finding the name they had been seeking. He declared he would have found “Harriet” pricked out in seashells much sooner but had been labouring under the misapprehension that the name he had been looking for was someone else’s. Lydia looked across at her friend to see if she was still cross about the lantern but a grin from Harriet was enough to let her know that there were no hard feelings. Harriet was happy now she had found her Henry, and she sat holding his hand as if her life depended on it. Large rugs and cushions had been fetched and spread out on the grass so they could enjoy their pic-nic, and Pratt and Chamberlayne were happily engaged in arranging platters of cold chicken and meat pasties, polishing crystal glasses, and popping corks from bottles. Mr Wickham made no attempt to catch Lydia’s eye and soon joined Miss Westlake; they sat quite apart from the others, and he was as attentive to that lady as ever. How Lydia fumed. She could not believe that she had let her guard down quite so badly. How dare he take such advantage of the situation! She was adamant that she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing just how discomposed she was and endeavoured to be as light-hearted and flirtatious as ever. Before long she had drawn an admiring audience of his fellow officers around. Anyone observing her would have imagined she was in love with everyone.