Lydia Bennet's Story

by Jane Odiwe

  “But would he ever like me? Now there is a question. Isabella, you must admit he does not approve of your friend.”

  Isabella said nothing. She knew it was useless to argue with Lydia, and she was determined not to have this evening spoiled for anyone. She took Lydia’s arm in hers and patted her kid glove. “Shall we go in?”

  They followed the crowd up the steps and Lydia joined the queue to greet her own family as she stood with her friend. Mr Fitzalan joined them just as they reached Mr Bingley and the introductions began. Jane and her husband were as gracious as ever, welcoming Isabella and her brother with great affability. Following on in the line was Miss Bingley, her fiancé at her side. Lydia would have liked to laugh; she was tickled to see that he was several inches smaller than his mate, and had a countenance which she could only describe as weasel-faced and a shock of unruly hair which fell in lank strands over his pale, pink-rimmed eyes. Lydia steeled herself, knowing it was not possible for her “sister” to make conversation without caustic remarks.

  “Good evening, Mrs Wickham, are you here again? It must be but two months since I saw you last. And where has Captain Wickham business to attend to this time? Let me think, would it be Ramsgate or Brighton? I think those are his usual stamping grounds when he is intent on employment of a certain nature.”

  “Captain Wickham is in Bath on regimental business at present, Miss Bingley; he hopes to join me in a week or so. If it was not so important, he would have been here with me now.”

  “Ah yes, I had quite forgotten. We saw him, did we not, my dear?” She turned to her fiancé but made no attempt to introduce him to Lydia or her friends, who hung back, more than a little over-awed by the whole proceedings.

  “You saw my husband?” Lydia asked, quite dreading her reply.

  “Yes, indeed, we even spoke to him. We were in Bath this last week. We were walking up Gay Street and he bumped into us on the way down. He was so surprised to see me, and I think quite flattered that I remembered him; he blushed quite red in any case. He was with his sister, yes, I am sure that is how he described the lady. They are not at all alike are they? What with him so dark and she so fair, but it is easy to see how attached to one another they are, how close. She never left his side for a moment and hung onto him like a limpet.”

  Lydia was well aware that George had no sister and was quite sure that Miss Bingley knew it too. “Ah yes, dear Sophia, I hope my sister was well?” Lydia kept her nerve, determined to out-bluff this odious woman.

  “I would say she was blooming. Do send on my good wishes for her future happiness.”

  Lydia felt the room sway, Miss Bingley’s face seemed suddenly to blur, and if it had not been for Mr Fitzalan, who steadied her with a firm hand in the small of her back, she later thought she might have fallen over. Lydia uttered her excuses, they passed on, and though she did her best to ignore Miss Bingley’s words, she kept hearing them run round her head.

  “Lydia, you are as white as a sheet, are you quite well my dear?” Mrs Bennet asked. “Did you eat anything at dinner? It is not one of your fad diets again, steak and ale or such like, is it my dear? You must eat properly. This is what comes of living in Newcastle, so far away from your own dear mama.”

  “A banishment to any part of the country would be apt to pale anyone’s cheeks I wouldn’t wonder,” added her sister Mary who always spoke as she thought. “I would have liked to say married life is treating you well, Lydia, but it is clear to see that the old adage, ‘Marry in haste . . . ’”

  “Thank you, Mary,” Lydia cut in. “I would have liked to say that time might have improved your manners, but the old adage, ‘keep your breath to cool your porridge’ might be worth remembering.” Lydia was anxious to avoid detaining Mary or her mother any longer, and having no wish to sit with either of them, she steered her party to the ballroom.

  “Are you quite recovered, Mrs Wickham?” Mr Fitzalan asked. His expression was all concern and Lydia suddenly felt quite unnerved. His looks told her that he had read the situation and that he had heard all of Miss Bingley’s conversation. He knew exactly what sort of woman was accompanying her husband and that she was not his sister.

  “I am well, thank you,” she replied but found for once that she could not meet his eyes. She supposed that Wickham’s flaunting himself around Bath with some floozy or other was bound, in the end, to have been generally discovered. But that it should have been Caroline Bingley who was made aware of the scandal was too insulting. Lydia was mortified. She would not think about the other hints she had so willingly supplied. She would not dwell on it.

  “Have you seen any sign of the Rowlandsons yet?” Mr Fitzalan asked his sister.

  “No, I have not,” Isabella replied, her eyes darting anxiously around the room.

  “I am sure I just saw Miss Eleanor,” Lydia declared, scanning the room as though she expected sight of her at any moment. “She was surrounded by officers, quite engaged.” This was not strictly true; though she had been in conversation with a young man, Lydia wanted to see Mr Fitzalan’s discomfiture at the thought of his beloved being paid attention by other suitors. She could not think why she wished to be so spiteful, but she couldn’t bear the idea that he had been kind to her out of pity. She would ensure he kept his concern to himself.

  “You should have said, Lydia,” Isabella responded a little impatiently. “I have been looking everywhere for my sweet friend. Alexander, see if you can find them.”

  The small orchestra, arranged on a platform at one end, had rested after their introductions and were tuning up their instruments once again. Isabella looked round frantically but there was no sign of the Rowlandsons. “If you don’t hurry, we shall miss the first dance,” Isabella urged.

  “Stay here then, or I will not be able to find you.” Mr Fitzalan moved off to search the room and the girls were left behind, watching the rush of people swarming through the doors whilst looking for familiar faces. Lydia had never seen so many people gathered at Netherfield. This was certainly an occasion to end all others, and the Bingleys had spared no expense.

  After a minute or two, Isabella could bear it no longer. “It is no use, Alexander never can see further than the end of his nose. I will go and look for them myself. She rushed away, leaving Lydia to her own devices and her own thoughts. It was not long before old acquaintances, former beaux from the days before her marriage, had appeared at her side, begging for a dance and lifting her spirits.

  “We thought it was you, Mrs Wickham,” Mr Wooton declared with a bow. “How delightful! And is Mr Wickham with you?”

  “No, the Captain is away at present on business, though I expect him in a day or two.” She could not resist informing them of her husband’s promotion. “How are you gentlemen? Am I to suppose you have not succumbed to Cupid’s bow as yet? I do not see any ladies dangling from your arms.”

  “Alas,” Mr Edwards lamented, “since you left, Mrs Wickham, we haven’t had the heart to be in love, let alone go courting.”

  “Oh, you always had a silvered tongue, you wicked man,” she laughed.

  “Mrs Wickham!” A voice she recognised as belonging to Mr Rowlandson hailed her as he advanced through the French windows across the floor. “How glad I am to have found you at last. Is Miss Fitzalan with you?” He stood before her looking dismayed, and Lydia realised not for the first time that his regard for her friend was genuine.

  “Well, she was here just a moment ago. Dear me, where has she gone? I cannot see her anywhere, can you? Nevermind, keep me company until she returns. I am sure she will be along in a moment. Here are some old friends of mine to amuse us. Mr Edwards and Mr Wooton are here to ask for a dance.”

  “Dash it all, Mrs Wickham,” Mr Rowlandson cried, nodding in the gentlemen’s direction, “that Miss Fitzalan should have disappeared like that. We were to have the first dance.”

  “I would hate for you to be upset,
but rest assured, I will oblige if she doesn’t return. We cannot have you miss the first dance. You must decide, Mr Rowlandson. Will you be my partner? And then,” she said, looking up at Mr Edwards from under her lashes, “who will be next?”

  Just as she spoke, Mr Fitzalan stepped up and stood before them all. Lydia laughed out loud; even though his expression was severe, she could not help but be amused. Although she knew quite well it had not been his purpose, it certainly looked to everyone else that he wished to partner her and she was immensely diverted by the absurdity of the situation.

  “Mr Fitzalan, I did not know you were so keen to dance,” she suggested with a giggle, glancing round at her audience who laughed back.

  “No indeed, forgive me, Mrs Wickham. My intention was not to ask for a dance; you have more than enough interest in that pursuit which I beg you will give me leave to deny you.” He turned to address Mr Rowlandson and stood with his back towards her. “I wondered if I might have a word in private?”

  The opening bars of the first dance were being played. Mr Rowlandson bowed, sidestepping Mr Fitzalan, and offered his arm to Lydia. “Can it wait, dear friend? I have just promised Mrs Wickham the first dance.”

  Lydia was astounded by Mr Fitzalan’s rudeness and the cold manner in which he had addressed her. She knew his disdainful expression had been reserved for her alone. Even Mr Rowlandson appeared to be much embarrassed. “Take no notice, Mrs Wickham,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to the floor. “I do not know what has got into the fellow, though Mr Fitzalan was never much of a one for dancing.”

  “He clearly disapproves of such a heathen activity,” Lydia cried scornfully. “Why did he come here tonight I should like to know? Clergymen should be banned from all types of amusement if you ask me. How dare he try to spoil our fun!” She was more cross than she could say, especially as she observed him—his tall figure watching her from the side of the dance floor—with such a look of distaste that she felt she should retaliate. She stared triumphantly right back at him when she was assured of his blue eyes’ fullest attention and was instantly rewarded, as he was forced immediately to look away.

  Freddie was the very dancer Lydia expected him to be, and she could not resist a little flirting with such a well-looking man. To tell the truth, she was more than a little jealous of her friend’s good fortune in finding such a man, and though she would not steal him for long, surely a few harmless dances would not hurt. Isabella’s face said it all as they came off the floor; she was so disappointed to have missed the first dance.

  “Mrs Wickham is an excellent dancer, is she not?” announced Mr Rowlandson.

  “She is indeed,” smiled Isabella, trying her hardest to look happy. She generously thought that Lydia probably did not consciously set out to divert all young men’s attentions towards herself, but Isabella wished that, for once, Lydia would leave her beau well alone.

  “And now, my dear,” Mr Rowlandson said, turning to Isabella, “will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”

  Lydia watched as Isabella and her partner moved off, happy in one another’s company. Mr Edwards was there in a second, but before he could proffer his arm, Mr Fitzalan had taken her by the hand, had dismissed any other bystander, and was marching her onto the floor. He had not spoken one word to her and one look at his countenance told Lydia that it bore all its usual hallmarks of ill humour.

  “I think you are very rude, Mr Fitzalan, to butt in on another gentleman. Mr Edwards and I were about to take a turn,” Lydia pronounced crossly.

  Mr Fitzalan ignored her and, fixing her with an expression of cold civility, bowed in her direction. “What do you think you are doing?” he demanded as the music started and he steered her reluctantly down the set.

  “I do not know what you mean, Mr Fitzalan, I am sure.”

  “I warn you, you do not fool me. I know everything is a game to you.”

  “What are you trying to say, you ridiculous man? Why do you find it necessary to spoil other people’s fun all the time?”

  “You are flirting outrageously with Mr Rowlandson, with no regard for Isabella. She is not only my sister but your loyal friend.”

  “Lord! It is just a little harmless teasing.”

  “But it is at my sister’s expense, and I will not have her hurt for the world. Just because you feel wronged, it does not give you the right to hurt others.”

  “It is nothing, sir, believe me. I love Isabella as you do. Forgive me, but you presume too much.”

  “But I know your kind better than you think. You have no morals; you are precisely the sort of woman who is never content with her lot and is not happy unless she is pursuing some object which is not hers to own. I will not permit it, madam.”

  “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?”

  Chapter 29

  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?”

&nb
sp; “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.”