Lydia

by Natasha Farrant

  “Are you going in, miss?” asked Sally.

  Still the memories of the Waire were too strong.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” I said. “If the weather continues to improve.”

  Monday, 8th June

  What do I write first? What an evening – oh, what an evening!

  I shall start with the theatre.

  It is very new and very grand, with three storeys and two tiers of boxes, and it can seat twelve hundred people. I think that may be more people than I have ever seen together in my life. There were rumours that the Prince himself would attend – Harriet almost fainted when she heard. We didn’t even go to the sea today because she had to spend all day preparing. The play was a musical thing called The Weathercock, and the players were the vastly famous Mr. and Mrs. Kemble, but I hardly took in a word of it because . . . but I mustn’t get ahead of myself.

  The colonel had taken a box in the first tier, no less, and he led us straight to it through the crowd. We went up a narrow panelled staircase, all dark and poky, and then out we emerged into the sumptuous splendour. Then he went back down to talk to some acquaintances, while Harriet and I observed the room.

  I never saw such elegance – not even at the Netherfield ball! The Prince did not come, but even if he had, it could not have been a grander affair. Such gleaming bare shoulders and bosoms, such diamonds and pearls and plumage! Ostrich feathers are all the rage here, dyed different colours, and they wave about, tickling people’s noses and getting in the way but looking very splendid and fine. Thank goodness Harriet very civilly lent me her old Indian shawl, which is quite as good as her new one, Russian flame trimmed with coquelicot, which looked almost elegant over my white spotted muslin. And thank goodness Mamma insisted that I bring her little gold velvet hat! Straw would not have done here at all. It is hopelessly old-fashioned, of course, but in Munro’s (which is quite the smartest shop in Brighton), I found a tremendous coquelicot feather which has absolutely transformed it, and thank goodness because . . .

  Harriet was using her opera glasses to search the room now, fretting that the colonel would not return in time for the curtain.

  “Oh, look who is here!” she cried.

  Four officers had entered the theatre. Through the throng, I caught sight of tall Denny, Carter’s ginger hair, Pratt’s unfashionable whiskers . . . and Wickham.

  I immediately assumed an air of vast indifference, tilting my head just so to show off my feather. They approached. They were just beneath the box, going through to the dark staircase. Denny was parting the curtain; they were entering the box . . .

  “Mrs. Forster! Miss Lydia!”

  In they came, all swagger and smiles.

  “At last, some company!” Harriet cried. “We have been quite forlorn without you, have we not, Lydia?”

  “Forlorn ladies! We can’t have that.” Wickham smiled as he leaned over her hand. I crossed my hands firmly behind my back.

  He bowed to me. I curtsied haughtily and opened my mouth to say something extremely cutting – but no sound came out.

  It was utterly mortifying, but then . . . oh, extraordinary, gratifying evening!

  Denny glanced out across the floor and exclaimed, “Good Lord!” Wickham looked, too, and the colour rose to his cheeks. Carter chuckled and said, “Hell’s fire, my friend, you cannot escape the man!”

  “It appears not.” Wickham forced a smile.

  I looked down, towards a party walking beneath us – and fairly gasped with surprise.

  For there, towering over the crowd, dressed as usual both more plainly and more finely than all around him – the cut and cloth of his dark grey coat so obviously more expensive, his necktie gleaming more white – was Mr. Darcy! Mr. Bing-ley, his sisters and Mr. Hurst all followed in his wake, struggling to keep up with him as he strode towards the stairs. They disappeared, and Wickham breathed – then they re-emerged, in the box next to ours, and Wickham took a discreet step back towards the curtain.

  Our box stood between theirs and the stage. In the orchestra pit, the musicians were warming their instruments. Mr. Darcy turned towards them, and his eyes lit immediately on me.

  He turned as pale as a ghost – and that is not an exaggeration.

  “Miss Lydia!” He stared. Then, gathering his wits, bowed.

  Mr. Darcy! Bowing at me – vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled Lydia! I curtsied, all smirks, with a sideways glance at Wickham to check that he was watching.

  Ask me about Lizzy, I silently urged Mr. Darcy. I dare you.

  Mr. Darcy coughed. “Your family,” he said. “Are they well?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” I waved at Mr. Bingley, who waved cheerily back while his sisters ignored me completely. “I did not know, Mr. Darcy, that you were coming to Brighton. I am sure my sister would have sent word to me if she had known. I hear you saw something of her while you were both in Kent.”

  His eyes flashed dangerously at the mention of Kent. I can only imagine how Lizzy’s refusal must have hurt his pride. He is not a man to be crossed.

  “I-it is a short visit,” he stuttered. (Mr. Darcy stuttered!) “Miss Bingley’s idea. She enjoys the theatre, and fashionable company, and there were rumours that the Prince of Wales . . .”

  But now Colonel Forster arrived in our box and, recognising Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley from Meryton, came forward with hearty greetings, then introduced his men. Mr. Bingley shook hands amiably with everybody. Darcy’s expression darkened at the sight of Wickham, who greeted him with only a slight bow. There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “And how do you enjoy Brighton, Darcy?” the colonel asked.

  “Very little,” was the short answer, with a glare in Wickham’s direction. “I dislike the seaside. I find it is a dangerous place.”

  I remembered that Mr. Darcy’s sister had been at the sea at Ramsgate at the time of her attempted elopement.

  But now a hush descended on the theatre, and the lights were dimming. The musicians were waiting, bows at the ready, hands poised over keyboards. The conductor raised his baton. The thick red curtain began its ascent, and the evening’s performance began.

  Though my mind was racing, I kept my eyes riveted on the stage. Only halfway through the first act did I realise that Wickham was seated just behind me, and had leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

  “Mr. Darcy seemed very affected when he saw you, Lydia,” he murmured.

  Suddenly, I wanted him to know everything – to understand that the Bennet girls are capable of attracting suitors far grander and more worthy of them than he.

  “I dare say he did not expect to see me,” I whispered back. “And it was a shock to him, because I reminded him of Lizzy. He is madly in love with her, you know. He has asked her to marry him.”

  “Indeed!” Wickham sounded startled. Ha! “And has she accepted?”

  “She has not,” I whispered. That too felt good – telling him that not everyone is like him, ready to marry for money and without love.

  “Oh, she will change her mind.” For the first time since I have known him, there was not the slightest trace of humour about Wickham’s features. “You can be quite certain of that. Darcy always gets what he wants.”

  “He does not like you at all,” I said. “Though I suppose that is understandable.”

  “What can you mean?”

  My heart beating faster than ever, I turned and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “I know about Georgiana Darcy.”

  For once, he had nothing to say.

  “I shan’t tell anyone,” I said. “For her sake. But you lied to me, Wickham, when you said you did not pursue Miss King for her money. That is what you do, and I don’t like it. I don’t like you.”

  He held my gaze, but I did not look away. Slowly, he nodded, and in his eyes I fancy that I read something new – something like respect, which made me swell with pride.

  At last! I wanted to say. Do not think you can fool me again!

  Then
Harriet glanced towards us with an irritated “Hush!” and I turned my attention once more to the stage, but – as I have already written – I took in very little of the play. The more I thought of it, the more I realised what a very fine thing it would be for Lizzy to marry Mr. Darcy (even though he so rudely criticised me before). How relieved Mamma would be! And if Lizzy married Mr. Darcy, perhaps his friend Mr. Bingley would finally propose to Jane – that conundrum is yet to be resolved. And Mary would have infinite access to books, because doubtless Mr. Darcy has an immense library, and Kitty would have infinite access to rich young men from whom to pick a husband, and when we passed Wickham in Lizzy’s fine carriage, on our way from a party to a ball, he would see with his own eyes how far we are come and be sorry that he ever treated any of us ill.

  I am not sure, looking back, that I should have told him Lizzy’s secret. I do not altogether trust him to keep it. But I am not going to think about that now.

  Tuesday, 9th June

  When I woke up this morning all the clouds were gone, the sky was blue, and the sun was shining brightly. Today we did not make so much fuss about the beach. There was no gingerbread and no blanket, no hairnets or additional wraps. We arrived at the beach just in time to watch the bathing machines setting up by the shore, the horses pulling and the horsemen slapping them and the blue-dressed dippers waddling alongside, with children darting in and out between the wagons. It reminded me of when the fair arrives at home, except that instead of music there were the waves and the gulls, and instead of the smell of food there was a warm, salty wind blowing off the water.

  The waves were the same blue as the sky, their frilly crests today like trims of lace. Seagulls floated lazily above and there were a few sails out on the water. It was exactly how I had imagined it before I came, and for a moment, looking at it, my heart soared. Then, as we made our way down the steps and towards the machines, it sank again.

  “We must be first in the water,” Harriet declared. “We will run if we have to. There must be no one before us. You will see, Lydia, how very amusing it is. Why, I never felt better in my life than I did on Sunday after bathing!”

  She chose two machines towards the end of the line, farthest from the prying eyes of onlookers. She skipped up the steps into hers without a backward glance, but I stood on the fine shingle looking up at mine with limbs too heavy to move. The machines, the horses, the bathers – how small they looked beside the sparkling sea!

  “You going in, miss?” The dipper was watching me with an impatient frown.

  I thought of Wickham, the look of new-found respect in his eyes when I told him I knew about Georgiana Darcy and when I told him about Mr. Darcy’s proposal. What would he think of my standing here, trembling?

  “Yes, I am,” I replied, and seized the ladder with both hands.

  Inside, the machine was plain but dry, with neat hooks from which to hang my clothes, and a bench on which to sit to change, and curtained windows at the front and back from which to peep at the town or the sea, which made me feel like a little girl again, playing in a den. It would almost have been snug but for the fact that no sooner had I closed the door behind me than it began to move! It is quite one thing to move about when you are in a high-sprung carriage, with nothing to do but sit back and watch the scenery. It is quite another on a pebble beach, being flung this way and that as a horse pulls you into the sea while you attempt to remove all your clothes and don your bathing shift. I tumbled off the bench as I unlaced my boots. Bounced off a wall as I unbuttoned my dress. Staggered about with my bodice round my waist as we came to a sudden stop and began gently to sway.

  I struggled out of my dress, hung it on a hook, stepped carefully to the back of the wagon, and parted the muslin curtain. We had come not more than a few yards, but the town looked suddenly very far away – for those few yards were all water. I ran, lurching, to the front window.

  Water all around us!

  “You ready, miss?” The dipper (her name is Janet) was growing impatient.

  “Almost!” I took my bathing shift from its peg and pulled it over my head. It caught in my hair and again over my shoulder – I had forgotten the buttons.

  “Need any help?”

  I tugged on the shift. There was a ripping sound. One of the buttons went flying, but at last the wretched thing was on.

  “I’m ready!” I shouted, and threw open the door.

  The world is very different when you are standing on a mere platform inches above the sea. You cannot see land, and the sea is lapping at your feet, and it would take only one larger-than-average wavelet for the water to rush in and possibly drown you.

  I imagine it is a bit like being alone on a very small island.

  Or perhaps not completely alone.

  “You can climb down the steps, miss, or you can jump.” Janet stood up to her thighs in water beside the door.

  “If you do jump,” she continued, “you’re best going lengthways. Like a dive, but without going under. The water’s only three foot deep.”

  “Lengthways?”

  “Watch your friend, miss.” Janet nodded to the next machine along, where Harriet had appeared at the top of her steps in her pristine shift.

  “Lydia!” She waved. “Isn’t it heaven?”

  And she flung herself into the water, landing on her belly with a sound like a slapped fish. Janet winced.

  “Like that?” I asked.

  “Try crouching,” she advised. “It’ll hurt less.”

  I stepped down into the water. The waves lapped at my feet, then my ankles and knees. I paused. I craned my neck round the edge of the wagon and looked back at the beach. Most of the machines were in the water now, and everywhere scantily clad ladies were hurling themselves into the waves. I looked back down at my feet. The water was cold. It was moving. I couldn’t see the bottom. I thought I saw a fish. It might have been a shark. Mary had told me about these fearsome creatures, when she was studying natural history. They can eat you in one gulp.

  “I cannot do this,” I said.

  While I was hesitating, another machine had lumbered up to take its position beside mine. The door opened, and I recognised the occupant immediately, by her red hair and also by something else – an indefinable air of owning the entire world.

  It was the young lady from the other day – the one with the handsome gentleman friend and the small dog and the extraordinary emerald silk dress. Her bathing attire was no less outlandish. It was not yellow like everyone else’s bathing shift, but green like her dress, sleeveless, close-fitting, and cut short above the knee. She stood for a few seconds, still and strong as marble at the top of her steps, with only her shift and hair fluttering in the wind. Then she took a breath, bounced lightly on her feet, and dived head first and graceful into the waves. She cut through the water so cleanly the sea never even noticed, but swallowed her without so much as a ripple, and she stayed under so long I was sure she must be drowned. But then up she bobbed again, like the moorhens on the pond at home, and began to swim in strong, steady strokes out into the open water.

  “If you’ve finished gawping,” Janet said, “I’ve other ladies waiting.”

  And then she pushed me in.

  Janet’s idea of bathing is to grasp you firmly by the shoulders and push you briskly under the water five times in quick succession, which is just as unpleasant as it sounds. I think I swallowed quite my body weight in seawater this morning, and when I lean forward it still pours out of my nose in alarming quantities, but even so IT WAS THE MOST WONDERFUL THING I HAVE EVER DONE IN MY LIFE. Janet didn’t give me time to be afraid, and it would have been impossible anyway, with her beside me. She is built like an oak wardrobe, and she did not let go of me once. And oh, the feeling of being in the water, as it swirls you about, and pushes you up, and tumbles you over, and causes your skin to prickle and your eyes to sting and your whole body to come alive. Alive! That is exactly how it made me feel. Alive as I have never been before! Alive as I remember feeling
all those years ago when I was a little girl, in those few seconds before I nearly drowned in the Waire.

  The red-haired young lady returned from her sea swim as I spluttered up from my final dunking. She grasped the ladder to her bathing machine and, refusing the aid of her dipper, climbed out of the water. I hurried out after her, but it took me even longer to struggle out of my wet shift than it had to change into a dry one. By the time I came back out on to the beach, she had disappeared.

  Brighton,

  Tuesday, 9th June

  Dear Kitty,

  We have been so busy since we arrived, but we finally got around to bathing today, and it is every bit as amusing as Maria’s cousin told us. Today was just a bit of gentle splashing, but I have told my dipper (a bathing attendant) that I want to learn to swim, and she says she never saw anyone with a more natural ability, and that I had taken to the water like an absolute duck! Do not tell Mamma, but I am about to make considerable changes to the bathing shift she made me. It is impossible to swim properly with all that cloth flapping about your legs. I am going to cut it shockingly short, and remove the arms as well!

  We saw Wickham at the theatre last night. I can’t go into detail, even with you, for it is all extremely secret, but suffice it to say that I have him wrapped around my little finger, and also that I have a feeling that all will be well for all of us – Wickham says it is bound to end well, for he always gets what he wants. Love is in the air, Kitty, and such a love – it will solve everything! I am only sorry you are not here, too. I think that if you were, I would not be able to keep it to myself. Please say you forgive me for coming without you? I do feel monstrous about that whole business, I really do – though I do think you would not have enjoyed it with your cough.

  Your loving sister,

  Lydia (who is half-mermaid)

  Saturday, 13th June

  They do not come into society – the swimming lady and the dark-haired gentleman. I look for them wherever I go, but have only seen them once more at the beach. She was coming out of her machine as we arrived, and walked straight past us towards the steps cut into the cliff where he stood waiting. Harriet thinks she is absurd and very un-English, but I think she is magnificent. She was wearing the emerald dress again. Close up, I saw that it was old, the hemline frayed, and the skirt patched, with a low waist and full skirts more reminiscent of Mamma’s wardrobe than my own. She wore a cream-and-purple Kashmir shawl, curiously stylish though ill-assorted to the dress. He wore the same blue coat as the first time I saw him, with his red scarf still wrapped around his throat, as ill-matched to his outfit as the Kashmir shawl was to hers, yet just as dashing. There is something so poetic about him – Mary would jeer, but that is exactly the word. The pale face, and the tumbling curls, and the fact that he always carries a book. Perhaps that is why he doesn’t swim – poets most probably don’t. They are too busy thinking of fine words and rhymes and things like that, unlike Wickham, for example, who swims every day and is burned dark brown by the sun, with gold glints in his hair, which makes him exactly like the sort of pirate who goes about trying to kidnap innocent young girls.