Lydia

by Natasha Farrant

  “Harriet!”

  She stopped with an impatient sigh.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “I feel so tired, all of a sudden. Would you mind awfully if I sat upon this stone bench and waited for you here?”

  “I will take you home.” (Through clenched teeth, with an anxious glance at Mrs. Conway.)

  “Oh, pray do not trouble yourself! I shall be quite happy here. Please, do go on to the fountain. I shall be delightfully comfortable sitting here in the shade.”

  Mrs. Conway insisted that she must bring back some water for me. I begged her to take her time, and drooped upon the bench, the picture of ladylike exhaustion, until they were out of sight. My first instinct, I admit, was to rush forward the second they disappeared and simply see what happened. But plan your strategy, Wickham had said. I had not much time – it must be used to its maximum advantage. I needed to plan my campaign. I needed to think.

  The first thing to do, I told myself (strategising like a soldier), was to make quite sure he was alone. Rushing in to overpower him, only to be confronted, without a plan, by Miss Lovett and the Comtesse, would mean being outnumbered and put me at a disadvantage. I looked left, then right. The alley in which I found myself was deserted. Walking as fast as I could while still maintaining an air of nonchalance, I left the path and came to stand behind his bower, feigning interest in a pretty climbing rose twisting round a conveniently placed arch. I peeped through the foliage. The Comte was engrossed in his book. His sister and Miss Lovett were nowhere to be seen.

  Think, Lydia, think! What did I know about him?

  He reads (not to be helped). He dresses well (if carelessly – he had thrown his gloves down on the bench beside him and I noticed a rip in his jacket, beautifully mended but visible nonetheless), with a touch of drama (the scarlet scarf). He is French, he is a nobleman, he lived in India . . .

  Gloves!

  My heart beating wildly, I slipped through the rose-bedecked arch, discreetly tugging off one of my own gloves (white kid, grey buttons – adorable). Advancing towards him, I occupied myself with searching through the contents of my reticule. Then, as I drew level with him, I let the glove fall at his feet.

  “Lord, what a clumsy fool I am!”

  He was not reading at all. He was asleep – asleep! I had not bargained on that. As he started awake with a cry of alarm, his book fell from his hands. It came to rest beside my glove and there – there – I spotted my chance.

  Oh, blessed Mr. Collins and his boring readings at Longbourn! For the book was none other than his old favourite – The Meditations of Saint Augustine.

  Crouching to retrieve my glove, I picked up the book and held it out to the Comte. “Dear Saint Augustine,” I murmured. “I’m afraid he also took a bit of a tumble.”

  “Is he dear?” The Comte rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he stood up, looking somewhat confused. “I’m afraid I find him rather heavy going.”

  “The world is a book,” I quoted airily. “And those who do not travel read only one page. I could read him for hours!”

  “Could you really?” He looked at me doubtfully. I batted my eyelids with a demure smile, and he began to laugh. He looks so nice when he laughs! It makes his eyes sparkle. “You are joking. Thank God! I honestly think this is the dullest thing that I have ever read, but I am going up to Oxford next term and my tutor gave me a pile of ghastly books to read before I left India, which he swears are absolutely indispensable to my survival. I prefer poetry myself, and plays and novels. How clever you are to know about him, though. My sister has no idea.”

  “Has no idea about what?” drawled a female voice behind us, and then there she was, with Miss Lovett by her side.

  The Comtesse was splendid in her striped corbeau green and white, this time with a stiff saffron jacket and ribbon on her wide-brimmed hat. The tiny black-and-white dog barked ferociously at the end of a short leash, a matching saffron ribbon about its neck. Her cousin, who is tiny with huge dark eyes, looked like a timid vole by her side. She wore plain cambric with a dull brown spencer, and was carrying a cup of water.

  “My sister, Théodorine de Fombelle, and my cousin, Miss Esther Lovett,” said the Comte. “But please, what is your name?”

  I told them.

  “Miss Lydia Bennet!” the Comte cried, like it was the most pleasing name he had ever heard. “Miss Lydia Bennet, who reads Saint Augustine.”

  “Goodness,” his sister said. She sat down upon the bench with her little dog, and kissed its nose to stop it barking. “That is impressive. I bet Esther’s read Saint Augustine, too, haven’t you, Esther?” Miss Lovett blushed, and said she had.

  “And I bet you haven’t,” the Comte teased.

  The Comtesse ignored her brother’s jibe, but turned away from the dog to scrutinise me. “So you’re clever,” she said. “And wearing rather a good dress, today. An infinite improvement on that pink creation the other night.”

  “Theo!” her brother exclaimed.

  “But that wasn’t yours. I’m right, am I not? I said that it was borrowed. It was much too tight about the bodice, and loose about the skirts. Also, too fussy. This –” she indicated my new dress – “this is much more your style. Fitted, and amusing – the pantaloons a slightly obvious touch, perhaps, but piquant nevertheless. Not, you will forgive me, cloying. No, I rather think that pink thing belonged to the lady you accompanied. The colour would have suited her darker complexion, and from her toilette that night it is obvious she has a taste for furbelows. The parasol is Munro’s, of course. He has been selling them by the dozen since the good weather arrived.”

  The Comtesse’s voice never stays the same. It swoops from fast and natural to slow and almost affected in an instant and without apparent reason. Her accent, like her brother’s, is an inconsistent mixture, veering in her short speech from English to French to a sing-song lilt I assume must be a legacy from India.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Is it Munro’s?”

  “It is,” I admitted, feeling a little light-headed.

  “My cousin is a talented dressmaker,” Esther Lovett murmured. “There is nothing she does not know about fashion.”

  “You should see her workroom,” the Comte said. “It is quite professional.”

  “I don’t like to do anything by halves,” the Comtesse informed me. “As for the parasol, my advice is to throw it out. Parasols are only good for playing cricket on the beach, and that one is particularly offensive.”

  “Theo!” the Comte exploded. Even Miss Lovett looked shocked, but I could think of only one thing.

  How could I see them again?

  “I should love to see your workroom,” I blurted.

  “Then you must come!” the Comte cried. “Mustn’t she, Theo?”

  For a short second, I thought I saw her hesitate. But then, “Of course, come!” She pulled a calling card from the minuscule black reticule that hung from her wrist. “Come next week, on Thursday. We’re out on the cliffs.”

  “At what time . . .”

  “Come for tiffin,” the Comte said.

  “He means luncheon,” Esther whispered. “Around midday.”

  “Al will fetch you.”

  “Al?”

  “Alaric.” The Comtesse nodded at her brother. “Now, Esther – are you going to drink this disgusting water or not? You cannot carry that cup about with you for ever. Just glug it down, there’s a good girl.”

  Miss Lovett pulled a face as she peered at the brownish water in her cup, but I can see already that it is not possible to refuse her cousin. A few drops dribbled down her chin as she drank, and she blushed as the Comte very gallantly offered her his handkerchief, after which the ladies curtsied and took their leave. The Comte tipped his hat, followed them, then ran back.

  “Please forgive my sister,” he said. “She is always frighteningly direct.”

  “No! It is not . . . I mean . . . I have seen her swim at the beach. I think she is perfectly splendid.”

/>   It was the sort of unguarded, unthinking remark that would make Mary or Lizzy roll their eyes in disbelief, but the Comte de Fombelle beamed as if he couldn’t agree more.

  “And I think it’s perfectly splendid that you know Saint Augustine,” he said, in a voice ringing with sincerity.

  “Oh, yes!” I said. “I mean, I adore him.”

  “I must run after them – but we will see you very soon. I will be at the Coach and Anchor at eleven o’clock. You will come, won’t you?”

  “Of course!”

  My head spun as I watched him hurry away, and I had to sit down on the bench.

  I have met them at last. Good grief! The Comte even appears to like me. But oh Lord – what tangled web of lies have I begun to weave?

  Longbourn,

  Friday, 19th June

  Dear Lydia,

  I hope you are well and still enjoying the delights of sea-bathing.

  Wickham is entirely wrong to compare the South Coast to the Mediterranean. The Mediterranean is a sea full of flying fish and dolphins and porpoises, lined with countries of vast and ancient historical interest. In Greece there are also temples, and it is one of the few places that I should like to see very much. And the answer to your question is no, India is nowhere near to the Mediterranean. I continue to be appalled by your lack of education.

  Your sister,

  Mary

  P.S. Do not be surprised if Kitty does not answer you. The ribbon you sent in your last letter was much appreciated, but she is still angry.

  Sunday, 21st June

  My lack of education, as Mary calls it, is entirely Father’s fault. There’s no point blaming Mamma. She knows even less about anything than I do. But Father, who spends whole days in his library, could have taught me something. If we had been boys, we should all have been sent to school, but I don’t see what being a boy has to do with anything. Plenty of girls go to school – even Harriet did. We cannot all be like Mary, always educating ourselves. Some of us require motivation, and it is too bad Father never saw fit to give it, or I shouldn’t be in the trouble I am now.

  After returning from the spa yesterday, I went immediately to the library, where, ignoring the assembled company, the tea, the coffee and the fashionable periodicals, I made straight for the books and looked for the librarian. My courage almost failed me when he appeared. He looked so exactly as a librarian should, with his grey whiskers and faded brown coat and little spectacles on the end of his nose like Mary’s – so very studious and learned. But my mission was urgent. I girded my loins.

  “I should like to read the works of Saint Augustine,” I said haughtily. “And I also need some poetry, novels, and plays.”

  “I see.” The librarian frowned, and his spectacles slipped even farther down his nose. “Do you have anything more specific in mind?”

  I crumbled.

  “Nothing at all!” I cried. “I have just four days in which to become educated.”

  “How educated?” the librarian asked.

  I slumped into a nearby armchair, feeling discouraged. There seemed no point in dissembling. “Just enough to be convincing,” I admitted.

  The librarian – who is a charming man – patted my shoulder, gave me Saint Augustine, and scurried away to gather a veritable tower of learning, the names of which I must write down to anchor them for ever in my memory.

  They were:

  Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract

  William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Richard III, Romeo and Juliet and the Sonnets

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock

  Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

  “I have also included Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho,” he said. “I find a knowledge of contemporary culture is a very pleasing thing, and it is of course immensely fashionable.”

  “Of course.” I gulped. “But all this – all this is what I have to read to appear intelligent?”

  The librarian said, “Well, it’s a start.”

  All those books! A start! I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “If I may make a suggestion?” the librarian said gently.

  “Please do,” I whispered.

  “It is not always necessary, to give an impression of learning, to have read entire works. As long as the conversation does not linger, selected chapters in many cases will suffice. The world does not expect young ladies to have read all of Mr. Rousseau. Or indeed, all of Saint Augustine. An introduction, an opening act, some judiciously chosen lines to quote at apposite moments . . . Would you like me to help you?”

  I nodded. I had a lump in my throat. I don’t think any stranger has been so nice to me, ever.

  “You may settle in my private office, if you wish,” he said. “You will not be disturbed there. And I shall prepare the books for you, and mark the appropriate pages, and explain what you do not understand. Perhaps you will develop a taste for learning – what a grand thing that would be!”

  He opened a door, hidden among the stacks, revealing a small room beyond. I saw a desk crowded with papers, a comfortable chair before the fireplace, a silver tray with a decanter of brandy, one wall that was not lined with books – it was exactly like Father’s library at home. I had to bite my lip not to give way to proper tears.

  “You had better send the books to my lodgings,” I told him. “My friend – Mrs. Forster, I am staying with her – she would think it strange that I was come here to study. She is not accustomed to me reading – nobody is, really. I shall read the books quietly in my room, where it will not excite comment or suspicion. Pretend that I am ill, perhaps – yes, that is what I shall do. If you could mark them up, as you suggested, and be discreet when you send them. Pretend they are not books. Say – just say they are a delivery, and if anyone asks, pretend that they are clothes.”

  The librarian bowed. “As you wish,” he said, but I could see that he was disappointed.

  He showed me how to fill in a card with the titles of the books I wanted, and I gave him our Market Street address, and then he said the strangest thing as I left.

  “Do not be afraid of books, Miss Bennet. Simply treat them with the respect they deserve, and you will be richly rewarded. You do not have to be clever or rich or have attended celebrated schools or universities in order to appreciate them. It is enough simply to have an open and receptive mind – and sometimes, it is true, a little perseverance. But you must not be afraid, Miss Bennet, for books do not judge you. Do you understand?”

  I fled, clutching Saint Augustine to my bosom.

  It has cost me five shillings – five shillings! – to subscribe to the library. The books arrived yesterday evening, and are stacked in a pile on the floor of my tiny bedroom. I can do this. They are only books, after all. How difficult can it be? How astonished Mary will be when she finds how learned I have become in Brighton! And Father, too! I shall make a great point when I go home of asking for a book to read from his library – not the novels Lizzy likes, with coaches driving off roads and maidens being rescued by pirates, but something serious and dull. That will be a joke! That will make them sit up!

  But I have wasted enough time writing about this. To work, to work! For I have much to read before I see the Comte and Comtesse again.

  Wednesday, 24th June

  I have done exactly as I said. I have feigned sickness, and spent the last four days in my room.

  Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.

  Hear and believe! thy own importance know . . .

  Alas, poor Yorick!

  For hym was levere have at his beddes heed

  Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed . . .

  The librarian was true to his word, and sent the books with notes on the most relevant pages, but even so my mind is fit to burst. No wonder Mary is always so cross. She must be constantly worried that her head is about to explode.

  Harriet has seen the books, of course. It is impossible
to hide anything in such a small house. I had to pretend I ordered them to stop myself being bored while I was ill.

  Wickham called this evening. I did not go down, but opened my door just an inch to hear what they were saying.

  “Reading,” Harriet said. “Real books. Shakespeare and poetry and something foreign.”

  “But Lydia never reads!” Wickham sounded astonished. “She is famous for it.”

  They all cackled unkindly. I closed the door softly.

  It is all very well for Wickham to laugh, but I cannot recollect ever seeing him with a book in his hands. It is always cards, or a glass, or the reins of a horse. I bet he has never heard of Saint Augustine or Milton. He probably hasn’t even heard of Shakespeare.

  He could never understand.

  Books may not judge you, but people do.

  Thursday, 25th June

  I pretended I was ill again this morning, then waited until Harriet was gone before slipping out myself. I wore my newly tailored muslin – it seemed the safest option, since the Comtesse appeared to approve of it – but with white stockings this time instead of the “obvious” pantaloons, and my yellow straw bonnet. I shall never be as striking as she or as graceful as Lizzy – I may as well accept that right now – but I felt definitely as if I belonged more in Brighton than in Meryton.

  I arrived at the Coach and Anchor at exactly eleven o’clock. The courtyard was crowded with all manner of people and contraptions and animals and luggage, all getting in each other’s ways, but there was no sign of the Comte de Fombelle and his trap. Disappointment flooded me. He had not come – he would not come. They did not want me for a friend.

  “Miss Bennet!”

  A voice, strangely inflected but familiar. A blue frock coat pushing through the crowd, a tall hat at a jaunty angle over a head of black curls, that flash of scarlet from the scarf. He had come!

  “I left the trap with a boy around the corner,” he explained, as he offered me his arm. “The mayhem here! It reminds me of Madras.”