Lydia

by Natasha Farrant

“Oh, me too!” I had no idea what Madras was, but it seemed the right thing to say (I have since discovered it is a city in India).

  A large woman elbowed past us, screeching after a footman.

  “Actually, I take that back.” He laughed. “Brighton is not nearly so civilized.”

  I laughed, too, though I am still not sure why it was funny.

  The Comte de Fombelle – Alaric – does not drive as fast as Wickham, but he is much more alarming, because he never looks where he is going and gets so involved in whatever he is talking about (he talks a lot) that he confuses the horse.

  “What have you been doing, Miss Bennet, since last we saw you at the Chalybeate Spa? My sister says she did not spot you at the beach.”

  “Reading, mostly,” I said. “I have . . . I have been a little unwell.”

  He expressed concern. Should he perhaps drive me home? Put off the expedition for another day? Tara was a little drive away, was I strong enough, was I sure? He pulled on the left rein as he turned to look at me. The horse ambled across the road.

  I gently readjusted the reins. He didn’t seem to notice. “I assure you I am feeling much better.”

  “Well, if you assure me, I shall have to believe you.” I thought that he was teasing me, but then he said with great sincerity, “We are so pleased that you are come to visit. We are just returned from India these few weeks, you know, and we were children when we left, so we hardly know a soul, and we live so isolated up on the clifftop! You will have to tame us, Miss Bennet, and instruct us in proper English ways.”

  “Surely you have your aunt for that – Mrs. Lovett.”

  The Comte pulled a face. “She is perhaps a little too English and proper. She is very concerned with society, you know – appearances, and what people think.” He smiled slyly. “That is the only reason she tolerates our wild ways, I think. She does not realise that beneath this noble exterior beats the heart of someone who wants to break free from society!”

  “Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains . . .” I murmured – delighted to be able to make such early use of my new reading.

  “You’ve read Rousseau!” Alaric looked delighted. “How splendid! Do you know Voltaire as well?”

  “I prefer Shakespeare,” I said, trying not to panic.

  “Me too! Theo laughs at me, and I suppose it is a little obvious – she detests all that is obvious – but there is nobody as good as Shakespeare in my opinion, nobody! I like the historical plays myself. Richard III! Bad is the world; and all will come to naught, When such bad dealing must be seen in thought!”

  He dropped the reins, the better to wave his hands about as he declaimed. The grey mare wandered on to the verge to graze.

  “So evil!” he cried. “And yet so human!”

  “I think you had better see to the mare,” I said, “before she tips us into the ditch.”

  “Greedy beast!” Alaric gathered the reins once more and cracked the whip, startling the mare into a canter that threw me back into my seat. “Thank heavens you are sensible as well as educated, Miss Bennet,” he shouted. “Which play do you love most?”

  “I like the sonnets,” I said firmly. I had prepared for this. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

  “Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” Alaric cried above the clatter of hooves. “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May—”

  “And summer’s lease hath all too short a date,” I finished.

  There was no need for me to quote more. The Comte de Fombelle recited the entire sonnet and two more besides by the time we reached the elephant-gated drive to Tara. The mare, which had slowed on the road up the hill, picked up speed again, sensing home. Overgrown meadows, grazing horses, heavy trees passed in a blur and we clattered to a halt in a small stable yard, beside a shiny new carriage.

  “Aunt Lovett’s,” the Comte said cheerfully. “She despises all forms of public transportation, and always takes her own. You saw her horses in the field.”

  He jumped down and held a hand up to me. I don’t think he has a notion what a terrifying driver he is. “Let me just unhitch the mare, and then I’ll take you down. You don’t mind a bit of a walk, do you? It’s easier than driving all the way to the house, for then I should have to bring her back again, and here is no one about to take care of her, apart from Aunt’s coachman, but I don’t like to ask him. Besides, I’ve grown fond of this beast, and it doesn’t take a minute. He will help me put the trap away later.”

  Goodness, I thought as I watched him. I bet Mr. Darcy never sees to his own horse. That must be what it means to be of noble birth. They are above convention, and may do exactly as they please.

  The mare, released from her harness, trotted amiably into the meadow to join the other horses. Alaric beamed and offered me his arm. “Come!” he said. “And welcome to the most ridiculous house in England.”

  The driveway from the stables was short, winding through a tunnel of trees planted by Mr. John Shelton to protect it from the weather. “Except he didn’t realise,” the Comte de Fombelle explained, “that the wind would cause them to grow almost horizontal. They look quite mad, do not you think? Watch your footing, by the way. They have put out roots over the years, and it is easy to trip.”

  Together we walked below the gnarled canopy of trees, and even before I saw the house I had the strangest feeling that I was not at Brighton at all, or even in England, but in another land entirely, and that it was magic.

  The tunnel opened on to a turning circle, a patchy lawn bordered by roses and rosemary bushes and grown over with wild camomile, and beyond it – the most ridiculous house in England.

  Except that it isn’t.

  The house is heaven. The house is divine. The house is exactly where I would like to live, for ever and ever until I die.

  Mr. Shelton, the Comte de Fombelle explained, built the house in the style of a South Indian palace. Its name is Indian, too – “Tara” means “star”. It is white, and built on two storeys, with carved pillars all along the front, and cornices that look like they might once have been gold, and three towers topped by strange onion-shaped domes, also gold. Tall windows at the front are protected by faded blue shutters, which are actually French, and were added by the Comte’s mother to protect them from the constant whistling wind.

  “It is a little shabby,” the Comte said. “The house has been standing empty for so long, and has suffered from the weather. But we will soon put it right. When I was little, before we left for India, there were the most tremendous parties here. People used to come from miles around, and there was music and dancing, sometimes for days on end. Theo says we will do all that again, in time.”

  He pushed open the front door, which was made of heavy wood, as intricately carved as the pillars. Inside, every room was a different colour (downstairs, at least – I did not go upstairs). The vestibule is painted white and gold, and I glimpsed a sort of study on the left as we entered, red, with woodwork the same jade green as my earrings. The dining room is painted all over with a motif of peacock feathers, and the drawing room is the prettiest deep lilac, again with trims of gold, and all the stone floors are covered with Indian rugs and carpets, and everywhere there is the smell of incense, like church but nicer, and there is French lace at the windows, and screens painted with elephants and tigers.

  Just as I thought it could not get any better, the Comte flung open the drawing-room windows, and we stepped out on to a stone terrace.

  “The pièce de résistance!” he murmured, and there it was – the sea, at its bluest, most glorious, most extraordinary best, and we high above it like gulls, or eagles, or those boys who sit being lookouts at the top of the masts of tall, tall ships.

  “It isn’t bad,” Alaric said with a smile. “For a ridiculous house.”

  It was so quiet there, so still and strangely beautiful – the exact opposite of plain, loud, always-busy Longbourn. I could have stood there for ever.

  “Where is every
body?” I asked.

  “Theo is in her workroom,” he said. “And some neighbours came this morning for my aunt and Esther – they are gone shopping, I believe.”

  “And the servants?”

  “There is only Marie, our housekeeper, who was Maman’s maid, and came with her from France, and was with us in Madras, and has looked after us all our lives. Somewhere about are my aunt’s maid and horseman, but they will go with her when she leaves.”

  “And that is all? Apart from Marie, you live alone?”

  “Quite alone!” the Comte said cheerfully.

  I gazed down at the sea, and then back towards the house. What heaven! I thought. To have your very own palace, and to live alone with no one to boss or nag or scold you . . .

  “Come!” The Comte led me away from the terrace, down a narrow winding path bordered on either side with lavender, ending in a sheltered courtyard in which stood a miniature replica of Tara, colonnades and all.

  “The summer house,” the Comte announced. “Originally built as a folly for my mother, now taken over by Theo as a workroom. Ah, Patch has heard us – I can hear his barking.”

  He pushed open a wooden door as elaborately carved as that of the main house, and the little dog shot out, yapping and growling and leaping about us. The Comte gestured for me to enter, then followed me in with the dog in his arms furiously wriggling and licking his face.

  Inside, the summer house consisted of only one plain room. None of the colours here like those of the big house, no rugs on the floor, no decorations or baubles. White walls and a stone floor swept clean, and a broom in the corner to ensure it remained so. A fireplace equally pristine, the only furniture a long table and two straight-backed chairs. But standing by the tall low windows, two dressmaker’s manikins, the one swathed in cerulean-blue muslin pinned with swatches of crimson stuff, the other sporting a bodice of the same green-and-white stripes as the Comtesse’s dress from the other day, with the lady herself standing before it, carefully pinning orange piping about the ruched sleeves.

  She glanced up as we entered. Today she wore a severe dress of navy blue, with a white fichu, beneath a calico apron, and spectacles perched precariously on the end of her nose. (“Her dressmaking outfit,” the Comte whispered. “And the spectacles are purely for show.”)

  “What do you think of this orange?” she asked by way of greeting. “I like bold patterns and colours, but I don’t think it is quite right.”

  I did not know what to say, but I don’t think she expected an answer.

  Her workroom was like a treasure cave. Bolts of cloth such as I have never seen lay stacked on shelves built into the alcoves by the fireplace – plain muslins the colours of precious jewels, checked cottons, striped satins and silks, all brought over from India. On the table were several wooden trays inlaid with mother-of-pearl on which, neatly arranged, lay pins and needles, thimbles and scissors, and all the tools of the dressmaker’s trade, and a great pile of La Belle Assemblée (infinitely more appealing than my library books). A giant board leaned against a wall, to which were pinned a multitude of drawings, quite as good as any you see in the fashion periodicals, but outlandish and exciting, too, using the patterns and fabrics from her collection – evening gowns and walking dresses, short jackets, long coats, clothes for children, for men, for women.

  “All hers,” Alaric said with a proud look.

  I crossed the room to examine them.

  “This one.” I pointed at a drawing of a three-quarter-length pelisse, a sprigged brown-and-green oak-leaf motif, with a lining of leopard fur. “This is the one I like the best.”

  It is quite hard to describe the Comtesse de Fombelle looking pleased. It involves a sort of pursing of the lips, which makes most people look pinched, but in her I think it is an attempt to disguise a smile. She said that it was her favourite, too, but that she could not make it yet, on account of not having any leopard fur.

  “One day!” she said. “Now, what sort of dress would you like?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That is why you are here, is it not? For me to make you a dress?”

  “Why yes, of course. That is to say . . .” Was it? Had I agreed to her making me a dress? I could not remember, but did not want to offend. And if I did agree, was I supposed to pay her? How much? What with the parasol and ostrich feather and pantaloons, my small allowance from Mamma is already severely depleted.

  The Comtesse was frowning as her brother whispered in her ear. “Oh, very well,” I heard her say, and then she turned towards me.

  “My dear Miss Bennet, I should like to make you a gift of a dress. No, no, do not thank me. I am making one for my cousin as well. The first dress ball of the season is on the sixteenth of July, and it is a terribly grand affair. Dressed by me, you shall be the most elegant, exquisite creatures in the room. I shall make you look like a princess. No, a queen! There, Alaric! Was not that prettily expressed?”

  She glared at her brother. I had the feeling the offer to make me a dress for nothing came from him. A part of me felt mortified, knowing that he had guessed me to be short of funds, and wanted to refuse. Another part of me thought, well, a new dress!

  “Quite prettily.” Alaric smiled. “Though you have some distance to go before you are truly polite. And I do not believe the offer to be entirely devoid of interest, for Miss Bennet will be an excellent advertisement for your business.”

  “She shall, shall she not? Look at her, Al! Tall, and that excellent, robust English complexion, that firm bosom, and those strong shoulders . . . She is the exact opposite of Esther.”

  I blushed. The Comtesse grabbed a measuring tape. “Stand still while I measure you,” she ordered.

  But the Comte took the tape out of her hands. “Another day, Theo. I believe we invited Miss Bennet for luncheon. If she agrees to your proposition, I shall fetch her from town again another day. Or you could go to her, you know. I believe that is also how these things are done.”

  His sister arched her eyebrows at me. “Well?” she said. “You have not said a word. Shall I make you a dress?”

  “Yes, please,” I cried. “And I would far sooner come back here. When should I return?”

  The Comtesse waved a vague but gracious hand and said, “Whenever you wish.”

  Alaric proclaimed himself delighted, and we repaired to the main house for luncheon, where to my relief there was no need to discuss literature or indeed anything else, for the Comtesse dominated the table entirely with her talk of clothes. The Comte told me on the drive home that she plans to make a profession of her dressmaking. I can’t think why. A profession sounds like monstrous hard work, and for what? But I am not complaining. After all, I am to have a dress made for me by a countess!

  Thursday, 2nd July

  A whole week has passed, in which nothing has happened. Whenever you wish, the Comtesse said – but how was I to get there? She didn’t offer to send the trap for me, and I can’t very well write and ask. A hackney all the way out there would be too expensive, and I refuse to ask Harriet for help. She would only want to come too and take everything over. I hoped I might see the Comtesse at the beach, but she has not come at all. It has been extremely vexing. But then this morning Wickham called, as Harriet and I were changing in our rooms after returning from our bathe.

  Harriet, whose hair becomes uncontrollably frizzy after she has been in the sea, said that she could not possibly show herself in such a state, and I should go down and entertain him alone.

  “I came to see how you were,” he said as I entered the room. “I heard you were afflicted by a sudden love of reading.”

  “Very funny,” I said, and would have ignored him, when it dawned on me how he could help.

  “Do you still have Denny’s curricle?” I asked.

  “I do,” he replied. “Poor Denny just keeps on losing.”

  “Harriet!” I shouted up the stairs. “Wickham is going to accompany me to Munro’s to look at their new gloves.”


  I pushed him out of the house before she could come down.

  “Gloves?” Wickham queried.

  “It’s all I could think of. I actually need you to drive me to Tara. They have invited me,” I could not resist adding.

  Suddenly, Wickham looked interested. “So the spa plan worked, did it? Well done, Lydia! I am excessively impressed. How did you do it?”

  “I don’t think I should go into details,” I said primly.

  Wickham grinned. “I don’t suppose the reading disease has anything to do with this new friendship?”

  “Oh, you are impossible!”

  We had arrived at the library. I dropped his arm and we stood facing each other, I annoyed, he curious.

  “Very well.” He smiled. “I will take you.”

  “Thank you!”

  He strolled away to fetch the curricle from the stables where Denny keeps it. I sat on a bench outside the library to wait. It was very pleasant to sit in the sun watching people come and go, but as Wickham returned I was struck by a terrible thought.

  “Will my dress do?” I asked. I was wearing my green spotted muslin. “It is just an old thing – I did not think, when I changed after bathing, that I would be going to Tara.”

  Wickham looked me slowly up and down. “You’ll do,” he said, and I had to make a great fuss of climbing into the curricle so he would not see me blush. He is such an irritating man! I asked him to leave me at the elephant gate, and he laughed at me. “I understand. Your old friends do not suit your new high-flown connections!”

  “Oh, go away!”

  It took ages to walk to Tara from the road. I was hot and thirsty by the time I reached the house, but there was nobody about. Too late, I realised the folly of rushing out here without a proper appointment, or knowing how I should return! But the front door swung open when I pushed it, and so I tiptoed in. I walked through the white-and-gold hall with its black-and-white floor tiles, and into the lilac drawing room. It was empty. I crossed to look at the view from the window, then turned to the pianoforte, which was open, with a stack of sheet music and a bowl of fresh flowers on top. Suddenly, I wished more than anything that I knew how to play. Why did I never pursue lessons, like Lizzy and Mary? Lizzy is right – I am idle. I fingered a key, then another, and another. In my head, more notes poured out, rushing one after the other to become great concertos. A room of enraptured spectators sat upon rows of chairs as I played. The Comte de Fombelle stood at the back, smiling at me . . . There used to be such parties here . . .