“Who are you?” I jumped as a woman’s voice cut into my daydream. Mrs. Lovett stood in the doorway, regarding me with suspicion.
Mrs. Lovett dresses expensively, but you can tell that she is not French, nor a person of rank. There is something too fussy about her clothes that reminds me of Harriet.
I curtsied. “I am Lydia Bennet.”
“Are you a friend of my niece’s?”
“Not exactly . . . I am come about a dress.”
“Oh, goodness, that.” She exhaled sharply. I have the impression she is not much impressed by the Comtesse’s eccentric career notions.
“You are staying in town?”
“Yes, ma’am. With Colonel Forster, of the Derbyshire militia.”
“Oh, the militia.” She sniffed. I get the feeling she disapproves of them just as much as she does of her step-niece’s dressmaking. “Well, we must all stay somewhere. I’m afraid Théodorine and my daughter are not at home. They went out in the trap, quite unaccompanied. I don’t know what the world is coming to. And now I am going out, and cannot very well leave you alone. You had better return to Brighton with me, and come again tomorrow.”
“But I am very happy to wait . . .”
“I will look after Miss Bennet.” My heart leaped as the Comte de Fombelle appeared in the doorway, wearing a banyan over his trousers and shirt, a stick of charcoal in his hand. He looked marvellous – an Indian banyan is so much more stylish than an English dressing gown – but Mrs. Lovett frowned again, doubtless thinking his attire unsuitable. “She and I are old friends. Go to your engagement, dear Aunt, and I shall look after her as best I can until Theo and Esther return.”
Mrs. Lovett finally departed, after much protesting on her part about how improper it was to leave us together, and much assurance on the Comte’s that his sister and cousin would return shortly, that the housekeeper Marie was in the kitchen and that I would be very happy playing the pianoforte until his sister and cousin returned.
“Thank goodness for that,” he said with a smile as we heard the sound of the carriage departing. “Come, never mind the instrument. Let me show you my study. You’ll see that Theo isn’t the only one here with an empire.”
Goodness, how the Comte de Fombelle talks! My brain was bursting by the time we reached his study. We made slow progress getting there, because it is right at the top of the house and he kept stopping every few steps the better to tell his story, of how he and his sister and their mother first arrived in England after fleeing the Revolution, how they lived for a year in a tiny cottage because the revolutionaries had taken all their money as well as their castle in Normandy, how Mr. John Shelton had fallen in love with their maman at first sight because she was so good and beautiful, and married her, and brought them all to live here – it had seemed like a fairy-tale house to them, and although his sister had always adored the summer house, he had a special fondness for the attic room where he was taking me now.
“It feels like a fairy-tale house to me, too,” I told him.
He beamed, and said he was glad to hear it, and walked up a few more steps, then stopped again to tell how their stepfather grew homesick for India, “So off we went again, to the heat and dust, and it was even more wonderful than here,” but even so he never forgot the miniature Indian palace high on the cliff and the room at the top of the house, and when they had to leave India he told himself that he would go straight there and make it his own.
“And here it is!”
Finally, we had reached the top of the stairs, and stood upon a narrow landing. The Comte threw open a door, and I stepped into his study.
It is one long gallery, the length of the whole house, the cosiest place you can imagine, with a sofa and armchairs gathered about a fireplace, and a vast painting of an Indian palace above it, and a great collection of the strangest statues I ever saw upon the mantel, of people with eight arms and snake bodies and elephant heads. The outside wall was almost entirely hidden by prints of houses, both Indian and English, and at the far end of the room was an elevated table covered in papers and drawing materials, with rolls of paper stacked on shelves beside it.
“Architectural drawings,” the Comte explained. “Architecture is my passion – like dressmaking for Theo. I hope one day to make it my profession.”
I forced a smile, but inside my heart was faltering – for all the wall space that was not covered in drawings was taken up by books.
“Are you quite well?” Alaric asked.
I scarcely had the strength to answer – had he actually read them all?
The sound of footsteps on the stairs forced me to rally. A female voice called, “Al! Alaric! Are you up there?” The footsteps drew nearer, the door flew open, and the Comtesse de Fombelle burst into the room in her emerald silk beach dress, damp hair tumbling down her back, and her hemline quite white with salt.
“Miss Bennet!” She glanced sharply from me to her brother. “This is a surprise.”
“I came about the dress,” I said. “I’m sorry, I should have sent a note. A friend was driving out this way, and offered to bring me.”
“Well, then you had better come with me,” she replied. “My cousin Esther is downstairs. You can sit with her while I change.”
Esther Lovett is exactly the sort of person Lizzy would approve of. She is tremendously accomplished. She was playing something complicated on the piano when the Comtesse and I came down from the Comte’s study, she speaks French with the Comtesse, and one of her watercolours sits upon the mantelpiece. She has also read every single one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I know, because it was almost the first thing she said to me. “Alaric says you like Shakespeare. I am so glad. I have read every one of his sonnets.”
The Comtesse left us alone for some ten minutes, then swept back into the room in her navy-blue dressmaking outfit, and ushered us out to the summer house. “Since I am making Esther a dress for the ball as well, there is a lot to do,” she said, “and not a minute to lose.”
It is very impressive to watch her work, and a little terrifying. She frowned a great deal as she took my measurements, and demanded silence as she wrote them down, and then she rummaged through her stack of cloths and jabbed me several times as she pinned various samples to me. She would not let me choose the fabric for my dress. My heart settled on a luscious lavender silk, but she said that she would decide on everything, and please could I not move. And so I tried not to talk or fidget, and to stand as still and silent as possible, and imagined what it must be like to be a woman with a profession. Would there be magazine articles about her creations, such as we read in the fashion periodicals at home? Imagine perfect strangers talking about something you have made – not just in Meryton or Brighton, but farther afield – in London, or in Paris! I should like that, I think. Yes, I should like that very much.
Afterwards, over a simple lunch, the Comtesse interrogated me, much as her aunt had, without letting anyone else get a word in. Where did I come from? Where was I staying? Colonel Forster? The Derbyshire militia? What sort of people were they?
“Theo, for heaven’s sake,” her brother remonstrated. “Leave poor Miss Bennet alone. Esther, talk to her about books or plays or something. Theo should be forbidden from ever making conversation, if she is going to ask such dull questions.”
I saw what he was trying to do – stop his sister from haranguing me. It was kindly meant, but I wished he hadn’t, for if there was one thing worse than being interrogated by the Comtesse, surely it must be discussing literature with Miss Lovett. But Miss Lovett had unaccountably spilled her wine all over the tablecloth, and was covered in confusion. The Comte leaned forward to help her.
“Well, and are you fond of the theatre, Miss Bennet?” he asked as he dabbed away at the cloth with his table napkin.
“Monstrous fond!” I cried, wildly wondering what I should say next. “Why, I was lucky enough to go just the other day!”
“What was the play?”
I told him. I t
hought I saw the Comtesse smirk. I suppose The Weathercock is not refined enough for her, but luckily her brother is not so superior, and kept up a cheerful stream of chatter, first demanding details of the production and then not listening to my answers as he recounted his last visit to the theatre, in London, before coming to Brighton.
“I will lend it to you,” he said. “I have it upstairs. You can tell me what you think of it next time we meet.”
“Oh yes, do read it,” Theo said as he rushed away to fetch the book. “I’m sure we would all be fascinated to hear your thoughts.”
Was she laughing at me? Has she guessed? I was all confusion and embarrassment as Alaric re-entered the room, and I am quite sure everybody saw.
“You must not mind Theo,” Alaric assured me again as he drove me home. “Since our mother died, she has become somewhat authoritarian, but she means well.”
“I do not think she likes me very much.”
“Why, she is making you a dress! And not demanding payment for it – that is a great concession for her, you know. She says she will only do it for friends.”
“She is making it because you asked her to.”
He coloured slightly at that, and I did not pursue the conversation further, but I smiled to myself inside.
The Comtesse de Fombelle may not like me, but her brother does.
Harriet was annoyed again when I came home, and asked where I had been. “I went to the library after Munro’s,” I told her, waving Alaric’s book. “I was so engrossed, I did not see the time.” I think she believed me, and no wonder, with that great pile of books all over my floor. And now I have another book to read. Macbeth – more dreary Shakespeare! It sits on my bed, glaring at me. Oh dear, Alaric’s library! However much I try to read, I don’t suppose that I shall ever catch up. Well, I am not going to think about that now – or read any more books tonight. I will write a long letter to my sisters instead, and tell them about my new dress.
Friday, 3rd July
I was right to worry that Wickham has no intention of honouring the promise he made me on my birthday.
He called again just after breakfast. “You again!” Harriet said with a sniff. “If you are come to take Lydia for another of your drives, I shan’t allow it. And you are not to allow her to wander off to that library, either. She brought another book home yesterday!”
“Just a short walk by the sea,” Wickham said, and pushed me out of the cottage before Harriet could object.
It was lovely, at first. Wickham tucked my hand in his arm, and as we walked, he told me a long silly story about an argument between Carter and Pratt over a racing bet. He was so easy and amiable I thought how delightful it was to be taking a stroll on a sunny day with a handsome officer in a smart uniform, talking of this and that and knowing that all the disapproving looks we got concealed hearts absolutely green with envy. We turned right when we reached East Cliff and began to walk away from town. Gradually, the crowds thinned, and we were quite alone – and everything changed.
“Tell me, how was your visit yesterday?”
“Most excellent,” I said, and proceeded to tell him all about it.
“And so they are grown very fond of you, are they?”
“Monstrous fond!” I boasted.
“I wonder,” he said, “if you could introduce me to Miss Lovett.”
I gasped. I honestly felt as though he had slapped me.
“But you promised!” I stammered.
“What exactly did I promise?”
“That you would not . . .” I tried to remember. “That you would not pursue rich young women, or try to ruin them.”
“I have no intention of ruining Miss Lovett.”
“But you mean to pursue her.”
“I mean to marry her,” he corrected.
Wickham’s teeth are very pointed. I never noticed before today. Sometimes, when he smiles, they make him look exactly like a wolf.
“I hardly know her,” I said.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter! No one ever knows anyone in a place like Brighton, and yet everyone is bosom friends – people who wouldn’t be seen dead together in other circumstances!”
“And she is all wrong for you, Wickham! She is no fun at all, you know. She is polite and quiet and accomplished and . . .”
And she spills her wine at the mention of the Derbyshire militia.
I remembered the first time we saw her, at the card party at the Ship Assembly Rooms – the expression on her face as she gazed across at Wickham. Oh God – it was too late – she had already fallen! Esther Lovett, with her mild manners, and her mousy looks . . . If Wickham is a wolf, she is a lamb to the slaughter.
“You mustn’t,” I said. “And I won’t.”
Wickham said nothing – only waited.
“She is all wrong!” I repeated desperately. “She speaks French, and paints watercolours, and recites Shakespeare . . .”
“Ah,” he said. “Shakespeare.”
I knew then he would do something awful. I bit my lip, waiting to hear what it would be.
“I wonder,” Wickham said thoughtfully, “how the Comte and Comtesse de Fombelle would feel, knowing how their new friend has lied to secure their affections.”
“Lied?”
“The books, Lydia! Shakespeare, Saint Augustine . . .”
“How do you know what I’m reading?”
He smiled, pulled a coin from his pocket. Tossed it in the air, caught it, held it up so it glinted in the light.
“Maids talk.”
“You bribed Sally!”
“A useful ally,” he agreed. “So, Lydia. What do you say? What would your new friends think, if they knew your reading was all for show?”
At home at Longbourn, the farm boy has this way of catching rabbits. He knows where all the warrens are, and he blocks all the entrances off with thorns and brambles, all except one. Then he sits there by the one unblocked entrance with his gun and his terrier Mabel, and kills them as they come out. People tease him about how long he’s prepared to wait, and Hill even once bought him a ferret from a peddler, but he just says the rabbits always come out in the end, and you’ve just got to be prepared to wait.
I felt exactly like those rabbits today.
“I ask only for an introduction,” Wickham said.
“You don’t even know them,” I told him. “You couldn’t tell them. You wouldn’t.”
But I knew that he could, and would.
Longbourn,
July 2nd
Dear Lydia,
Mary says I have to write to you. She says she understands that I was friends with Harriet first and that you behaved very ill in making her invite you instead of me, but that I have to forgive you, just as Jesus forgave the Romans who nailed him to the Cross. If Jesus can forgive that, Mary says, I must be able to forgive you, but I bet if Jesus had wanted to go to Brighton, he would have. He would have walked right over the water from Galilee and had a lovely time, and I am sure it would have made all that came afterwards much easier to bear. I told Mary as much. “Explain to me why I should forgive her,” I said, “when she has stolen my friend and my happiness and is probably getting a husband as we speak.”
I am not very sure what it means, anyway, to forgive. If it means I hope you are enjoying yourself, I suppose I do. It would be an awful waste, for you to have been so nasty and selfish and not have a good time. Everyone else is vastly dull. Jane is still mooning over Mr. Bingley, and I don’t know what is come over Lizzy, but she also spends a monstrous amount of time drooping about and sighing. By the way, I wish you would buy me a parasol like the one you described. I should like mine to be a different colour from yours, though, so people do not say I have copied you. And no bows, please. I have an abhorrence of bows, ever since Maria started wearing them on everything, because her London cousin told her they were fashionable.
There, I have done it and shown Mary the letter. She says that it is not exactly what she had in mind, but that it is a start. Sh
e is in a foul temper because she is learning German and wants Father to send her to Heidelberg. She says, “If Lydia can go to Brighton to buy umbrellas, why can I not go to Heidelberg to improve my mind?” but he says who would accompany her and a woman may not travel alone, especially through France, with all those soldiers about. She says she is going to run away, but I do not believe her.
Your forgiving sister,
Kitty Bennet
P.S. I must say, you are very mysterious. What is this great secret you can’t tell me about? And are you actually in love with Wickham? Because you do write about him an awful lot. P.P.S. Hill says that all the she-cats for two miles around are pregnant. She says that it is all Napoleon’s fault, and that we should drown the kittens. Father says we should drown Napoleon, too.
Saturday, 4th July
For a moment, reading Kitty’s letter, I wished I could be home at Longbourn, where everything is boring but simple and there is little risk of finding yourself blackmailed by unprincipled pirate types you keep thinking are your friends but who turn out to be scoundrels.
I thought about them all night – Esther Lovett, the Comte, the Comtesse. It’s not true that I want to go home. More than anything, I want to be here, I mean there – at Tara, with them. But I could not do it. I would not do it. I would not expose Esther Lovett to Wickham, and if it meant Wickham exposing me to them, then so be it. I would not be a party to his scheming. He says he wants to marry her, but I know what that means. I dare say he wanted to marry Georgiana Darcy, too, but unlike him, I have principles.
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