Lydia

by Natasha Farrant

  I felt very proud of myself for being so noble, but this morning there was a knock on the door, and the Comtesse de Fombelle stood on our step in her green dress and yellow jacket wearing a gentleman’s top hat adorned with a matching swathe of canary gauze. Harriet’s jaw dropped so far it practically nestled in her cleavage.

  “Er . . . this is the Comtesse de Fombelle,” I said. “We met, um, at the spa. Comtesse, this is Mrs. Forster.”

  “Delighted, delighted!” Harriet gushed, obviously torn between admiration of a title and astonishment at that title’s outfit. “What an . . . interesting hat!”

  “Thank you. It is my brother’s. What a . . . charming cottage.” The Comtesse quickly ran out of small talk. “I am come to take Miss Bennet for a drive,” she declared.

  “A drive!” Harriet is become so entirely transparent to me now, I could tell what she was thinking. A drive! With a countess! What an honour! What reflected glory upon me! But how does Lydia know her? Why should not I go, too? And how does she make emerald and canary look so stylish, and could I carry off a top hat?

  The Comtesse – who may or may not also be a mind reader – did not extend her invitation, but said we had to leave now.

  “I will fetch my coat and hat,” I said.

  “We may bathe,” she whispered, and I ran from the room to hide my grin.

  She does like me! That was all I could think. She likes me!

  She was waiting for me outside, in the small black trap.

  “I trust you have no objection to being driven by a woman, Miss Bennet?”

  “I do not!”

  “Then step aboard, and let us go!”

  Theo (that is how I think of her, though I daren’t call her so to her face) drives better than Alaric, but the journey was not so comfortable as with her brother. She did not declaim poetry while the mare meandered along the verges, and I knew better than to try to impress her. We neither of us spoke much until we passed the entrance to Tara, when I asked where we were going.

  “You will see!” she cried. Suddenly, she was in great high spirits. She clicked her tongue, and the mare broke into a brisk trot.

  We stopped at the very cove I had looked at with Wickham, the one with the sparkling sapphire water. Theo climbed down from the trap, tied the mare to a tree, and signalled for me to follow her down a narrow path to the beach.

  “One of the first rules of swimming in open water, Miss Bennet,” she explained. “You may not undertake it alone. Alaric refuses to swim in this country because he says the water is too cold, and Esther, bless her, is too much of a goose. But my brother was sure you would be game. Are you?”

  “Indeed I am!” I shouted, swallowing my fear.

  “How I do detest those absurd bathing machines!” she continued. “And yet I must swim! You are about to taste a little bit of paradise, Miss Bennet. And please don’t think that it is improper, for the road is hardly used, and anyhow you can barely see the beach unless you come right up to the edge of the cliff.”

  The day was warm, the tide low. We changed into our shifts out in the open, with no fuss or jolting about, and the wind on my bare skin felt delicious.

  “Are you afraid?” she asked as we walked down to the water.

  “I am never afraid,” I lied, even though my heart was thumping at the sight of all that open water. Swimming unassisted in the open sea! Janet never prepared me for this!

  We picked our way over dry stones and pebbles. The beach turned to fine shingle at the water’s edge, and I gasped as the cold water lapped my toes. Going into the water little by little is very different from jumping off the steps of a bathing machine. It is much more difficult and yet at the same time infinitely more delicious.

  “I am a very new swimmer,” it finally occurred to me to inform her.

  The Comtesse said it did not matter.

  “What you must do,” she said as we stood up to our knees in the sea, with our arms spread out to the sides, and our hands beating the water, “is wait for a good-sized wave and dive straight underneath it just as it begins to break.”

  “I am rather new to diving, too,” I admitted.

  A wave broke. “Just watch me!” she shouted, and plunged beneath it.

  She re-emerged beyond the breaking waves and began to swim parallel to the beach while I splashed about in the shallows. At first, I only jumped over the smaller waves, or fell backwards into the frothing foam. Then a larger wave knocked me off my feet. For a few terrifying seconds, I flailed about in tumbling water, until I remembered Janet’s instructions and stamped my foot on the seabed. I shot back to the surface, realising to my surprise that the water came only as high as my thighs. From then on there was no stopping me, and I threw myself into the waves with abandon. I even taught myself to dive beneath them, as Theo had, and she was right – it was paradise.

  The Comtesse returned from her swim, and we lay side by side at the water’s edge. The wind raised goose pimples all over my body as it blew against my wet shift, and the sun burned my face and arms and legs, and the sea dug grooves and channels all about my body as it rushed in and out around me. I tipped my head back so that it rested in the sand, and stared at the gulls circling in the cloudless sky, and in my head I laughed and laughed and laughed, because this was me, on a beach with a countess a million miles from Meryton.

  When we grew too cold, we left the water and lay upon the hot stones to dry.

  “I would love to swim like you,” I said with a sigh.

  “Mr. Lovett – our stepfather, you know, and Esther’s uncle – believes that every person should know how to swim. It was he who taught us. There are miles of beaches in India. We used to ride out with him and Maman along the sand, and bathe wherever he deemed it safe.”

  “He sounds wonderful,” I exclaimed.

  “He has his moments,” she said.

  “I nearly drowned once, trying to swim in our stream. A farmhand rescued me and brought me home, and my father hit me.”

  “My stepfather struck me, too,” Theo said thoughtfully. “I found a snake in our garden – beautiful, patterned, with a hooded head. It was a cobra, and it was dead – but my brother did not know. He ran crying to Mr. Shelton, thinking that I would die, and Mr. Shelton hurled the snake into the bushes and smacked me.”

  She rubbed her cheek as she spoke, possibly where Mr. Shelton had struck her. She was lying on her side, and her shift had ridden up, showing off her long bare legs, and she had raked her fingers through her hair and spread it about her shoulders to dry.

  Lying there next to her felt like being with one of my sisters.

  “We do what we must for the people we love, even if we hurt them,” she said. “I think, Miss Bennet, that your father did not beat you because you tried to swim. I think he beat you because you nearly drowned, and he could not bear to lose you.”

  It was a remarkable thought. I pondered it for a while in silence.

  “May I ask you a question?” I said at last.

  “That rather depends on the question.”

  “Why do you talk of wanting a profession?”

  She was silent, too, then sighed, and began to pull her dress on straight over her shift. I dressed, too, worried that I had offended her, but eventually she spoke.

  “When we came over from France,” she said, “we had nothing. Our home was confiscated, our father was dead, our mother was able to smuggle only a few pieces of jewellery she sold for a pittance when we arrived, barely enough to rent a small cottage. So she worked. She was a talented seamstress – she taught me everything I know – and she took in sewing. She began to work for old Mr. Shelton – my stepfather’s father, who was a tailor. I used to watch her as she sewed. I saw how her neck hurt from continually bending over, how tired her eyes were from working in dim light, how her head ached, but I saw, too, how clever she was, and how much better than he, though she was never credited for her work, and how he grew rich while we remained poor. Those were hard times, Miss Bennet. Exiled,
bereaved, with no money and no future . . .”

  “But then she met Mr. John Shelton.”

  “Indeed. My stepfather met her when he returned from India, and she came to his father’s shop to deliver a dress. He is . . . he is a passionate man, given to grand gestures. He fell violently in love with my mother and married her within six weeks of their meeting. And so we were elevated out of poverty, and into a new life. But even as a girl, I made myself two promises.”

  “What were they?”

  “I promised myself that we would never be poor again, and that one day, I would show the world that a woman can be as good in business as any man. I don’t mean to be just a seamstress, Miss Bennet. I intend my drawings to be published, and to become a person of influence.”

  We had been walking up from the cove as she spoke, and now stood on top of the cliff. Theo frowned as she looked back down at the beach.

  “Alaric is three years younger than me – too young to remember any of this. He has a romantic notion that we were happy in our poverty. He is more carefree than I. He believes that life will always come out well, but he is not a fighter, like me. It falls upon me to protect him. Do you understand?”

  I did not, but I nodded anyway, and she appeared satisfied. I had hoped that we would stop at Tara on the way home, but she said that Alaric was not well, and could not receive visitors. She set me down again near the library.

  “Thank you for accompanying me today, Miss Bennet,” she said. “I have not enjoyed such a swim for a long time, and I was impressed by your prowess in the water.”

  “I was rather impressed myself,” I admitted.

  She drove away, calling out that we would meet again soon, and I watched her go, warm with the feeling that, contrary to all early indications, the Comtesse Théodorine de Fombelle might actually like me. The way she lay there on the beach – as easy and natural as if she had been my sister! The confidences we shared! I have never had a friend like her.

  It was only once she had gone and I had returned to our lodgings, where Harriet told me somewhat grumpily Wickham had called again while I was out, that I thought again about Esther Lovett and my promise to him.

  How can I be close to Alaric and Theo if I am betraying them behind their backs by helping Wickham meet Miss Lovett? And yet how can they know the truth, when I have lied to them so convincingly? This is my chance – my one chance. And it isn’t so very much to ask, is it? An introduction?

  Wickham is Wickham – he will break promises, and he will do whatever it takes to advance himself, and he will not give up.

  If I don’t do it, somebody else will.

  Longbourn,

  Wednesday, 8th July

  Dear Lydia,

  How happy your last letter made us! We are so thrilled for you, my pet! To think, that you should have a dress made for you by French nobility! Infinitely preferable, I am sure, to having a dress made by an English lady, because in fashion the French, for all their faults, are still superior to us, I think, and your aunt Philips agrees. And to think you are so very friendly with them! I am not surprised. With her good looks and amiable nature, my Lydia makes friends wherever she goes! You must let us know, dear, if there is anything at all you need. I am sure you are being a credit to your family.

  Send my regards to Mrs. Forster, and to the colonel, and Denny and Carter and dear Wickham. How lonely we are without them! And now Lizzy is gone away with your aunt and uncle. She was to go to the Lakes but your uncle must return to town earlier than planned, and so they are gone into Derbyshire, and the house is very empty.

  Ever your loving

  Mamma

  Thursday, 9th July

  “There is to be a public reading tomorrow afternoon,” Wickham told me the Sunday after our walk. “It will take place at the library. The eminent novelist Mrs. Radcliffe is to come and read from her books. I have it from Mrs. Lovett’s maid that Miss Lovett is an ardent admirer – Udolpho is her favourite book, and it is a rare treat, for Mrs. Radcliffe rarely appears in public. The entire Tara party will be attending, with the possible exception of the count, who is being kept home by his sister on account of a cold. You and I shall also attend, though separately. You will arrive early, and find a way to sit with your new friends. At some point in the evening’s proceedings, I shall contrive to cross your path. You shall return my greeting, and, as is only right and proper, you will introduce me to Miss Lovett. That is all I ask.”

  “The Comte de Fombelle is still ill? I hope it is nothing serious!” How awful, if his illness should prevent me from returning to Tara!

  “Lydia!” I forced my attention back to Wickham. “You do remember our arrangement, don’t you?”

  “You will tell the Comte de Fombelle I have been lying,” I grumbled. “Yes, I remember, and I hate you.”

  Of all the books the librarian gave me to read, Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho is the only one that is actually readable – all castles and ghosts and Italian brigands. I was a little surprised that Esther should like it so much too, but as we approached the library on Monday it seemed that the whole of Brighton shared her admiration for its author, because by the time I arrived with Harriet and Mrs. Conway, the library was almost as crowded as the theatre had been, with seats laid out in rows before a small platform, on which stood a small table and chair. I glanced anxiously about me. Wickham was already there, standing where he could survey proceedings from the back of the room.

  Even then, I told myself I would not do as he asked. I would not sit with the party from Tara, and I would not introduce him. They entered. Mrs. Lovett was dressed as usual like Mamma, in an old-fashioned dress and fichu, Esther Lovett in washed-out lavender, the Comtesse in the cerulean-blue muslin I had seen in progress in her workroom, with red piping about her short military jacket, a ruff of lace at her throat, and a blue hat with a black veil, piled high with cherries, netting, and a small stuffed bird.

  “Goodness,” Harriet tittered. “How extraordinary your countess looks, Lydia.”

  “Is she a countess?” Mrs. Conway peered through her lorgnette. “She looks more like a music-hall singer.”

  “I think she’s perfectly splendid,” I retorted.

  “She is making Lydia a dress,” Harriet confided.

  “Making Lydia a dress!” exclaimed Mrs. Conway. “How very droll! I do hope, Lydia, she shall exercise some reserve when it comes to dressing you. It is all very well drawing attention to herself if she wants to, but quite another to expose young ladies . . .”

  “Will you excuse me?”

  I could not stay with them a moment longer, but made my way through the crowd to the Comtesse and her party. For all their poisonous gossip, I did not miss the jealous look that passed between Harriet and her friend when the Comtesse and Miss Lovett indicated an empty seat beside them.

  Maybe I would sit with them, then.

  But I would not introduce Wickham.

  The librarian took to the stage, whiskers twitching, spectacles gleaming, his whole body quivering with excitement. I remembered how warmly he had spoken of Mrs. Radcliffe at our first meeting, and forgot my worries for a moment in feeling pleased for him. His introduction over, he stepped aside for the lady herself to take her place. The room burst into spontaneous, rapturous applause, and I must confess, for the duration of the reading, I was myself quite entranced. She is not at all as I imagine a bookish person to be. She is very small and pretty and well dressed, and her voice as she read was warm, and her story was thrilling – infinitely better than Shakespeare or Saint Augustine. If books were all like hers, I would read much more. The reading finished. Immediately, spectators leaped from their seats to form a queue before Mrs. Radcliffe’s table. “What are they doing?” I asked Miss Lovett, who had also leaped to her feet.

  “It is a signing queue,” she responded. “They are come to ask her to sign her books. Look, I have brought my own copy of Udolpho, which I take everywhere. And I mean to buy a copy of The Italian, and have he
r sign that for me, too. But oh! Look how long the purchasing queue is! They shall be all gone if we do not hurry.”

  And although it pains me to write it, Wickham really is something of a genius. He arrived, as I knew he would, and I introduced him, as I knew I would have to. Theo and Mrs. Lovett curtsied very correctly. Miss Lovett blushed to the roots of her hair and tripped over her feet. And then, perceiving her distress at the length of the purchasing queue . . .

  “I have myself acquired two copies of her books,” Wickham said, producing them from his coat pocket, one of them being The Italian. “Perhaps the young ladies would do me the honour of accepting them?”

  The young ladies did. Theo took hers like a queen accepting homage. I thought Miss Lovett might die of suffocation.

  They insisted on reimbursing him before rushing off to have the books signed. He would not hear of it. Any friend of Miss Lydia is a friend of mine – but how can we repay you? – if you insist, will you do me the honour of allowing me to buy you a cup of coffee as well . . .

  Wickham! Buying two books and coffee! He must have been very lucky at cards.

  Esther Lovett has become very friendly with me since that afternoon. She sought me out the following morning after my bathe, and insisted on drinking chocolate with me. The day after that, she came to the Steine with her mother in the evening, and took tea with us at the Castle Inn, and today she suggested we go shopping. Each time, Wickham contrives to be near. I suspect him of spending yet more of his ill-gained money on this affair, and bribing both Sally and Mrs. Lovett’s maid for information as to Esther’s movements. He never lingers – a cheery good morning, a brief exchange of pleasantries, and he is on his way again, but it is enough each time to send Miss Lovett into paroxysms of blushing. I do not like it one little bit – either for Esther’s sake or for mine, for if he ruins her, they will surely remember that it was I who introduced them! All my chances will be dashed.

  I have not seen the Comte and Comtesse again, because Alaric’s cold has retained him at Tara all week, and his sister has stayed behind to nurse him. I have written a note, expressing my hope that he should recover soon, and received a reply today. Theo writes that his health is improving, she is ready for my second fitting, and the trap will come for me tomorrow.