Lydia

by Natasha Farrant

  I am not going to think about Wickham now.

  Friday, 10th July

  Theo sent Mrs. Lovett’s coachman with the trap. He set me down by the stables again, and I ran through the tunnel of trees to the house. As usual, it was quiet. I skipped through the hall, then remembered Mrs. Lovett’s disapproval the last time she found me here, and walked more decorously through the drawing room in case she should see me.

  Alaric was sitting on the terrace in an easy chair, a blanket tucked about his legs and a book upon his lap. He looked up as I approached and beamed.

  “Miss Bennet! I did not know that you were coming today.”

  “I am come for a fitting. I was on my way down to the summer house. But you are still not well?”

  “Oh, it was only a little cold, but Theo fusses and I indulge her by doing exactly as she orders. Have you seen your dress?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure it will be beautiful.”

  “Oh, it will! Theo is very clever.”

  I smiled and sat down beside him. “You are very proud of your sister.”

  “She is everything in the world to me, and we have promised always to take care of each other. But I believe Esther is down there now – will you run in and interrupt them, or will you sit with me? I hope that you will choose the latter, because it has been vastly lonely up here these last few days, and I have missed having company.”

  He blushed a little as he said that. I pretended not to notice, but my heart beat a little faster.

  “Shall I ask for tea?” He did not wait for my answer, but rose from his easy chair and stepped back into the house. I heard him calling out orders in French.

  It is a lovely language. I told myself I should like to learn it one day, but that was before . . . My gaze fell upon his book, lying on the floor. It was written in a strange script I could not read.

  “What language is that?” I asked, when Alaric came back.

  “This?” He picked up the book and handed it to me. “It is Sanskrit.”

  “Oh, of course it is, to be sure!” I blurted.

  Alaric looked at me curiously – what could I say?

  “I have studied it a little.” Even as I spoke, my conscience screamed at me to stop. “Though I have forgotten most of it,” I added hurriedly. “Tell me about India! Are you dreadfully homesick for it?”

  It is exactly the right thing to do with Alaric – ask him a question when you want to divert attention. He launched immediately into an enthusiastic description.

  “India is all colour,” he said, sweeping his arms about wildly to indicate the flowers in the Tara garden, in case I should not understand what colour was. “It is like all of Theo’s silks and cottons, and blazing skies such as you never see in England, not even on the hottest day in summer. I miss those colours more than I can say, almost more than the people we left behind. You know, we are so isolated here, but it was not the case in India. We had so many friends there . . . And I miss – oh, the vastness of it. The sense you get with every dawn that the whole world is waking up with you, the epic myths about heroes and gods, the hills that turn blue in the afternoon and seem to go on for ever. You could spend a lifetime in India and only scratch the surface of its secrets.”

  He stopped, and gazed at me earnestly. “Do you understand?”

  “It sounds wonderful,” I said politely.

  “Tell her about the other things as well.” Theo had arrived without either of us noticing, and her clear voice made me jump. I looked up from my seat, shading my eyes to see her, but the sun was too bright and I could not read her face. “Tell her about the poverty, and the disease, the greed and ambition and injustice.”

  “If I lived in India,” Alaric interrupted, “I would live high in the hills, and build a tea plantation.”

  “Goodness!” I said. “Tea!”

  “And I have very clear ideas of how I would run it. My plantation would be a fair place, with decent wages for all the workers, and proper housing for their families. I have drawn plans for it. I can show you, if you are interested.”

  “If you lived in India, you would die,” Theo snapped. “Just like Maman did. Miss Bennet, I am ready for you in the workroom.”

  I cannot lie, I’m afraid. I found my gown disappointingly plain (though no doubt Mrs. Conway would approve). Theo had made a calico of the basic pattern: the bodice is fitted and structured, the sleeves little more than wide straps that lie flat upon the shoulders, the skirt stiff and straight. She busied herself about me for half an hour, frowning in concentration, her small white teeth clamped on to her lower lip making her look vaguely like Napoleon on the prowl, and she seemed so cross that I did not dare say a word until she spoke.

  “Of course it will fall better in muslin,” she said, as I slipped back into my own clothes. “And I have not yet decided on adornments.”

  “But there will be adornments?”

  “Yes,” she said bad-temperedly. “There will be adornments. Come back on Monday for the next fitting.”

  Alaric and Miss Lovett were talking together on the terrace as I left, the book of Sanskrit open between them. Alaric called out to me in a language I did not understand – was it French, or Sanskrit, or yet another language I do not know? I did not stop to speak to them, but asked instead to be taken straight back to town, and as soon as I arrived I ran straight to the library.

  I have to learn Sanskrit by Monday.

  Sunday, 12th July

  It is impossible to keep up with Alaric. One day it is Rousseau and Shakespeare, the next it is this impossible language called Sanskrit. How am I supposed to make sense of it? It looks like nothing I have ever seen in my life before. What on earth possessed people to write their language in shapes and squiggles that nobody can understand, when we have a perfectly good alphabet they can use? The librarian nearly fainted when I told him I needed a book for learning Sanskrit, and yet he was very proud of himself for being able to produce it. “It is from my own private collection,” he told me. “Generally speaking, there is not much call for this sort of work in Brighton.” He tried to teach me a little of the alphabet, but ten minutes was enough to give me a blinding headache. I brought it home with me to read in bed, together with a travelogue written by a gentleman who travelled all over India, which the librarian described as “very accessible and amusing”.

  If I show sufficient knowledge of India, perhaps Alaric will not notice my total lack of understanding of its language – or rather, of one of its languages. The librarian tells me they have hundreds! Hundreds! But my mind is so overwrought that nothing will stick. All I have retained so far from my reading is that in India there are fruit like bananas and coconuts and mangoes and guavas, and elephants that go into temples, which are considerably more lively than churches, and birds that repeat words that are spoken to them. Is this enough? Do I have to know the history of everything? And oh God, WHY did I say I once studied Sanskrit? Lizzy would never have said such a thing. And WHY did I never learn French?

  And I have not read one line of Macbeth . . .

  I have not been outside for days, and Harriet is worried.

  “Come to the beach with me this morning,” she coaxed.

  “I have to study!”

  She enlisted Wickham’s help, but I refused to see him. “I saw your friends yesterday,” he said through the door of my bedroom. “The Comte de Fombelle was on the Steine with his sister and cousin. Miss Lovett introduced us, and he specifically asked after you.”

  “I don’t care! I can’t see them! Go away! I’m busy!”

  “Lydia, don’t you think you are overdoing this?”

  “GO AWAY!”

  Oh God, the boredom! But I must go to Tara tomorrow for the next fitting. I can do this. I can do this. I CAN DO THIS!

  Monday, 13th July

  Again it was Mrs. Lovett’s coachman who, after running some errands in town, fetched me from Brighton in the trap. I felt ill as we drove up to Tara, my head bursting with all I had recently
read, my lips desperately trying to form the few words of Sanskrit the librarian had endeavoured to teach me. I was going to be discovered . . . Alaric would know me for a liar . . . My new life as the friend of a count was over for ever . . .

  The day was dull and grey, the light dim. The Indian palace on the cliff looked forlorn without bright sunshine, and when I went inside I found that the general mood was no better. Esther Lovett sat weeping upon the sofa in the drawing room, with her mother on one side and Theo on the other. They appeared to be scolding her, but ceased as soon as I appeared. Even Patch seemed dejected – he lay with his head on Esther’s lap, and greeted me with a half-hearted yip instead of his usual bark.

  This was Wickham’s doing, I was sure of it.

  “Miss Bennet!”

  “I am come for my fitting,” I said. “You sent the trap?”

  “To be sure.” Theo frowned. Esther Lovett continued to weep. “Miss Bennet . . . Oh, Esther, dear, do stop . . . Miss Bennet, you catch us at a bad time . . .”

  “Esther, come for a walk.” Mrs. Lovett rose, and pulled her daughter to her feet. “Théodorine, dear . . .”

  Theo looked at me – hesitated – looked at Miss Lovett, and appeared to reach a decision. “I will accompany you,” she said. “Miss Bennet, please excuse me. I shan’t be long – half an hour at the most – if you go to my workroom, you will find the latest Belle Assemblée, with some very pretty new plates. Perhaps you would like . . .”

  “Of course.” I was astonished at her rudeness, but what else could I say? And then they were gone.

  I wandered down to the summer house, found the periodical, and was just settled at the worktable to read it (oh, the bliss of fashion plates after two days of Sanskrit!), when the door opened and Alaric peered in.

  “Is the coast clear?” he asked. “Is it safe?”

  “They have left for a walk.” I tried to smile, but my heart leaped with alarm at the sight of him. “But what was the meaning of all the commotion?”

  “It is poor Esther,” he said. “They will not tell me what exactly is going on. I know only that my aunt’s maid has been dismissed, and that Esther will not stop crying, and that my aunt is angry. I cannot think why. Esther is the very best sort of person, and I’m quite sure she has done nothing wrong, but now my aunt will not allow her to leave the house. And so . . .” He shrugged, and gestured vaguely in the direction of the path leading from the house to the cliffs, where Mrs. Lovett, her daughter and niece were presumably walking.

  “But how cold it is in here!” he said. “This terrible English weather! I have a small fire in my room upstairs – if you do not think it improper, shall we sit by it? I can show you my drawings, if you like – of the tea plantation, you know.”

  I nodded and followed, swallowing my apprehension. This was the moment, I was sure of it, when all my lies were to be uncovered and I would lose everything I had worked so hard to gain.

  In the attic Alaric went straight to his drawing table, pulled out some papers and began to talk, eyes shining as he explained. I tried to concentrate, but it was hard to understand. Outside, the sun had broken through the clouds, and I thought longingly of the sea.

  “So you see, with the right drainage, levels of hygiene and sanitation would be vastly improved,” Alaric finished, a little out of breath. “What do you think?”

  What did I think? Of hygiene and sanitation? Of his drawings? I had no idea! I had to change the subject.

  “Are you looking forward to the ball?” I blurted.

  “The ball?” He looked startled. “Lord, I hadn’t thought! I suppose . . . why, no!”

  “No!” This was inconceivable. “But it is a ball!”

  “The truth is, Miss Bennet, I am not a very good dancer.”

  “That is because you are so clever,” I told him. “You most likely think too hard about it. Dancing is something you must feel in your feet – indeed, in your whole body. Come, I will show you.”

  I seized his hand, and tried to pull him away from the table. He did not follow, but stared at me astonished.

  “Oh,” I faltered, dropping his hand. “You think me forward. I am so sorry. My sister Kitty and I – we practise all the time. I did not mean – that is, I had no thought of – I mean, I just thought, if you like – I could teach you to dance.”

  He was blushing, the deepest I have ever seen any man. I felt myself redden as well.

  “I am sorry,” I repeated. “It was silly, and I did not think, and I should not have . . .”

  “No!” he said, with such violence I started from surprise. “No,” he said more gently. “It was kind. And I should like to learn to dance.”

  He stepped towards me, and took both my hands in his. “I should like it very much.”

  It is not easy to dance without music with someone who does not know what he is doing. We started on a simple country dance, and at first Alaric fumbled. He took my hand at the wrong moment, stepped in when he should have waited, turned about when he should have stepped in. After our first clumsy attempts, I began to hum to encourage him. He picked up the tune and hummed it back. Slowly at first, and then faster, I led him up the room. Back down we came, promenading separately, weaving our way through imaginary dancers, and I was smiling so hard it hurt.

  This I am good at, I thought. With this I don’t need to pretend. And look at me! Dancing with a count!

  We ended where we had started, facing each other at the far window by his drawing table, our eyes locked and our breath quick and our right palms joined, and I thought, this is it! This is my future!

  “You see.” I smiled. “You can dance.”

  “That is because you are a good teacher,” he whispered.

  I dropped my hand and threw myself on to the sofa to hide my pleasure.

  “Lord!” I exclaimed. “No one has ever called me that before. How my sister Mary would laugh!”

  Alaric sat carefully in an armchair opposite me. “Why so?” he asked.

  “Oh!” I scoffed, without thinking. “Mary has little time for dancing, or any form of merriment. She is the most tiresome person in the world, forever learning and always at her books – oh God!”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth and stared at him, horrified. Then, unable to hold his gaze, I lowered my eyes to the floor.

  “Miss Bennet? Miss Bennet, what is wrong?”

  I sensed him move, and then he was sitting beside me. I buried my face in my hands.

  “I wanted to meet you!” I wailed. “All of you. You are so – different from anyone I ever saw or met before. But you are all so clever, and I am so stupid – no, don’t say I am not! I know I am – everyone says so. And then Saint Augustine . . . Mr. Collins . . . It was too good to be true! I promise I have been reading since I met you – incessantly, and quite the dullest books you can imagine. But until we met, I couldn’t care less about learning or reading. I don’t even know where India is – I have been trying to read about it, but I felt too stupid to ask the librarian to show me on his globe!”

  I cried then – actual proper tears. Alaric said nothing.

  It is over, I thought. He is disgusted with me. He will never speak to me again.

  Then – a tug on my hand. Alaric stood up, pulling me with him. And now it was he who led me across the room, around the furniture I had moved for our dance, until we were standing before his globe, which he slowly spun with his free hand.

  “There!” He placed my hand on a sort of misshaped diamond, wide across and pointy at the bottom, surrounded by sea.

  “There,” he repeated. “There is India.”

  Shaking a little, I traced it with my finger. “And where are we?” I asked.

  He spun the globe back. “Here,” he said. “These are the British Isles.”

  “But they are so small!” I stared, astonished. I walked around the table to look at India, at least twenty times the size of Great Britain. “Why, it is halfway across the world.”

  “It is six months away b
y boat.”

  He showed me the path a boat must take to sail from Southampton to Madras, where his stepfather still lives.

  “Six months!” I breathed. “I had no idea anything could be so far away!”

  He smiled and led me back towards the fire. I trembled again as I waited for him to speak.

  “You are actually a hopeless liar, you know,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “You have been twice inside this room and not once looked to see what volumes are upon the shelves. A true reader would not have done that – her eyes would be continually turning to the books. And since that first time I drove you to Tara, you have never once referred to another book – not even after I lent you Macbeth. It won’t do, Lydia. Lying is not something that can be done by halves. If you must lie, you have to lie to the end.”

  I was struggling to understand.

  “So . . . you don’t mind?” I stammered.

  “Mind? I couldn’t care less! Miss Bennet . . .” He blushed again. I held my breath, and stared again at the floor. “Miss Bennet, you must know how much I admire you.”

  “Admire me?” I gasped. “Even though I don’t read?”

  “Tremendously!” He was becoming himself again – talking, talking, talking! “Your energy, your laughter! The way you look at the world, like it is a grand adventure, just waiting for you . . . Miss Bennet, I . . .”

  He strode forward and took me in his arms.

  Here is what happens when a boy kisses you.

  There is a moment when time seems to stop, and the air goes very still between you, and it feels like you are being pulled together by an invisible force. He closes his eyes, but you keep yours open because you don’t want to miss a second of what is happening, and though he looks funny with his eyes shut – so concentrated, like my Gardiner cousins trying to remember their lessons – you don’t laugh, because he also looks so serious and a little like he is in pain, and the distance between you closes, and your noses bump, but then his lips are on yours, and they are a bit damp and his breath is heavy but it is – oh, it is the sweetest thing in the world.