“Lydia,” he whispered, as we broke away. “May I call you Lydia?”
“You may,” I replied.
“Lydia, please don’t ever change.”
He kissed me again. This time our noses did not collide, and his arms were just closing about me when there was a familiar clatter on the stairs outside, Theo calling out, “We are back! Alaric? Miss Bennet?” We sprang apart, Alaric tripping over a low table in his haste.
Theo pulled and prodded and jabbed me with needles this afternoon, but I could not focus on my fitting. She is pleased with the way the dress is coming along, but I cannot remember a single detail of it. Alaric kissed me! He doesn’t care about the books! He doesn’t want me to change! Ha! What would Lizzy say to that! He doesn’t think me idle and vain and ignorant! And as for Wickham and all his threats to unmask me – what are they now? The Comte Alaric de Fombelle-Aix-Jouvet admires me tremendously! He kissed me! Why, we are as good as engaged. Just wait until I tell my sisters!
Brighton,
Monday, 13th July
Dear Kitty,
Remember that I wrote to you about how a French comtesse was making me a dress? Well, I am become exceedingly close to her brother! We are monstrous fond of each other. Imagine me a countess, Kitty! Would not that be a hoot! We will live here in Brighton in his family home, though I should also like a house in London – that would be only right, I think, because Alaric will want to be near St. James’s. And we will find you a nice lord close by, so that we can be ladies together!
More soon!
Lydia (your almost-royal sister)
Tuesday, 14th July
I woke up laughing.
Alaric kissed me! He admires me! He must certainly love me . . .
The sun is back, and the sky is bright, bright blue, and I think that every bird in the world has come to Brighton to sing. Alaric sent word after breakfast that they would pick me up at three o’clock to drive to the Rookery at Preston Manor for tea – “for poor Esther must have an outing,” he wrote, “and Preston being some distance from town, my aunt has agreed to it.”
Alaric drove, with Theo beside him. I did not know how to greet him. A lady may not very well kiss a gentleman in public! I contented myself with a demure curtsy in response to his bow, but then as he helped me into the trap after Esther, I allowed my hand to linger in his, and he briefly squeezed it.
That was all, but it was thrilling. And then, over tea, he recited Shakespeare, but it didn’t feel dusty or boring, because he loves Shakespeare like I love Napoleon and dancing and running about. He lives it, and right there at the table, he actually beat his chest to demonstrate the violence of Romeo’s passion.
“But soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
“Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.”
“For heaven’s sake, Alaric, people are watching,” Theo said, and I had to turn away to hide my smile, because I knew those verses were just for me.
If I wrote Romeo and Juliet, I wouldn’t kill them at all. I would have them run away to a beautiful island where they would be free to dance and swim about all day, and eat peaches in the sun, and be incandescently happy in spite of their horrible families. I told Alaric as much and he thought it the funniest thing he had ever heard, and said what a shame Shakespeare was dead, or we could all go together to London and demand he incorporate my suggestions immediately.
London!
Oh, why does he not propose? This secrecy is delicious, but I cannot wait for the world to know . . .
When I am Lydia, the Comtesse de Fombelle, I will live at Tara in a room painted green and white and gold and eat sweet rolls every day for breakfast. And when the war is over, I will pack a trunk full of travelling clothes and Alaric and I will roam all over Europe – France and Greece and Spain. Perhaps we can find his family castle, the one that was stolen in the Revolution, and make them give it back. And we will go swimming in the Mediterranean Sea, and I will wear silk dresses to the beach, and play cricket with a dozen lacy parasols. I will ride about on a dear little donkey, and Napoleon shall have fish every day for supper.
Wednesday, 15th July
Sally knocked at my door this morning as I was dressing.
“Gentleman for you in the parlour, miss,” she told me, and my heart leaped. At last! I thought. Alaric has come to propose!
Harriet was not yet ready. I ran down, happy in the knowledge that we would be alone, yet despairing of the fact that we were in Market Street – I did not want a proposal here! I wanted it at Tara, or on a windswept beach. But oh, it did not matter! Soon, everyone would know . . . Alaric would write to Father . . . I would walk into the next ball with a sparkling ring on my finger . . .
I stopped at the foot of the stairs to assume my most modest expression, pushed open the door – Wickham, not Alaric, stood upon the hearth.
“A walk, young Lydia,” he said.
My disappointment was so great, I could not protest. I took my shawl and bonnet from the chair where I had left them yesterday, and followed him out of the house.
“I need you to deliver a message to Miss Lovett,” Wickham said as we set out towards the sea. “Now that the maid is gone.”
I frowned, remembering Esther, crying on the sofa . . . Goodness, I hadn’t given her a moment’s thought! “The maid was dismissed,” I said. “Was that because of you? What has happened?”
“Nothing has happened,” he said impatiently. “Nor is it going to, if I can’t see her.”
“But what of the maid . . .”
“The maid was giving me information, as you know. There was a note . . .”
“A note?”
“Oh, do not worry, my name was not on it. But it was found, and the whole situation blown out of all proportion . . .”
“Out of all proportion! What did you write, in this note?”
“I professed my ardent love for her, and asked her to meet me.”
“Love her! Meet you! Since when are you and Miss Lovett on such intimate terms? I admit you excelled yourself on your first meeting, but since then you have never said more than good morning to her, or exchanged pleasantries about the weather!”
“Our paths have crossed a great deal.”
“When? How was I not aware of this?”
“You were studying.”
Dimly, I recollected Wickham outside my bedroom door, exhorting me to stop reading – I saw the Comte de Fombelle last night . . . Miss Lovett introduced us . . .
“Goodness! You have been busy,” I said grimly. “And now you are found out again. You are making quite a habit of this. I wonder you have been so clumsy.”
He ignored me.
“I need you to give a message to Miss Lovett for me.”
“A message! But why would I do that?”
“Lydia, we have spoken of this.”
I felt very powerful, suddenly, when he said that. It was a new feeling, and I liked it.
“You are referring, I think, to your attempt to blackmail me?” I murmured. “Circumstances have altered. I find I am no longer at all afraid of you.”
“Don’t tell me he has proposed!”
“He has not proposed,” I admitted. “Yet! But he knows all about the books and the learning, and he couldn’t care less because he admires me tremendously.”
Wickham walked beside me for a while in thoughtful silence.
“I’ll admit, this changes things,” he said.
“It does indeed.”
“And what does Mademoiselle his sister think, of this tremendous admiration?”
“His sister?”
“Does she not know? Well, well, I can’t say I blame the boy. She is hardly likely to approve the match, and from what I have seen of her, if she were my sister, I too would be afraid of her reaction.
“You are wrong,” I said hotly, but even as I spoke doubt began to creep in. I recalled the way Alaric sprang away from me in his attic, when he heard her com
ing upstairs . . . Did he spring a little too fast? His discretion yesterday at the Rookery . . . I thought he was protecting my honour, but could it have been a mask for fear? And if so . . . what of my proposal?
“The countess is excessively fond of me,” I stammered.
“I’m quite sure she loves you like a sister,” Wickham said. “My question was, how much does she know? I feel someone ought to tell her the truth.”
My mind began to race as I understood what he was saying.
If I help Wickham . . . If Theo or Mrs. Lovett should find out . . . They will be furious . . . They will hate me!
“I have had word from Miss Lovett,” Wickham continued. “She succeeded in smuggling a letter to me by post, in which she entreats me not to communicate with her again. Though she adores me—”
“Adores you!”
“Yes,” Oh, how smug he looked! “But let me finish. Though she adores me, as I say, she must give me up, for the sake of her mamma, who would not approve et cetera, et cetera – all the usual reasons. The message I want you to give her . . .”
“I won’t do it!”
“Hear me out, Lydia. It is innocent enough. I merely ask that you beg her, on my behalf, for the honour of one dance at tomorrow’s dress ball.”
“One dance?” I was astonished. “That is all?”
“That is all. Tell her I have received her letter and will obey her wishes, but that the precious memory of just one dance with her will act as a light in my darkness for the lonely decades to come.”
“That is revolting!” I snorted. “No woman could fall for that.”
“It isn’t revolting, it’s romantic.”
“It’s revolting. And they probably won’t let her go to the ball, you know. There was a terrible fuss about the maid.”
“She will be at the ball,” he said, “for two reasons. The dress ball is one of the most important events of the Brighton season, something Mrs. Lovett cares deeply about. And Miss Lovett’s cousin, the Comtesse de Fombelle, has made her a dress especially for the occasion, and is anxious for her to show it off. Miss Lovett herself has professed complete ignorance as to the identity of the person who penned the letter, and after much weeping has convinced her mamma that she harbours no illicit feelings towards anyone.”
“You are very well informed.”
“It was a very long letter.”
The tide was turning, and the waves had grown a little rougher. Perfect for diving under, I thought. Perfect for escaping.
“Just one dance?” I said. “You promise there will be nothing more?”
“Just one dance, and then I shan’t ask you ever to intervene with Miss Lovett again. Come, Lydia – what harm can it do?”
“Very well,” I said. “One dance.”
We walked back separately, he cutting through town, I walking along the front. The days are so long now! The sun showed no sign of setting, but I was so tired.
I have not forgotten Georgiana Darcy, or Wickham’s broken promise to me. I do not trust him. But what can I do? Until Alaric proposes, I cannot risk Theo finding out about us.
There was a letter waiting for me at home from Jane. No note, but a charcoal drawing of Napoleon napping on my pillow. “Someone who can’t wait to see you again,” Jane has written on the back. It is not the best drawing of a cat. His head is too large, and his back paws a most peculiar shape. But it is most definitely him, and I know that it is my pillow because I recognise the lace-edged case Kitty gave me at Christmas, with L.B. embroidered in the corner.
I kissed the drawing, and then pasted it into my diary. Not because I love it – I do love it, but that is not the reason. It is a reminder of everything I never want to go back to.
Alaric will propose to me, I know he will.
And what difference can one dance make?
Thursday, 16th July
THE DRESS BALL!
Harriet protested that I should prepare for the ball with her, but Theo insisted that I go to Tara. “It is very important to my sister,” Alaric explained, when he came to fetch me. “She wishes to supervise every detail of how her gowns are worn.”
Harriet is still torn between disapproval of Theo’s dressmaking ambitions and jealousy of me having a dress made by a countess, but she could not bring herself to argue with a count. We escaped Market Street with promises of good behaviour on my part, and good care on his.
“And I have you to myself for half an hour!” he gloated as the trap trotted out of town. He took my hand firmly in his, and my heart soared. We turned on to the cliff road. The mare munched on the hedgerow as Alaric pressed me in his arms.
Now, I thought. He will ask me now.
“How lovely you are!” He sighed. “I will never tire of the sight of you.”
I almost asked him, then, if he had told his sister about us. And if not, when he intended to – whether he intended to . . .
I must marry him, I thought.
A pheasant took off in the hedge, with a great clacking of wings. The mare spooked and broke into a canter, throwing us backwards. I clung to the seat. Alaric almost tumbled out of the trap, but managed to save himself by clinging to the frame.
“Your hat!” I cried, seeing it roll into the ditch.
“I’ll come back for it later!” he shouted. “Wretched creature! She might have killed us!”
He looked so funny, thrown this way and that by the errant mare, his hair blowing madly in the wind. I burst out laughing, and decided not to say a thing. The weather was fine, and the countryside was lovely, and I had a new dress, and was going to a ball. What else should I be thinking of, on a day like this?
There would be time enough later for everything else.
I gave Esther Lovett Wickham’s message as soon as I saw her. She was alone at the piano, Alaric was unhitching the mare, Theo in her workroom, Mrs. Lovett in the garden tending roses. I told Esther word for word what he instructed me to say, right down to the dance being his one light in a dark, dark future.
She didn’t think it was revolting. In fact, she cried a little, and thanked me.
Really, it is rather sweet.
In France, before the Revolution, when Alaric and Theo’s family still owned their castle, the housekeeper Marie used to prepare their maman for appearances at court where, she says, the fashions set by Marie Antoinette were more elaborate than anything ever seen in England. She worked on Esther and me for hours – filed and buffed our nails, plucked and shaped our eyebrows, pulled our hair this way and that, combed it, parted it, curled and primped it. She tied mine high on my head in a tumble of Grecian curls with a ribbon of amber velvet and two silver-gilt combs, and smoothed Esther’s into a heavy chignon held in a net of pearls. She rubbed our faces with lotion, added colour to Esther’s pale cheeks and toned down the excessive ruddiness of mine, smeared a hint of pink on our lips, and clipped my jade earrings to my ears and pearls to Esther’s.
“I never wear jewellery,” Esther protested.
“You do today, mademoiselle.”
Finally – finally! – she declared us ready for the Comtesse.
My dress is white, but it is not as plain as the calico suggested. Theo has added an overlay of gold gauze, rising in puffs above the neck and shoulders, fitted to the bodice and floating to the floor, and she has trimmed the neckline with the same amber velvet ribbon Marie used in my hair. The style makes me look even taller than I am, and the white and gold bring out the colour of my skin, darkened to deep tan despite my efforts to protect it from the sun.
“Exactly the effect I was hoping for,” Theo murmured as she made some final adjustments to my sleeves. “Simple, elegant and athletic. You will be much admired, Miss Bennet. Now, I must see to Esther.”
I gazed at my reflection in the summer house looking glass. The girl in the mirror stared back, and you could tell, even without knowing her, that here was a girl who loved to dance and laugh and run and swim, but the gold lent a softness to my appearance as well, giving me a fragi
le look I was not used to. I was pleased – until I looked across at Esther.
Until today, I have only ever seen Esther wear pale, dull colours. This evening, Theo dressed her in one of her rich Indian silks, a deep blue-green with a high waist and low neck, embroidered with pearls, trimmed with pink velvet, and in her hair, not one, not two, but three delicate ostrich feathers of the same colour, held by a silver circlet.
Gone was the timid vole. In her place, radiant and glowing, was a tiny, dainty beauty. Theo had said she would make me look like a princess, but next to Esther, I was more like a cart horse.
“Just what I wanted,” Theo repeated happily, and I glanced at her suspiciously. “After tonight, everyone will want to be dressed by me.”
Had she done it on purpose?
Theo dressed quickly, almost carelessly, in a light-green dress of the utmost simplicity that made her hair blaze and gave her an almost fairylike appearance. Marie brought mantles, especially made by Theo to complement the dresses, and together we all walked up the path to where Alaric and Mrs. Lovett waited on the terrace.
“Well, Théodorine!” Mrs. Lovett said. “I must say you have excelled yourself. She looks beautiful.”
Miss Lovett blushed at her mother’s rudeness. “You mean we look beautiful, Mamma. I am sure I never saw anyone look as lovely as Miss Bennet.”
She is far too good for Wickham.
“Quite right, Esther,” Alaric said stoutly. “Theo, you are a clever old thing. Esther, Miss Bennet – you are both visions. Esther is like an exquisite china doll. Miss Bennet, like a Greek goddess.”
His hand found mine as we walked towards Mrs. Lovett’s carriage. A brief squeeze gave me renewed heart. A murmured, “Ignore my aunt,” and, “I prefer goddesses,” even more so.
Lydia Page 16