Lydia

by Natasha Farrant

  My dreams of opening a shop – of becoming a businesswoman – how silly they seem now.

  She never darkened their door again. Oh God! The picture of Napoleon has fallen out of my diary. Sweet Jane, drawing it for me! I read through the letters from my sisters – plain, cross, sour-faced Mary, who longs to see the Mediterranean and learn German in Heidelberg! Oh, Mary, that is all I wanted, too! To see the world and live a little, to not always do what was expected! And now have I really ruined everything for you? And for Kitty, who longs only for a husband, and Jane, still pining for Mr. Bingley, and Lizzy, who . . . oh Lord!

  Later, same day . . .

  They brought Wickham to see me this afternoon, and left us alone together in their cold and gloomy parlour. He already looks different from the Wickham of the past two weeks – shaved and pomaded, his clothes pressed, his shirt laundered, as fresh and handsome as the very first time we came upon him in Meryton. I saw at once that someone must have given him money. Was it Mr. Darcy?

  “Well now, Lydia,” Wickham said. “Here is an interesting situation.”

  “What are you playing at?” I hissed.

  “There’s no need to . . .”

  “Tell me!”

  He sighed, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a letter – crumpled, the seal broken, and folded in four.

  “What is this?”

  “Just read, Lydia.”

  The note was addressed to me, and written in a hurried hand:

  Lydia – all has been discovered. I was soaked to the skin when I returned home yesterday, and Theo guessed at once where I had been – there is only one person in all the world, you know, for whom I would get caught in the rain. We are to leave immediately. Do not judge her too harshly, Lydia. My stepfather – I tried to tell you on the beach. I am entirely to blame. God, I so wanted to be free! I so wanted you! My stepfather has lost all his money. He is a speculative man, given to grand gestures and unwise investments, and it has cost him his fortune. This is the reason for Theo’s feverish desire to start a business – and for other plans, too, which I cannot go into now. I am leaving this at the Coach and Anchor as we pass through, and pray that it will reach you in time.

  Forever yours, A. de Fombelle.

  I could not believe what I was reading.

  “But they are – I thought that they were rich . . .”

  Wickham did not reply.

  I so wanted to be free . . . I so wanted you . . .

  The old black trap – only one servant – the dilapidated house! The frayed hem of Theo’s green dress, the rip in Alaric’s jacket! The clues had all been there – and I had thought them all eccentricities! Even Theo and her dressmaking business – I could see her now, philosophising after our swim – I never thought she actually needed the money. And there was Mrs. Lovett and her social aspirations, with all the money she needed but still a tailor’s daughter. A title – any title – would elevate her once and for all, and finally cut the ties to her past.

  I never stood a chance.

  “They are no different from the rest,” I whispered.

  “Few people are, when it comes to rank and money.”

  “And you!” I cried. “You found this letter at the Coach and Anchor! And yet you said nothing – you let me run after him to Shropshire! Did you really think you could stop this – that you could get Esther back?”

  He drew up a chair and came to sit before me.

  “I will be honest with you, Lydia. I have known of John Shelton’s economic difficulties for some weeks.”

  “What? How?”

  “Let us say that I have taken an interest in the fortunes of the family since I first learned of your involvement with them.”

  “My involvement? But why?”

  “Is it too difficult for you to believe, Lydia, that I care about you?”

  “You don’t care for people, Wickham, you care only for money!”

  “I do care for money,” Wickham said. “As does any sensible person. But it is not fair to say that is all I care about. Lydia, listen to me carefully. Darcy has paid off my debts and bought me a commission with a new regiment, in the North. For reasons you must have guessed, he is anxious that no news of this escapade should get about. You have my promise that not a word of our adventure shall pass my lips, though I cannot speak for others. That unfortunate note you left Harriet Forster . . .”

  Darcy! My mind raced, furiously. Back to the night at the New Theatre in Brighton – Mr. Darcy seemed very affected when he saw you, Lydia . . . Darcy always gets what he wants . . .

  Do you trust me? Wickham said when Mr. Darcy found us.

  I buried my head in my hands, trying to go over everything that has happened.

  “You knew from the moment you saw me with Mr. Darcy that I could be useful to you . . .” I said. “But you did not know how. Then, when you found Alaric’s letter . . .” I gazed at him, horrified. “Did you know then that he would marry Esther?”

  “I had heard enough of the Comte and Comtesse’s financial affairs to suspect his sister at least of desiring the outcome,” he admitted.

  Oh, what a fool I had been! Everything made sense now. Wickham did not come with me to Shropshire to pursue Esther – he came to discredit me . . . to ruin me . . . And I had fallen for his talk again, as so many had before me . . .

  Darcy has paid off my debts . . .

  “You knew that Mr. Darcy would follow us, to avoid a scandal, because of the harm it would do to Lizzy. You knew that he would want to save her family from disgrace . . . You pretended all was not lost so that I would run away with you . . . And my business – my hat shop – you wanted to keep me in London until we were discovered; you never truly believed I could . . .”

  I squeezed my eyes shut to stop my tears.

  “How did you know I would insist on going to Shropshire?”

  “I didn’t. My first thought on finding the letter, you will remember, was to take you home to Market Street. But I am a gambler, Lydia. I play my cards as they are dealt.”

  “You cheat,” I hissed. “And you played me.”

  “Did not you play me, too, when you lied about Esther Lovett? You did lie, didn’t you?”

  I stared out of the window.

  “You are disgusted with me, because I seek to better my circumstances through marriage,” Wickham said. “But look around you, Lydia. Is not everyone doing the same? Is it not what your mamma wants for her daughters – what the Comtesse de Fombelle wants for her brother and herself? Is it not what you have been doing yourself with the Comte de Fombelle?”

  “That was different!”

  “How?”

  “I love him!”

  “Do you?”

  Wickham moved closer. His hazel eyes were dancing.

  “I have known for some time, Lydia, that you and I would be good for each other. No, do not be angry! I am not about to insult you by professing undying love. But be honest, now that the game is up and there is nothing left to hide. Do we not laugh together, and always have a good time?”

  “Not always,” I said sourly.

  “I have to tell you that Darcy has offered a further sum if we are to marry. Your uncle and he have settled it.”

  “As if I were a horse or a cow!”

  “It is the way of the world. You know that. None of us can escape it – but we can turn it to our advantage.”

  He seized my hands.

  “Just imagine, Lydia!” he went on. “In Northumberland, there are great castles right on the sea. There are miles and miles of empty beaches, where you can swim for hours without seeing a soul, and afterwards, you can gallop home across vast open country, with nothing but hills and sky between you and the Scottish borders, and in Newcastle, where I am to be stationed, the balls and assemblies are as fine as any you would find at Brighton. And it can all be yours, Lydia. No Harriet Forster, no older sisters, no mamma . . . Just you and me, against the world . . . What do you say? Does it not sound appealing? Do I not kno
w you well?”

  It was meant to be Scotland, Southampton, six months at sea. The blazing tropics, mangoes and guavas. And yet . . . The truth is, he does know me. Even if I hate to admit it . . . he does.

  “If there were no money,” I whispered, “you would not look at me twice.”

  “But there is money.” How close he was standing! “What say you, Lydia? Will you take a chance?”

  So close . . .

  “Think of your sisters . . .”

  His kiss was so soft. His lips brushed mine with the lightness of a butterfly landing, of silk running through fingers. And yet it produced such an explosion inside me . . . When he drew away, I clung to his neck.

  Alaric’s kiss was never like this.

  “Very well,” I whispered. “For my sisters . . .”

  “And for you?”

  I sighed and drew him back towards me again. “A little for me, too.”

  Monday, 17th August

  The news of my marriage was announced in the paper on the same day as Alaric and Esther’s engagement, on the very same page. I tried to imagine their faces reading it. Was he a little ashamed of himself? A little sorry or jealous? And Esther, who was so in love with Wickham, and yet so quick to do what was asked of her – what would she make of it? Did she envy me, or pity me, knowing what Wickham is – a gambler and a chancer?

  I find that I don’t really care. He is my gambler and chancer now – my handsome, impossible gambler, and I am pinning my chances on him. I had no difficulty in guessing Theo’s reaction – she, too, would not care. It has surprised me how much angrier I have been with her than with her brother. Wickham is right – we are all caught in this game, Alaric as much as anyone. But Theo – for a short time, Theo with her workroom and dresses and grand designs for the future made me think that anything was possible. I suppose I cannot blame her for wanting the best match for her brother, or the security it has brought her. She will live with Alaric and Esther, knowing she will always have her place at Mapperton. We are not so very different, she and I. We are both fighters, and neither of us is the sort who drowns.

  It was not the wedding most girls dream of. I did not wear my white-and-gold gown from the Brighton ball, but my spotted white muslin and one of the bonnets Harriet sent on with the rest of my clothes from Brighton, and no one attended but my aunt and uncle and Mr. Darcy, who breathed an audible sigh when our vows were said, and no doubt is thinking of tearing back to propose to Lizzy as I write. There have been no messages from Longbourn, no congratulations except from Mamma, in a letter, dripping with relief at having at least one daughter married, all about clothes. My uncle’s carriage is being readied now to take us to Epsom, where we shall take the coach. Soon enough we shall be at Longbourn, and I shall see my family. I know very well what they are all thinking of me. Father thinks me as silly as ever. Jane is anxious, Mary dismissive, Kitty a little in awe of my behaviour. Lizzy is thoroughly disapproving. Mr. Darcy has made me promise not to tell her what he has done for us. I can’t think why. If I were him, I would want the whole world to know, and I still hope he will propose to her again. For all Darcy’s help, I don’t think Wickham and I will ever be rich enough to support all my sisters when Mr. Collins inherits Longbourn. I may have to disobey him, and hint to Lizzy at what he has done. Otherwise she’ll never change her mind. Yes, that is what I shall do – I shall drop it idly into the conversation at Longbourn, and she will fall madly in love with him and marry him out of gratitude. And when I go, I shall greet all my sisters with my head held high – for whatever they think of me, I am the first one married. And I know things – so many things! – that they do not. It seems quite extraordinary to me that I am still the youngest.

  “Well, wife!” Wickham just came in, threaded his arm around my waist, and peered over my shoulder. “I hope you are writing about me.”

  I slammed my diary shut, and told him that there are some things even husbands are not allowed to see.

  He left, laughing loudly, and bowed to a red-faced Aunt Gardiner who was entering the room.

  “Lydia! What are you doing, child? The carriage will be here soon!”

  “By and by,” I said, and now I am smiling as I write, because I am thinking of Juliet on her balcony calling “by and by” to her nurse, and of Alaric reading Shakespeare out loud at the Rookery in Brighton, and of what Mary would make of that if ever she knew of it. Better, perhaps, not to tell her. Better to let her keep Shakespeare for herself. Mine was only a passing knowledge, already almost forgotten.

  Goodness, I have filled this entire diary! It seems as if no time has passed since Mary first gave it to me, and yet it has been more than a year. One day, perhaps, when the sea is too rough for bathing and the rain falls too hard on the vast Northumberland landscape, when Wickham is out on exercises and I am too tired for an assembly, I will read it from the beginning, and how it will make me laugh! I may even read Shakespeare again, too. Or perhaps, which is more likely, I will pick up the latest edition of La Belle Assemblée. And there will be Theo’s drawings in it, the long-awaited pelisse maybe, English oak leaves lined with Indian leopard.

  One day, Wickham and I may yet make that voyage to India. We will sail for months on waters so clear I can see shipwrecks and treasure at the bottom of the sea, and when I arrive there will be elephants and mangoes and mynah birds, and we will gallop up into the hills together to the tea plantations and watch the hills turn blue in the afternoon light, and I will think about what almost was. And I will have my daughter with me – a brilliant daughter, in a dress worthy of the Comtesse de Fombelle, as clever as she is beautiful, who will read books and ride horses and will not be afraid of anything – and I will tell her that the lot of women need not be so different from that of men, and hope that by then it will be true.

  But I am not going to think about that now.

  Afterword

  When the idea for this book was first mooted by the team at Chicken House, I sought advice from an academic friend who specialises in the works of Jane Austen. Lydia, who in my mind was already a living, breathing person, was skipping about, twirling her bonnet and crying “At last! My side of the story!” but I was less certain.

  “Don’t even try and copy Jane Austen,” my friend said. “Just be yourself, be respectful and know that whatever you do, she is sitting up there in author-heaven laughing at you.”

  I have done my very best to be respectful, not least in mapping the timeline of my story on Pride and Prejudice, but have had to make a few conscious decisions concerning dates. Jane Austen wrote her novel over ten years. While we are never told in which year Pride and Prejudice is set, the presence of military encampments in Brighton suggests it was in the mid-1790s (after which the military were housed in barracks). However, I wanted Alaric and Theo to have escaped the French Revolution, and for his memories of this event to be much vaguer than his sister’s. For this reason, I chose to set my book towards the latter part of Pride and Prejudice’s gestation period. 1811 was the first year of the Regency period which saw George, Prince of Wales rule as proxy for his father George III. The Prince of Wales was a great fan of Brighton, and one of the chief reasons the resort became so vastly fashionable. It seemed a fitting year in which to begin Lydia’s story.

  The timing of Lydia’s flight with Wickham is ambiguous in Austen’s novel. According to the dates of various letters, one timeline has them missing for a couple of weeks, but another, worked out through references in the text, suggests a longer period. I have chosen to go with the first, as it fits my story better.

  I have also tried to be faithful to accounts of contemporary Brighton topography, but fear I have taken some liberties in my re-imagining of it. This, I am afraid, is what authors do. If you would like entirely reliable facts about Brighton at that time, I refer you to Sue Berry’s fascinating Georgian Brighton (Phillimore & Co.); The Keep (www.thekeep.info), the local museum which houses a fine collection of archive material; and to the Brighton Museum (www.bri
ghtonmuseums.org.uk).

  I have loved every minute of working on Lydia’s story. As she herself would say, the whole process has been monstrous fun. And wherever Jane Austen may be, I hope she is in fits of laughter over it.

  Acknowledgements

  My sincere thanks to Nicola Morrison for her precious advice on fashion and dancing. To Sean Gaston for pointing me in the direction of a mountain of invaluable reading on Jane Austen and her era. To the archivists at The Keep for the wonderful work they do in preserving archives of historical Brighton. To all the team at Chicken House for their creativity and efficiency, and for giving me the opportunity to spend a happy year immersed in all things Austen. To my editor Rachel Leyshon for burning the midnight oil with me. To my agent Catherine Clarke for her usual incisiveness. To Elinor Bagenal, whose inspiring conversation lit the spark which ignited this whole project, and whose encouragement and enthusiasm have kept me going throughout. And to my family for cheerfully putting up with my disappearance into the early nineteenth century, and for welcoming me home.

  TRY ANOTHER GREAT BOOK FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  THE SECRET OF NIGHTINGALE WOOD by LUCY STRANGE

  Something terrible has happened in the Abbott family and nobody is talking about it.

  Mama is ill. Father has taken a job abroad. Nanny Jane is too busy looking after baby Piglet to pay any attention to Henrietta and the things she sees – or thinks she sees – in the shadows of their new home, Hope House.

  All alone, with only stories for company, Henry discovers that Hope House is full of strange secrets: a forgotten attic, thick with cobwebs; ghostly figures glimpsed through dusty windows; mysterious firelight that flickers in the trees beyond the garden.