Lydia (10 page)

Sunday, 7th June

H
arriet burst into my room early this morning. Our landlady, Mrs. Jenkins, told her that the sea was quiet again, and Harriet insisted that we leave immediately to bathe. Sally, her maid, brought coffee and toast as we gathered our belongings into a basket – our swimming shifts, and nets for our hair, and large napkins to dry ourselves afterwards, our combs and hairbrushes, additional wraps in case the sun does not shine and our smart new parasols in case it does, a rug for sitting on, and some gingerbread to eat after bathing. We piled it all into the basket so high that Sally could not carry it alone, and we had to unpack half of it again.

Off we struggled, Harriet and I carrying the basket between us, she in a fashionable ankle-length canary muslin and I in an unfashionably long blue, with Sally following behind carrying the rug and napkins, looking like a grumpy little sparrow in her plain dark dress and not in the least bit grateful for her lighter load. Down the dark, fish-smelling street we went and out into the open of East Cliff, then left along the seafront to
the Steine, and I prayed that we would not run into anyone we knew, not just because I was red-faced from the exertion, but because of the dreadful apprehension that had begun to grip me. There was the sea, calmer than when I first saw it, but still swelling and falling like a live creature, still roaring, still the colour of lead. There were the bathing machines, preparing to take me into it, and there was my heart, beating at twice its usual speed.

“Hurry
up
, Lydia!” Harriet tugged crossly at the basket handle. “Look how crowded the beach is – we shall never get a bathe if we dawdle.”

Down the steps to the beach we climbed, balancing the basket between us, our skirts blowing about our legs, and the roar grew louder.

The air was clammy here, and tasted of salt. I thought that I might be sick.

“Isn't it divine?” Harriet yelled.

It never occurred to me, when I accepted Harriet's invitation, that I would be afraid. All I could think of, looking at the sea, was the Waire – not the stream as it is now, but the raging torrent experienced by my eight-year-old self, clinging to a rock. And they expect me to
swim
in the sea? There are probably millions of drowned people lying on the seabed – sailors and fishermen but also pleasure-seekers just like us who went into the water thinking to amuse themselves and sank straight to the bottom with lungs full of water and eyes like marbles. Even as I write, they are probably being eaten by crabs and little fishes. There is absolutely nothing divine about any of this at all.

The ladies' bathing machines lie to the left of the Steine, the
gentlemen's on the right. I knew about these already, of course, from Harriet's descriptions of Weymouth. “They are like dear little caravans,” she told me in Meryton. “You skip up a little ladder into them, and then while you change into your bathing dress, the horse pulls you into the sea. Then they unhitch the horse, and you just open the door at the
other
end of the machine and simply dive into the waves!”

In my head, they were gay things the colours of boiled sweets, all pink and green and blue, with cheerful ponies to tow them into the surf. In real life, they are plain and rickety, made of boards, like the cart on the farm at home, dragged by long-suffering nags. The large bathing attendants they call dippers, who stand alongside all dressed in navy, look like crows gathered at a watery funeral.

Harriet squinted anxiously down the beach.

“We are too late!” she cried. “The bathing machines are all in the water!”

“I'm sure one will become available presently,” I mumbled.

“There is one!” Harriet squealed. “Right at the end, look, Lydia! There is one coming back in!”

Sure enough, right at the end of the line, a machine was lumbering back to the beach through the shallows.

“Sally, run and secure it!” Harriet ordered. She turned to me, a fixed smile upon her face. “Lydia, you must go first. You are my guest. I absolutely insist.”

“You go,” I whispered. “I promise I don't mind.”

“Are you sure?” Harriet was already fumbling in the basket for her shift and napkin.

“Quite sure.”

Sally was standing by the returned machine, waving
frantically. Harriet grabbed the basket, threw my shift, the gingerbread, and most of my things on to the rug, and ran towards her, clutching her bonnet to her head and her belongings to her bosom.

I sat upon the blanket and drew my knees up to my chin.

If Wickham were here, I surprised myself thinking, he would probably make me walk straight into the sea with my eyes closed, and I wouldn't have time to be afraid.

I chased the thought away. I did not want to think about Wickham.

The shingle crunched. I opened my eyes. Sally had returned, her face redder than ever.

“Missus is gone into the machine.” She stood a little to one side, eyeing the gingerbread in its linen cloth.

“Do you want some?” I unwrapped the cake and searched in the basket for the small knife we had packed to cut it. When I looked up, Sally was no longer ogling the gingerbread, but staring behind me down the beach.

“Who is that?” she breathed.

I followed the direction of her gaze. Another machine had come in from the sea a few feet from where we sat, just above the shoreline. A young lady of about Lizzy's age stood in full sun in the doorway, wringing out a tangled mane of fiery copper hair. She wore a dress of the brightest emerald green. A straw basket sat on the floor by her bare feet.

“Did you ever see such a colour dress?” Sally whispered. “And silk on a beach, too – covered in sand and salt and whatnot.”

The young lady pulled a crumpled yellow bonnet from the basket and jammed it on her head, without pinning up her
hair. She should have looked a mess, but she was quite the opposite.

Suddenly, she waved and jumped lightly down on to the beach.

We turned to see where she was going.

A young gentleman was walking towards her, a small black-and-white dog at his side. He was perhaps a couple of years older than me, and a little younger than she. He was about Wickham's height but slighter, with a head of dark curls blowing about in the wind as he waved his hat, and the widest smile upon his face. He was immaculately dressed, in a blue coat and grey breeches and long riding boots, but with a bright red scarf flung dramatically about his throat. The young lady threw herself into his arms and he wrapped the scarf tightly around her shoulders before crushing her to his chest and swinging her round so that her feet clean left the ground. She slipped her hand into his when he set her down again, and together they ran to the water's edge, the little dog leaping at their feet.

They looked as if they owned the entire world.

“Brazen,” commented Sally.

“Wonderful,” I breathed.

Another machine was creaking back in towards the beach. I sighed, remembering where I was.

“Are you going in, miss?” asked Sally.

Still the memories of the Waire were too strong.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said. “If the weather continues to improve.”

Monday, 8th June

W
hat do I write first? What an evening – oh, what an evening!

I shall start with the theatre.

It is very new and very grand, with three storeys and two tiers of boxes, and it can seat twelve hundred people. I think that may be more people than I have ever seen together in my life. There were rumours that the Prince himself would attend – Harriet almost fainted when she heard. We didn't even go to the sea today because she had to spend
all day preparing
. The play was a musical thing called
The Weathercock
, and the players were the vastly famous Mr. and Mrs. Kemble, but I hardly took in a word of it because . . . but I mustn't get ahead of myself.

The colonel had taken a box in the first tier, no less, and he led us straight to it through the crowd. We went up a narrow panelled staircase, all dark and poky, and then out we emerged into the sumptuous splendour. Then he went back down to talk to some acquaintances, while Harriet and I
observed the room.

I never saw such elegance – not even at the Netherfield ball! The Prince did not come, but even if he had, it could not have been a grander affair. Such gleaming bare shoulders and bosoms, such diamonds and pearls and plumage! Ostrich feathers are all the rage here, dyed different colours, and they wave about, tickling people's noses and getting in the way but looking very splendid and fine. Thank goodness Harriet very civilly lent me her old Indian shawl, which is quite as good as her new one, Russian flame trimmed with coquelicot, which looked almost elegant over my white spotted muslin. And thank goodness Mamma insisted that I bring her little gold velvet hat! Straw would not have done here at all. It is hopelessly old-fashioned, of course, but in Munro's (which is quite the smartest shop in Brighton), I found a tremendous coquelicot feather which has absolutely transformed it, and
thank goodness
because . . .

Harriet was using her opera glasses to search the room now, fretting that the colonel would not return in time for the curtain.

“Oh, look who is here!” she cried.

Four officers had entered the theatre. Through the throng, I caught sight of tall Denny, Carter's ginger hair, Pratt's unfashionable whiskers . . . and Wickham.

I immediately assumed an air of vast indifference, tilting my head
just so
to show off my feather. They approached. They were just beneath the box, going through to the dark staircase. Denny was parting the curtain; they were entering the box . . .

“Mrs. Forster! Miss Lydia!”

In they came, all swagger and smiles.

“At last, some company!” Harriet cried. “We have been quite forlorn without you, have we not, Lydia?”

“Forlorn ladies! We can't have that.” Wickham smiled as he leaned over her hand. I crossed
my
hands firmly behind my back.

He bowed to me. I curtsied haughtily and opened my mouth to say something extremely cutting – but no sound came out.

It was utterly mortifying, but then . . . oh, extraordinary, gratifying evening!

Denny glanced out across the floor and exclaimed, “Good Lord!” Wickham looked, too, and the colour rose to his cheeks. Carter chuckled and said, “Hell's fire, my friend, you cannot escape the man!”

“It appears not.” Wickham forced a smile.

I looked down, towards a party walking beneath us – and fairly gasped with surprise.

For there, towering over the crowd, dressed as usual both more plainly and more finely than all around him – the cut and cloth of his dark grey coat so obviously more expensive, his necktie gleaming more white – was Mr. Darcy! Mr. Bing-ley, his sisters and Mr. Hurst all followed in his wake, struggling to keep up with him as he strode towards the stairs. They disappeared, and Wickham breathed – then they re-emerged,
in the box next to ours
, and Wickham took a discreet step back towards the curtain.

Our box stood between theirs and the stage. In the orchestra pit, the musicians were warming their instruments. Mr. Darcy turned towards them, and his eyes lit immediately on me.

He turned as pale as a ghost – and that is
not
an exaggeration.

“Miss Lydia!” He stared. Then, gathering his wits, bowed.

Mr. Darcy! Bowing at me –
vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled
Lydia! I curtsied, all smirks, with a sideways glance at Wickham to check that he was watching.

Ask me about Lizzy
, I silently urged Mr. Darcy.
I dare you
.

Mr. Darcy coughed. “Your family,” he said. “Are they well?”

“Quite well, thank you.” I waved at Mr. Bingley, who waved cheerily back while his sisters ignored me completely. “I did not know, Mr. Darcy, that you were coming to Brighton. I am sure
my sister
would have sent word to me if she had known. I hear you saw something of her while you were both in Kent.”

His eyes flashed dangerously at the mention of Kent. I can only imagine how Lizzy's refusal must have hurt his pride. He is not a man to be crossed.

“I-it is a short visit,” he stuttered. (Mr. Darcy stuttered!) “Miss Bingley's idea. She enjoys the theatre, and fashionable company, and there were rumours that the Prince of Wales . . .”

But now Colonel Forster arrived in our box and, recognising Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley from Meryton, came forward with hearty greetings, then introduced his men. Mr. Bingley shook hands amiably with everybody. Darcy's expression darkened at the sight of Wickham, who greeted him with only a slight bow. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“And how do you enjoy Brighton, Darcy?” the colonel asked.

“Very little,” was the short answer, with a glare in
Wickham's direction. “I dislike the seaside. I find it is a dangerous place.”

I remembered that Mr. Darcy's sister had been at the sea at Ramsgate at the time of her attempted elopement.

But now a hush descended on the theatre, and the lights were dimming. The musicians were waiting, bows at the ready, hands poised over keyboards. The conductor raised his baton. The thick red curtain began its ascent, and the evening's performance began.

Though my mind was racing, I kept my eyes riveted on the stage. Only halfway through the first act did I realise that Wickham was seated just behind me, and had leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

“Mr. Darcy seemed very affected when he saw you, Lydia,” he murmured.

Suddenly, I wanted him to know everything – to understand that the Bennet girls are capable of attracting suitors far grander and more worthy of them than
he
.

“I dare say he did not expect to see me,” I whispered back. “And it was a shock to him, because I reminded him of Lizzy. He is madly in love with her, you know. He has asked her to marry him.”

“Indeed!” Wickham sounded startled. Ha! “And has she accepted?”

“She has not,” I whispered. That too felt good – telling him that not everyone is like him, ready to marry for money and without love.

“Oh, she will change her mind.” For the first time since I have known him, there was not the slightest trace of humour about Wickham's features. “You can be quite certain of that.
Darcy always gets what he wants.”

“He does not like
you
at all,” I said. “Though I suppose that is understandable.”

“What can you mean?”

My heart beating faster than ever, I turned and looked him straight in the eyes.

“I know about Georgiana Darcy.”

For once, he had nothing to say.

“I shan't tell anyone,” I said. “For her sake. But you lied to me, Wickham, when you said you did not pursue Miss King for her money. That is what you do, and I don't like it. I don't like
you
.”

He held my gaze, but I did not look away. Slowly, he nodded, and in his eyes I fancy that I read something new – something like respect, which made me swell with pride.

At last!
I wanted to say.
Do not think you can fool me again!

Then Harriet glanced towards us with an irritated “Hush!” and I turned my attention once more to the stage, but – as I have already written – I took in very little of the play. The more I thought of it, the more I realised what a very fine thing it would be for Lizzy to marry Mr. Darcy (even though he so rudely criticised me before). How relieved Mamma would be! And if Lizzy married Mr. Darcy, perhaps his friend Mr. Bingley would finally propose to Jane –
that
conundrum is yet to be resolved. And Mary would have infinite access to books, because doubtless Mr. Darcy has an immense library, and Kitty would have infinite access to rich young men from whom to pick a husband, and when we passed Wickham in Lizzy's fine carriage, on our way from a party to a ball, he would see
with his own eyes how far we are come and be sorry that he ever treated any of us ill.

I am not sure, looking back, that I should have told him Lizzy's secret. I do not altogether trust him to keep it. But I am not going to think about that now.