Lydia (17 page)

Thursday, 9th July

“
T
here 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 her 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.

I am not going to think about Wickham now.

Friday, 10th July

T
heo 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.