Lydia (18 page)

Sunday, 12th July

I
t 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

A
gain 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 by 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.

“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)