Lydia (3 page)

Thursday, 14th November

T
oday we went to Netherfield. Jane has been there these past few days because . . . oh, it's a long story. I honestly think Mamma is a matchmaking genius. Even I am somewhat shocked at her methods, but I cannot deny that they work.

A few days ago, Mr. Bingley's sisters invited Jane for dinner, and Mamma wouldn't let her take the carriage but sent her on horseback instead because (Mamma said) she thought it was going to rain and that way the sisters would have to ask her to stay the night so she wouldn't get wet, and who knew what romance might unfold with Jane and the Beautiful Bing-ley under the same roof? Except that the rain started before Jane arrived, and she got soaked through and caught a cold. She is too sick even to come home, and I doubt looks very romantic with her nose all red. Lizzy has been there since yesterday attending to her, and we went today to visit.

Netherfield is . . . like no place I have ever been, with a great long drive from the gatehouse, all bordered with lime trees, and meadows on either side full of the fluffiest sheep and
fattest cows and glossiest horses. The house itself is all pillars and yellow stone and enormous windows, and double steps leading up to the biggest front door I have ever seen. Mamma was ecstatic. “Imagine Jane, mistress of all this!” she cried. “Oh, it will do very well for her, very well indeed! I can see her here plain as day!”

Kitty and I laughed, and she took offence. “This is important!” she cried. “It is Jane's future! It is all our futures!”

“Darling Mamma, we are only laughing because you are so happy.” I kissed her, and she smiled again. That is the way it always is with Mamma. People mock her because she cannot hide her thoughts or feelings, but she has the best intentions.

The visit itself did not go well. Mamma likes to pretend that she is equal to anybody, but I could tell as soon as we stepped out of the carriage that she was nervous, what with the big house and
all our futures
at stake. The awful Caroline Bingley was there, and the horrible Mr. Darcy, who wouldn't dance with Lizzy at the ball. We went upstairs to see Jane, still streaming snot into her lace-trimmed pillows, and when we came back down to the drawing room Mamma could not stop talking about her to Bingley. “The greatest patience in the world . . . the sweetest temper I ever met with . . .” she babbled, and then straight into how lovely Netherfield was, as if she couldn't wait to move Jane in. I think, if Lizzy hadn't interrupted, she would have suggested Jane never come home at all, but marry him from her sickbed. But Lizzy
did
interrupt, and only made things worse, because then there was a whole conversation about which was better, town or country, and Mr. Darcy said how boring the country is compared to
London. I must say, even though I have never been to London, I agree with Mr. Darcy. I
long
to go to London, but Mamma got offended again and said he didn't understand a thing, Caroline Bingley looked down her mighty nose at us, and Lizzy defended him.

Defended
Darcy
. Against her own mother! Who then lost her head and basically accused him of having no breeding. Bingley is nice and managed to keep a straight face, but his sister smirked, and Darcy looked thunderous. Lizzy actually winced, and diverted the conversation by asking after Charlotte Lucas.

I was thinking about the ball Mr. Bingley had promised, and what a very fine thing it would be, but he did not mention it once during our visit. In the end, I had to take matters into my own hands.

“Mr. Bingley!” I said as we were leaving. “Did not you promise to give a ball? It would be the most shameful thing in the world if you were not to keep your promise!”

Again Caroline Bingley raised her eyebrows, and again Lizzy looked mortified, but I think Mr. Bingley was vastly relieved to have something nice to talk about, and said that I should name the day!

Kitty was almost hysterical on the way home. “You were so forward!” she gasped between peals of laughter.

“I thought I did remarkably well,” I said.

“You did indeed,” Mamma said. “Remember, girls, when you want something, you must fight for it. Nobody else will do it for you.”

For a moment, I did not recognise her. She looked so fierce. Then she caught us looking at her, and smiled, and kissed me.
“A ball!” she cried. “What shall we all wear?”

Oh, yes, Mamma was quite right to send Jane on horseback, and I was right to ask for a ball, no matter how forward it was.

Monday, 18th November

W
e have a house guest! He is completely ridiculous but I don't think he is funny at all. In fact, I would like to murder him.

Mr. Collins – that is his name – looks exactly like a pig, with a big soft lump of a body and a nose like a turnip. Although he is a rector, I would not wish him even on Mary. He wears black from head to toe, with a white neckerchief to show off his dirty yellow teeth, and the only thing more awful than his greasy, mouse-coloured hair is the hideous round hat he insists on wearing whenever he ventures outside.

Mr. Collins is our cousin, and when Father dies he will inherit Longbourn, though we have never met him before in our life. Then, Mamma says, he will have the power to throw us out of our home and on to the streets without so much as a stick of furniture. “It is no use complaining,” says Mamma (who complains about it all the time). “It is just the way it is. Men inherit, and women must hope for the best.” Currently, Mr. Collins lives in Kent, in a parsonage belonging to a rich
noblewoman called Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He appears to be quite in love with her and she has a daughter Mamma already hates, because even though Mr. Collins says she is too sickly to have any proper accomplishments, she is extremely rich.

“
Lizzy
is extremely accomplished,” Mamma said, as Mr. Collins guzzled Hill's delicious lemon posset. “Why, she plays the piano better than anyone in Hertfordshire, and she is always with her nose in a book.”

Kitty kicked me under the table. “Why is Mamma telling lies about Lizzy?” she whispered, and I shrugged to say I had no idea.

“Lizzy doesn't read half as much as me,” Mary protested. “And she only reads in English.
I
am teaching myself Greek.”

“Teaching yourself?” Mr. Collins looked appalled. “But what about your governess?”

“We don't have a governess,” Mary said. “I have asked for one so many times, but Father says there is no point in educating girls . . .”

“We are not talking about you, Mary,” Mamma interrupted. I caught Kitty's eye and giggled.

“
I'm
learning Greek,” I minced beneath my breath. Kitty snorted. Mr. Collins turned his attention to me.

“And what does Miss Lydia read?” he asked.

“She doesn't.” Mary glared at me. “She prefers chasing after officers.”

I nearly choked on a dried fig. Mr. Collins looked confused.

“Lydia likes to be outside,” Jane said, before I could respond.

Mr. Collins declared that outdoor pursuits were very
admirable and even educational, but that I should not forsake books entirely. “For not reading will make you stupid.”

“I'm afraid it is far too late for that,” Father said.

Mr. Collins and Father both chuckled like it was the most amusing thing in the world. Jane squeezed my hand under the table.

“Monstrous, monstrous man!” I complained to Kitty when we went up to bed. “And ugly! So ugly!”

“You have to be nice to him,” Kitty said. “Liddy, you have to try.”

“Nice to him! Why? He wasn't nice to me!”

Kitty started on about Longbourn and the inheritance and being thrown on the streets, but I wasn't listening.

“I don't care if Mr. Collins stands to inherit half of Hertfordshire, I shan't be nice to him. I would rather beg on the street than ask for his protection! I would rather keep pigs!”

Kitty said nothing. I threw myself on my bed and began to write, jabbing my diary like my pencil was a dagger and the paper Mr. Collins's face.

“What are you doing?” Kitty asked after a while.

“I'm writing my journal. I'm going to make it as scurrilous as possible. I mean to sell it when we're poor, and become a publishing scandal, and make us pots of money.”

“Liddy, be serious. What will happen to us when Father dies?”

I put down my pencil. Kitty's face was soft in the candlelight, her eyes big and dark and frightened. It's easy to forget, sometimes, that she is older than me.

“Father isn't going to die for ages and ages,” I told her. “I
never saw a man in better health. But when he does . . .”

“What?”

“Well, we shall all have to go and live with Jane and the splendidly rich Mr. Bingley.”

Kitty gave a snort of laughter and all was well again. But I can't help thinking, what if the future isn't Mr. Bingley and balls and dazzling husbands – what if the future is Mr. Collins?

I don't think I could bear that.

Tuesday, 19th November

T
he day did not start well. Mr. Collins insisted on accompanying us on our walk to town after breakfast. I thought I would
die
from the tedium of listening to him. Everything we passed compared badly to the grand de Bourgh estate – our bridge is smaller than Lady Catherine's bridge, our lanes are not so well kept, our very trees are not so tall.

“Though to be sure it is a pleasant county,” he gabbled when Lizzy told him
we
were happy here.

We stopped on the bridge to watch a kingfisher hunting in the stream, and he seized the opportunity to educate us.

“What you see here, dear cousins,” he said, “is a magnificent specimen of the female
Alcedo atthis
. The name is Latin, of course, but as Miss Mary would doubtless be aware it derives from the Greek ‘halcyon'. We know her to be of the fairer sex by the colour of her lower mandible, which is of an orange-reddish hue, with a black tip. Is not that a fascinating fact, Miss Lydia?”

“Fascinating,” I sighed as the kingfisher flew away.

No, the day did not start well and the mile to Meryton never felt so long, but within minutes of arriving nothing mattered any more – nothing. For there outside the library was Denny returned from London. And standing beside him . . .

The gentleman standing with Denny was most
definitely
athletic. He has just joined the regiment, and is tall and strong but also slim and elegant in his dark riding coat, and when he took off his hat I saw that his hair was light brown and thick and just a little bit messy. He has a lovely smile, and a dimple in his left cheek, and his mouth is wide and generous – the mouth of someone who likes to laugh and eat and drink, and his eyes are a sort of golden hazel, and when he talks to you he makes you feel you are the most important person in the world.

Denny introduced us. I was last, as usual. That is what comes of being the youngest.

“Lydia.” The handsome gentleman smiled. “I once sailed on a ship of that name, all across the Mediterranean.”

“What were you doing on a ship?”

Lizzy said, “Lydia, don't ask questions!”

“I should like to see the Mediterranean above all things,” I told him.

“Well, then you must,” he said.

That was all, but it left me in a daze.

“Where
is
the Mediterranean?” I asked Mary when we came home.

She huffed and said she could not believe I didn't know, but Jane took pity on me and showed me on Father's globe. It is a very small sea, but it touches an awful lot of countries – France and Spain and Greece and about a hundred more I
have never heard of.

The officer is coming to Aunt Philips's card party tomorrow evening. I don't know how I shall survive until then. I think I may die in my sleep – if I sleep at all, which is unlikely. It is past midnight and my eyes are no heavier than when I first saw him this afternoon. They are still too full of him. My pen is flying across the page.

His name is Lieutenant George Wickham.