Lydia (6 page)

Tuesday, 17th December

W
hat a strange day it has been.

It began badly, with a letter from Caroline Bingley saying that she and Mr. Bingley have settled in London now, and don't intend to return to Netherfield this winter. Jane read the letter and wilted. Later Lizzy told us what it said. My mother wailed, Kitty sobbed, and Mary declared that it was only to be expected. Mr. Collins, who is staying with us
again
and driving us all to distraction, said how very sorry he was for us all and he wished everyone could be as happy as him and Charlotte. We ignored him.

“But you said Mr. Bingley would come back!” I told Lizzy. “‘Who could resist Jane?' that is what you said!”

“Clearly, I was wrong.”

“But I believed you!”

“Well, how was I to know!” Lizzy cried. “This is his vile sisters' doing, I am sure. I dare say we are simply not rich or grand enough for them.”

My mother wailed even more when she heard that, and
hurried to the library to give Father the news. Jane drooped past in her cloak and bonnet. Lizzy marched her out for a walk. Kitty and I sat on the settle, feeling helpless.

“Is this what rich people do?” Kitty whispered. “Take a house and install servants and footmen and horses and carriages, only to give it all up after a few weeks?”

“I wish I were a man,” I said. “Instead of a girl, obliged to sit around waiting for no-good suitors to decide if I am fancy enough, or to throw myself at idiot clergymen. If I were a man, I could
do
something. I could become a soldier.”

“But then you would have to go to war,” Kitty said. “You would have to fight.”

In the parlour, Mary started to thump out a funeral march on the pianoforte. Mamma, finding no comfort from Father, staggered towards the kitchen to seek consolation from Hill.

“I shouldn't mind fighting one bit,” I said. “I imagine I'd be quite good at killing people.”

“Well,
my
husband won't be like Mr. Collins
or
Mr. Bingley,” Kitty decided. “
My
husband shan't have to rent a house like Netherfield, for he will have a dozen houses of his own. And he shan't disappear for weeks without a word either. He will be kind, and concerned only with making me happy, and he will adore me.”

She screeched as Napoleon leaped suddenly on to the bench, a mouse twitching helplessly in his maw.

“Horrible beast!” she cried. “Make him go away!”

“Never more this winter!” Mamma lamented from the kitchen. “And we were all so sure that he would marry Jane!”

The funeral march turned into a dirge. The mouse squeaked helplessly. I ran outside before I started to scream.

If Bingley won't have Jane, I told myself, what hope is there for me? I am not half so beautiful, nor kind, nor good. Not even a curate will want me, let alone anyone of consequence, and then when Father dies and Charlotte and Mr. Collins turn me out, I shall have to sleep in ditches, and beg for food from kindly farmers, and probably die before I am twenty.

That is how I felt this morning when I ran out of the house.

Jane was on the big lawn, walking arm in arm with Lizzy. I started towards them. I wanted to say something to her – anything. I wanted to hug her, and then for her to tell me that everything would be all right.

But then I saw someone was riding down the lane. A scarlet coat – it was Wickham!

My heart turned a somersault.

He met Jane and Lizzy at the top of the drive. He dismounted and bowed, they curtsied, and then the three of them walked away along the lower path, with the horse following behind. They did not wait for me. Had they not seen me? I broke into a run to catch up with them, then slowed again – how vastly tragic would it be for them to turn and see me galloping across the lawn towards them! Away they walked towards the Waire, with Wickham leading his horse and Lizzy in the middle but slightly closer to him than to Jane. Again, I wondered how she does it . . . She never flirts – quite the opposite. She is always perfectly proper, and never raises her voice, and she never seems to make any special effort with her clothes but always looks so nice, even when she has been for a walk and is all windblown and muddy. She just smiles and says clever things and everyone is smitten.

I had to hear what they were talking about. They had
disappeared behind the thicket that borders the lower path towards the paddock. Nobody knows this except me, but if you are prepared to get a little dirty, you can walk alongside the path through the thicket right to the end without being seen. I only hesitated for a moment. Then, after making sure nobody could see me, I ran lightly along the edge of the lawn and into the cover of the trees. Brambles scratched at my clothes and face. I pushed them away as quietly as I could, ducking and weaving my way through the undergrowth. A twig snapped beneath my shoe. I froze. No one seemed to hear.

Still hidden, I finally caught up with them as they drew level with the entrance to the paddock, when they were already turning back.

“A short visit,” Wickham was saying. “I must hurry back, but the company at Longbourn is simply too pleasant to keep away.”

My skirt caught and ripped on a low branch. Again, I froze. The others exchanged a few more pleasantries, then Jane and Lizzy walked back to the house. Wickham stayed behind, claiming he had to check something on his horse's saddle. I breathed again. They had not heard me.

“You can come out now, Miss Lydia.”

My stomach lurched as the trees in the thicket began to rustle. I tried to crawl away. Above me, branches were parted and Wickham's head appeared.

“Miss Lydia,” he said. “Oh, Miss Lydia.”

He held the branches back for me. Blushing furiously, I crept out, ducking farther under his arm before stumbling on to the path, where I made sure to stand sideways from him so he would not see the rip in my skirt.

“You have mud on your face,” he observed.

I rubbed my scarlet cheeks.

“And twigs in your hair.”

I tried to smooth it. My bonnet was halfway down my back, hanging from twisted ribbons. Wickham said I was only making things worse.

“How did you know I was there?” I sulked.

“I'm a soldier. I am trained to detect spies.”

“You've been a soldier for about six weeks,” I objected.

“Well, you are not a very good spy.” He laughed.

We walked together to the beginning of the path where it joins the drive, with the horse snorting behind us and occasionally nudging us to go faster. I wanted to smile and be clever like Lizzy, but I couldn't think of a single thing to say. We went on to the main gates, where Wickham prepared to remount. I looked up the drive, to where Jane and Lizzy sat with their backs to us on the stone seat facing the house. Suddenly, I could bear it no longer.

“Do you like Lizzy very much?” I asked.

Wickham did not look offended, or even surprised by my question.

“She is very beautiful and agreeable,” he said.

“And I just make you laugh,” I said sourly.

Mary is right – I open my mouth without thinking, and words fly out. I blushed the hottest red I have ever felt, and stared at my feet, but when I looked up he was smiling – a teasing grin.

“I certainly cannot imagine Miss Elizabeth climbing through bushes to spy on people,” he teased. “You are quite unique in that respect.”

I giggled and smacked his arm. He caught my hand, and
did not let it go
, but held it quite firmly, looking into my eyes as if he had something to tell me that was very important.

“I think that you and I could be great friends,” he said, and then he let go of my hand, swung himself into the saddle, and trotted away. He turned when he reached the bend in the lane, and waved. It was all I could manage to wave back before he disappeared.

What does that mean?
You and I could be great friends
?

I don't want to be
friends
. I want him to be in love with me!

I was in such a rage of disappointment I could not return to the house, but stormed off down the lane, and did not come home for hours. I was hot and even filthier when I returned. The others were all drinking tea. I threw myself on the sofa, declined refreshment, and glared into the fire. Friends, indeed! I thought.

Then, little by little, I became sensible to what was taking place around me. In the far corner of the room, Mamma and Father were arguing – she insisting that he write to Mr. Bing-ley, he refusing. She began to cry. He sighed in exasperation and left the room and Mamma bit her lip to stop herself crying harder. Jane sat with Lizzy's arms about her, staring into the fire, a veritable picture of gloom, and Mary sighed heavily as she read, doubtless thinking of Mr. Collins, while Kitty frowned as she worked on a new bonnet with which she hopes to impress some officer or other.

Love, in our household at least, seems to cause an awful lot of misery.

When I was little, before someone decided it was wrong, I was friends with those village boys who used to swim in the
Waire. We built dens together in the woods, and they showed me how to catch fish, and one of them – Thomas, he was the oldest – once made a fire to cook them on. The fish were burned to a cinder, but it was wonderful to sit swinging my legs on a tree stump, licking fishy charcoal off my hands.

Perhaps Wickham is right and friendship could be a splendid thing after all.

Sunday, 22nd December

T
he day after I last wrote in this diary – the day after Wickham said what he did, about us becoming friends – we dined with him at Aunt Philips's, and he talked as usual almost exclusively to Lizzy, and I realised then that nothing had changed, nor would change, unless I did something about it. On the drive home, I pondered what it means to be friends with a person – and realised that I did not know. I am not sure I
have
friends. There is Maria Lucas, of course, and there are other neighbours, but in all honesty (and I think it is important at least to
try
to be honest), most of them (including Maria) could easily be replaced.

You and I could be great friends
, he said, but how did one go about making such a thing happen?

And then I thought again of those village boys, all those years ago, and I realised what it was that made us friends. It was the fact that we did things together – built shelters with logs and branches, climbed trees, caught fish. We would never have become friends just by sitting about chatting to each
other in drawing rooms. I did not think Wickham would want to build shelters in the woods, but there were other things he could do . . . And so the following day, as we all prepared to walk back to Longbourn together after a visit to Savill's to buy a last few presents for Christmas, I pulled him aside and said, “Wickham, will you do something for me?”

“Anything you ask,” he said, his eyes still on Lizzy walking ahead.

“Will you teach me to ride a horse?”

“To ride a horse?”
That
got his attention. “I must admit, Lydia, that is the last thing I expected. But do you not know how to ride already?”

“I know how to sit on a horse as it walks very slowly from one place to another,” I said. “I want to learn to ride properly – to go fast, and gallop, and jump over things. Ladies do, you know,” I added, in case he should think I was being very improper.

“I find most ladies are more concerned with balls and bonnets and practising their accomplishments.”

“Then you have a very narrow view of young ladies,” I snapped. “I am very fond of balls and bonnets, but I should like to learn to ride as well. I don't think that is so very contradictory. I should also quite like to learn to shoot,” I added, remembering my thoughts the day Aunt Philips came to bring news of the regiment when they first arrived, when I sat fidgeting upon the sofa thinking of all the things I would do if I were a man.

Wickham burst out laughing. Lizzy looked back curiously, but he offered
me
his arm, and together we planned when my lessons should take place.

And so I have ridden every afternoon for the past three days. Wickham is a surprisingly thorough teacher. I am learning in our paddock, on the mare he was loaned for his stay in Meryton. Her name is Bessie, and she is alarmingly tall, but also, he says, immensely docile and well trained, and perfect for teaching a lady.

“So, Lydia,” he said, as he arrived for our very first lesson. “How serious are you about this?”

“Entirely serious,” I replied.

“And you don't mind getting dirty? Doing tasks most ladies would consider unbecoming, or beneath them?”

“Not in the least!”

“Excellent reply!” And with that he led the mare to the stables, tied her to a ring, removed her bridle and saddle, gave me the bridle to hold, disappeared into the stables, and came out carrying our side-saddle, with a brush and hoof pick on top.

“Lesson one,” he said. “How to prepare and saddle your horse. Not the most elegant aspect of the sport, but something every true horseman or horsewoman ought to know how to do.”

I did nothing else that day but brush Bessie from her mane to her fetlocks (I did not even know that horses
had
fetlocks), pick out her hooves, and put on her bridle and saddle, the task made all the harder by the cold, which numbed my fingers.

“I don't know a single lady who does this,” I complained.

“Now you know how grooms and stablehands feel,” Wickham said pitilessly.

On the second day, I prepared Bessie again, and then Wickham led me round the paddock, correcting the position of
my hands, my legs, my back and even my head as he taught me to stop, move on, turn left, right, change rein, and execute figures of eight, first at a walk, then at a gentle trot, as our breath made puffs of vapour in the air.

And then today, he put Bessie on something called a lunging rein and told me we were going to canter.

“But don't worry,” he said. “You will be on the rein, and just going in a wide circle, so she cannot run away with you.”

“I'm not worried,” I said quickly.

He let out the rein. I squeezed Bessie's sides, as he had taught me. She walked forward. Wickham flicked his whip. She broke into a trot, throwing me about so my bones all rattled. Another flick and . . .

“I can't!” I squealed.

“Whoa . . .” Bessie slowed down. “What is the matter, Lydia? Don't tell me you are afraid! I thought you completely fearless!”

“It is so high up!”

“Then don't look down.”

“I cannot help it!”

“Very well,” he said, and took the reins from my hands.

“What are you doing? I don't want to stop!”

“You are not going to stop.” He had tied a knot in the reins, and hung them to rest on Bessie's neck, well clear of her legs. “Now, Lydia,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

“Why?”

“Do you?”

“I don't know!”

“I suppose that will have to do.” He smiled. “Now I want you to hold on to the pommel – that is the front of the saddle –
and remember everything I have taught you about your posture. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” I said suspiciously.

“Good.” He let the rein out again. “Oh, and I want you to close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Trust me! I promise I won't let anything happen to you!”

And so I did as he said. I sat on Bessie, ramrod straight, chin up, heels down, my hands upon the pommel,
and my eyes tightly closed
as she walked, then trotted, then . . .

“Keep your eyes shut!” Wickham yelled.

I was flying . . . flying! With Bessie moving smoothly beneath me, and the wind rushing past, and the cold completely forgotten as Wickham whooped.

“Whoa!” he called again. Bessie slowed, and I opened my eyes.

“I did it!” I shouted.

“You'll make a horsewoman yet, Lydia Bennet!” Wickham grinned. “I knew you wouldn't be afraid for long.”

Every bone in my body aches, the farmworkers think I am hilarious, my sisters think I am mad, and Mamma is convinced that I will break my neck, but I have done it! I have learned to ride fast!

“When can I jump and gallop?” I asked Wickham as together we removed the side-saddle from Bessie.

“Soon.”

“And shoot?”

“After the jumping and galloping.”

He walked back to the house with me to take his leave of the others. Lizzy raised her eyebrows as we came in. “Goodness,
Lydia, look at you! Spattered in mud from head to foot!”

But she was smiling as she said it, and as Wickham took a seat beside her and I dropped on to the sofa, she poured out wine and offered a plate of biscuits, and I thought how perfect it would be if life could always be like this.

“It was a good lesson today,” Wickham told her. “Wasn't it, Lydia?”

“Monstrous good,” I agreed.

In more ways than one, I realised, as I stood beside Lizzy, waving goodbye as he rode away. For today I finally learned what it means to be great friends.

It means trusting someone so much you are prepared to do something terrifying with your eyes shut, knowing they won't ever let anything bad happen to you, and it is the best feeling in the world.