Lydia (13 page)

Wednesday, 17th June

T
he sky was milky as I made my way down the steps to the beach this morning, but the air was still and the day already warm. There were not many people yet in the water. I picked my way as fast as I could to Janet's wagon at the far end of the line. This morning I wasted no time but changed into my shift in minutes, then threw myself in the water before Janet had time to catch me.

“I have questions,” I said as I came up for air.

“I thought you wanted to learn to swim,” she said as she grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Please, wait!” But I only had time to pinch my nose between my fingers before she pushed me underwater again. I flailed about swallowing pints of sea before I remembered what she had taught me, kicked the bottom, and rose to the surface, where I filled my lungs with air, and lay flat on my back, gently paddling my hands and feet.

“Better,” Janet grunted. “Now, on to your front and let's practise moving forward.”

I felt very proud this morning, because I managed to advance several feet before going under again. Janet is a hard teacher, but she seemed pleased. I think she may even like me, because after my lesson, when I pulled myself up to the machine, she came and sat beside me on the step, and together we looked out over the immense blue of the sea.

“What do you know of the Comtesse de Fombelle?” I asked.

“The lady with the shift that you have copied?”

I reddened, and said, “The very same.”

“She's a good swimmer.”

“Other than that.”

“French,” Janet said. “Though she's not been back there since she ran away as a little girl.”

“Ran away?”

“From the Revolution.” Janet nodded. “Escaped dressed as a peasant with her mamma and brother after the rebel murderers killed her father. They say her mamma rowed them over to England herself in a boat she stole right under a fisherman's nose, and burned it when she got here so they couldn't take her back.”

“What did they do to her father?”

Janet drew a finger across her throat with a ghoulish grin. “Shot or guillotined or starved in prison, who knows? But she didn't hang around long, the mother. Cast off her widow's weeds before it were decent, then married Mr. John Shelton.”

“Who is John Shelton?” My head was spinning with all this information.

“Tailor's son, common as any of us till he went off to India to make his fortune. No one knew him when he came back, he were that fine. Too good for the rest of us, built that daft house
up on the cliff, lording it about. Then, two years after marrying, he went back out to India, taking his wife and stepchildren with him.”

“The Comte and Comtesse de Fombelle . . .” I said.

Harriet had finished her bathe and was on the beach, calling to me to hurry.

“You'd better get back in the water if you don't want to go,” Janet said.

I slipped off the steps like an obedient child and splashed about for a bit.

“So who are Mrs. and Miss Lovett?”

“Mrs. Lovett is their aunt by marriage,” Janet said. “Mr. John's sister, who married a lawyer and went off to London, and never a word to say any more to them she grew up with. Miss Esther Lovett is their step-cousin.”

“And where are Mr. and Mrs. Shelton now?”

“He's in India, she's dead.”

“Dead?”

“From one of them fevers they have over there. They say he's gone mad with grief, and won't ever come home, but the young gentleman's to start at Oxford soon, and the lady won't leave her brother.”

Harriet shouted again. Janet floated off the step with surprising daintiness, and shoved my head underwater one last time.

“That's you done,” she said. “Now hurry up and dress, I've other customers waiting.”

“At last!” Harriet huffed as I hurried out of the machine. “Mrs. Conway was here, and has invited us to join her for chocolate.
Run, Lydia, or we shall miss her!”

Mrs. Conway is one of Harriet's new friends from last night's card party, vastly smart. Harriet is monstrous impressed with her, and fairly sprinted down the beach in her rush to join her at the coffee shop. I said my bootlaces needed tying and that I would catch up with her. I took my time about the laces, hoping for a glimpse of the Comtesse de Fombelle, but she was not on the beach.

India! I thought, as I walked slowly towards the steps. France! Revolution and running away and disguises and executions! My head was still full of their story as I climbed back up to the street.

How could I meet these extraordinary people? What would I say to them if I did?

I almost tripped over a child as I reached the top of the steps. He was running at full pelt along the cliff, ignoring the nursemaid who followed, shouting at him to stop. I jumped aside to avoid him. On he thundered, his little legs pumping at full speed, his head down, faster than seemed possible for one so small. The nursemaid was already tiring. “Master Edward!” She held her sides, blowing and gasping for breath. “Master Edward, come back here at once!”

All along the cliff, heads were turning. A few gentlemen tried to catch the runaway, but he dodged them with ease, until
oomph
! Straight into a tall, booted figure he ran, and stopped dead. For a moment, he was perfectly still. Then he raised his little head, and I followed the direction of his gaze – up at the face that looked gravely down at him.

It was Mr. Darcy, returned from a bathe and looking more dishevelled than I have ever seen him, his shirt front damp, his
hair still wet, his face hale and burned from the sun and wind. He actually looked rather handsome, and much more jolly than usual. Perhaps if Lizzy saw him like that she would accept him after all.

The child recovered his wits and attempted to run. Mr. Darcy lifted him neatly from the street and held him in his arms, waiting for the nursemaid to catch up. He turned with him towards the sea, pointed to the coloured sail of one of the pleasure boats, then towards a flock of gulls circling a fishing vessel. The child giggled. Mr. Darcy smiled, and his face was transformed – no longer stern and cold, but friendly and soft and almost playful.

The nursemaid ran up, thanked Mr. Darcy, and walked away, scolding the child and holding him tightly by the hand. Mr. Darcy watched them go, then, turning in my direction, started. He bowed.

“Miss Lydia.”

I curtsied. “Mr. Darcy.”

“You have been bathing?”

“I have! I am learning to swim.” I could not resist a boast. “I am become shockingly good at it, too.”

“But you are alone?”

“Mrs. Forster is waiting for me in the coffee shop.”

“Indeed . . . indeed . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “My best regards to your sisters,” he said at last. “I mean, to your family. Your mother and father . . .”

“I know what you mean.” I smiled.

I never thought that anything Mr. Darcy did would make me laugh, but he actually blushed when I said that. We talked for a few minutes of this and that, then he took his leave and
hurried away.

Mr. Darcy is leaving for London tomorrow, he told me, and from there to Derbyshire later in the summer. I rather wish now that he would return to Meryton, and try proposing to Lizzy again. I think he might make a fine husband for her, even though
he
is not a count.

 

 

Brighton,

Wednesday, 17th June

Dear Kitty,

Brighton is better and better – you would not believe the sort of people who are here! The very essence of smartness and nobility. I am plotting and planning how to meet them even as I write!

A few days ago, I went on a drive with Wickham along the cliffs. We stumbled upon a little beach with water the colour of Lady Lucas's sapphire brooch, and Wickham said it was just like the Mediterranean – imagine sailing about on a whole sea the colour of jewels! That is what I would do if I were rich and noble.

By the way, the secret I was telling you about – by which I mean the one I
can't
tell you – is become quite exciting, and the gentleman appears as enamoured as ever.
I am sorry to be such a lady of mystery, but when the secret is revealed, you will understand why!

Your enigmatic sister,

Lydia

P.S. I enclose a ribbon you might like.

P.P.S. Please could you ask Mary if India is on the Mediterranean Sea?

Saturday, 20th June

T
he truth is I had no idea how to go about meeting the de Fombelles. I thought and thought about it, and in the end appealed to Wickham for advice.

“Me? Why do you think I can help you?”

“You are so good at arranging to meet people you shouldn't.”

Wickham looked blank.

“Georgiana Darcy!” I hissed. “Mary King!”

“Very well.” He sighed. “I will see what I can do.”

That was two days ago. Yesterday, when we met on the Steine, he told me that, having succeeded in bribing Mrs. Lovett's maid, he had the information I needed.

“The Comte and Comtesse de Fombelle plan to visit the Chalybeate Spa in Hove tomorrow afternoon,” he told me. “They will arrive at two o'clock with their cousin Miss Esther Lovett, who is recovering from a cold and whose mother wishes her to take the chalybeate waters.”

“That is it? That is your information? But what should I do?”

“Go to the spa and plan your strategy when you get there. I'm sure you'll think of something.”

Harriet insisted on accompanying me to the spa with Mrs. Conway. “Taking the waters is vastly fashionable, my dear,” she explained as we hurried to meet her new friend's carriage outside the library. “Only a few pennies per glass, and Mrs. Conway says you never felt better afterwards. Oh, this is an excellent plan of yours, Lydia.”

She was still chattering excitedly as we entered the spa gardens, and Mrs. Conway was just as loud. I prayed that I should not be with them if I met the Comte and his party, then felt a little ashamed, because it is exactly the sort of thing someone like Caroline Bingley would think.

At least today I am properly dressed, I told myself. It rained yesterday, and I spent the afternoon taking up my blue muslin, adding a broad lace frill to the neck and a row of tucks to the hem, with matching lace on my bonnet, and I have splashed out on a pair of frilly pantaloons to wear peeping out beneath. I think I have been vastly clever. The whole
toilette
looks delightful, especially with my little tan spencer and new parasol. I felt extremely confident as we set out from Brighton, but as we arrived, my assurance faltered.

The path was not wide enough for three. I trailed along behind Harriet and Mrs. Conway, my eyes darting left and right in the hope of spotting the Comte and Comtesse, and I confess I was quite despairing of ever seeing them when suddenly – a flash of scarlet, a shadow of blue caught my eye within a shady bower, a few feet from the path.

The Comte! Seated upon a bench, reading a book, his red scarf about his neck.

“Harriet!”

She stopped with an impatient sigh.

“What is it, dear?”

“I feel so tired, all of a sudden. Would you mind awfully if I sat upon this stone bench and waited for you here?”

“I will take you home.” (Through clenched teeth, with an anxious glance at Mrs. Conway.)

“Oh, pray do not trouble yourself! I shall be
quite
happy here. Please, do go on to the fountain. I shall be delightfully comfortable sitting here in the shade.”

Mrs. Conway insisted that she must bring back some water for me. I begged her to take her time, and drooped upon the bench, the picture of ladylike exhaustion, until they were out of sight. My first instinct, I admit, was to rush forward the second they disappeared and simply see what happened. But
plan your strategy
, Wickham had said. I had not much time – it must be used to its maximum advantage. I needed to plan my campaign. I needed to
think
.

The first thing to do, I told myself (strategising like a soldier), was to make quite sure he was alone. Rushing in to overpower him, only to be confronted, without a plan, by Miss Lovett and the Comtesse, would mean being outnumbered and put me at a disadvantage. I looked left, then right. The alley in which I found myself was deserted. Walking as fast as I could while still maintaining an air of nonchalance, I left the path and came to stand behind his bower, feigning interest in a pretty climbing rose twisting round a conveniently placed arch. I peeped through the foliage. The Comte was engrossed in his book. His sister and Miss Lovett were nowhere to be seen.

Think, Lydia, think! What did I know about him?

He reads (not to be helped). He dresses well (if carelessly – he had thrown his gloves down on the bench beside him and I noticed a rip in his jacket, beautifully mended but visible nonetheless), with a touch of drama (the scarlet scarf). He is French, he is a nobleman, he lived in India . . .

Gloves!

My heart beating wildly, I slipped through the rose-bedecked arch, discreetly tugging off one of my own gloves (white kid, grey buttons – adorable). Advancing towards him, I occupied myself with searching through the contents of my reticule. Then, as I drew level with him, I let the glove fall at his feet.

“Lord, what a clumsy fool I am!”

He was not reading at all. He was asleep – asleep! I had not bargained on that. As he started awake with a cry of alarm, his book fell from his hands. It came to rest beside my glove and there –
there
– I spotted my chance.

Oh, blessed Mr. Collins and his boring readings at Longbourn! For the book was none other than his old favourite –
The Meditations of Saint Augustine
.

Crouching to retrieve my glove, I picked up the book and held it out to the Comte. “Dear Saint Augustine,” I murmured. “I'm afraid he also took a bit of a tumble.”

“Is he dear?” The Comte rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he stood up, looking somewhat confused. “I'm afraid I find him rather heavy going.”

“
The world is a book
,” I quoted airily. “
And those who do not travel read only one page
.
I
could read him for hours!”

“Could you really?” He looked at me doubtfully. I batted my
eyelids with a demure smile, and he began to laugh. He looks so nice when he laughs! It makes his eyes sparkle. “You are joking. Thank God! I honestly think this is the dullest thing that I have ever read, but I am going up to Oxford next term and my tutor gave me a pile of ghastly books to read before I left India, which he swears are absolutely indispensable to my survival. I prefer poetry myself, and plays and novels. How clever you are to know about him, though. My sister has no idea.”

“Has no idea about what?” drawled a female voice behind us, and then there
she
was, with Miss Lovett by her side.

The Comtesse was splendid in her striped
corbeau
green and white, this time with a stiff saffron jacket and ribbon on her wide-brimmed hat. The tiny black-and-white dog barked ferociously at the end of a short leash, a matching saffron ribbon about its neck. Her cousin, who is tiny with huge dark eyes, looked like a timid vole by her side. She wore plain cambric with a dull brown spencer, and was carrying a cup of water.

“My sister, Théodorine de Fombelle, and my cousin, Miss Esther Lovett,” said the Comte. “But please, what is your name?”

I told them.

“Miss Lydia Bennet!” the Comte cried, like it was the most pleasing name he had ever heard. “Miss Lydia Bennet, who reads Saint Augustine.”

“Goodness,” his sister said. She sat down upon the bench with her little dog, and kissed its nose to stop it barking. “That is impressive. I bet Esther's read Saint Augustine, too, haven't you, Esther?” Miss Lovett blushed, and said she had.

“And I bet you haven't,” the Comte teased.

The Comtesse ignored her brother's jibe, but turned away from the dog to scrutinise me. “So you're clever,” she said. “And wearing rather a good dress, today. An infinite improvement on that pink creation the other night.”

“Theo!” her brother exclaimed.

“But that wasn't yours. I'm right, am I not? I said that it was borrowed. It was much too tight about the bodice, and loose about the skirts. Also, too fussy. This –” she indicated my new dress – “this is much more your style. Fitted, and amusing – the pantaloons a slightly obvious touch, perhaps, but
piquant
nevertheless. Not, you will forgive me, cloying. No, I rather think that pink thing belonged to the lady you accompanied. The colour would have suited her darker complexion, and from her
toilette
that night it is obvious she has a taste for furbelows. The parasol is Munro's, of course. He has been selling them by the dozen since the good weather arrived.”

The Comtesse's voice never stays the same. It swoops from fast and natural to slow and almost affected in an instant and without apparent reason. Her accent, like her brother's, is an inconsistent mixture, veering in her short speech from English to French to a sing-song lilt I assume must be a legacy from India.

“Well?” she demanded. “Is it Munro's?”

“It is,” I admitted, feeling a little light-headed.

“My cousin is a talented dressmaker,” Esther Lovett murmured. “There is nothing she does not know about fashion.”

“You should see her workroom,” the Comte said. “It is quite professional.”

“I don't like to do anything by halves,” the Comtesse informed me. “As for the parasol, my advice is to throw it out. Parasols are only good for playing cricket on the beach, and that one is particularly offensive.”

“Theo!” the Comte exploded. Even Miss Lovett looked shocked, but I could think of only one thing.

How could I see them again?

“I should love to see your workroom,” I blurted.

“Then you must come!” the Comte cried. “Mustn't she, Theo?”

For a short second, I thought I saw her hesitate. But then, “Of course, come!” She pulled a calling card from the minuscule black reticule that hung from her wrist. “Come next week, on Thursday. We're out on the cliffs.”

“At what time . . .”

“Come for tiffin,” the Comte said.

“He means luncheon,” Esther whispered. “Around midday.”

“Al will fetch you.”

“Al?”

“Alaric.” The Comtesse nodded at her brother. “Now, Esther – are you going to drink this disgusting water or not? You cannot carry that cup about with you for ever. Just glug it down, there's a good girl.”

Miss Lovett pulled a face as she peered at the brownish water in her cup, but I can see already that it is not possible to refuse her cousin. A few drops dribbled down her chin as she drank, and she blushed as the Comte very gallantly offered her his handkerchief, after which the ladies curtsied and took their leave. The Comte tipped his hat, followed them, then ran back.

“Please forgive my sister,” he said. “She is always frighteningly direct.”

“No! It is not . . . I mean . . . I have seen her swim at the beach. I think she is perfectly splendid.”

It was the sort of unguarded, unthinking remark that would make Mary or Lizzy roll their eyes in disbelief, but the Comte de Fombelle beamed as if he couldn't agree more.

“And I think it's perfectly splendid that you know Saint Augustine,” he said, in a voice ringing with sincerity.

“Oh, yes!” I said. “I mean, I adore him.”

“I must run after them – but we will see you very soon. I will be at the Coach and Anchor at eleven o'clock. You will come, won't you?”

“Of course!”

My head spun as I watched him hurry away, and I had to sit down on the bench.

I have met them at last. Good grief! The Comte even appears to like me. But oh Lord – what tangled web of lies have I begun to weave?

 

 

Longbourn,

Friday, 19th June

Dear Lydia,

I hope you are well and still enjoying the delights of sea-bathing.

Wickham is entirely wrong to compare the South Coast to the Mediterranean. The Mediterranean is a sea full of flying fish and dolphins and porpoises, lined with countries of vast and ancient historical interest. In Greece there are also temples, and it is one of the few places that I should like to see very much. And the answer to your question is no, India is nowhere near to the Mediterranean. I continue to be appalled by your lack of education.

Your sister,

Mary

P.S. Do not be surprised if Kitty does not answer you. The ribbon you sent in your last letter was much appreciated, but she is still angry.