Lydia Bennet's Story (23 page)

This was quite a speech, and more words than Lydia thought she had ever heard him utter, though she felt it devoid of the necessary enquiries and flatteries on her health, her beauty, and her person, which young men of her acquaintance usually emitted. He sat down opposite her and fiddled nervously with the fringing on a fat velvet cushion.

“You have a beautiful garden, Mr Fitzalan,” Lydia remarked. “You must be a great gardener I think.”
Alexander did not know where to look. He was clearly mortified by her comments, though she was not to know that merely the recollection of his being seen in his shirt and breeches was enough to confound him. Why did Mrs Wickham always seem to take so much pleasure in his discomposure? He could not think what to say and was immensely grateful for the fact that his sister chose that instant to burst in on the pair of them.
“Oh, Lydia, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting on my company,” she cried as she came flying into the room, throwing her cloak and her bonnet onto a chair before falling into a seat. “The apothecary could not be found, then I was delayed by Miss Wynn, who always has a week’s gossip to impart, and then I saw Miss Rowlandson, who begged for some advice about a new bonnet.”
“You saw Miss Rowlandson? How is she? Were you helpful in your advice, Isabella?” Mr Fitzalan sat up with instant attention, prompting his sister with more animation than Lydia had ever seen in him.
“Suffice to say, she entered the shop and bought the very hat I recommended, so yes, I would say so. Do not worry, Alexander; for your sake, I would not put her off.”
Lydia looked from brother to sister. Mr Fitzalan must be smitten with this Miss Rowlandson, judging by the daft expression spreading over his countenance and his sister’s coy smiles. She hoped the poor woman knew of his designs; it would not bode well to have Mr Fitzalan take one by surprise with declarations of affection, but that could hardly be the case. He did not know what it was to be in love; he had professed as much.
“I must go and attend my duties, forgive me, ladies,” he said as he rose, colouring instantly and bowing stiffly before leaving the room in such haste as made Lydia nearly burst out laughing.
At last they were left alone, and in the natural course of conversation, Isabella had soon taken Lydia into her confidence. “Miss Eleanor Rowlandson is a good friend of ours; indeed, I hope she may be more than just that—a sister too perhaps.”
“Is your brother in love with Miss Rowlandson?” Lydia asked, trying to keep the astonishment out of her voice.
“I cannot say, though it is clear he likes her well enough. No, Eleanor has a brother, Frederick. Oh, Lydia, it is towards this excellent fellow that my desires tend and my hopes lie.”
“You sly thing, not a word did you divulge to me in any of your letters. How could you keep such a secret?”
“To be truthful, Lydia, he has only just declared his intention of courting me, and I did not want to say anything until I was really sure. Lydia, I do love him, more than anyone ever.”
“Is he handsome? Is he rich?” Lydia quizzed laughingly, keeping up the pretence that she knew nothing about him.
“Both! I am so lucky; I cannot believe my good fortune. However, we are not married yet, nor even engaged, but I have high hopes.”
“Isabella, I am so happy for you. You deserve to be so blessed. Tell me all about him.”
“I danced with him at an Assembly in Meryton, though I had already been introduced to him by his sister. They live at HighCross, which is only down the road, and she was one of the first to call when we moved here to be with Alexander. The family owns much of the farmland hereabouts; Eleanor lives with their parents close by, and Freddie has the running of Home Farm. Lydia, I know you will love them both as much as I do.”
“I’m sure I shall. And do you think, when you have gone to live at Home Farm, Eleanor might be set up in the rectory?”
“I wish it more than I can say, but you know my brother, Lydia. For all my love of his endearing ways, he does not have that knack with ladies that others possess. He does not know what to say to them. He is truly awkward with strangers, and how any young lady is to come to know him on a more intimate basis I do not know. He cannot make any small talk nor get past saying ‘how do you do’ or have any idea of how to flatter or compliment. If only he had a teacher, a girl of his acquaintance, someone with whom he feels comfortable who could teach him the art of conversing on subjects lighter than those which only interest clergymen.” Isabella looked with intent at her friend. “Yes, that is what he needs: someone to show him the way.”
“Surely if Eleanor is interested, she will be the person to do that,” Lydia replied, picking up the cushion Mr Fitzalan had abandoned.
“Perhaps, but I fear she may not be aware that he has even the simplest regard for her, based on his behaviour thus far. No, what he needs is someone to instruct him in the ways of love and teach him to flirt a little.”
Lydia was at a loss as to know what to say as she sat smoothing out the cushion’s fringe between her fingers. She thought Isabella was asking the impossible. It made her giggle to think of Alexander even attempting to flirt with any poor unsuspecting female, let alone encourage anyone to take on the task of instructing him in the art of seduction.
Isabella was staring at her with a look somewhere between recognition and amusement. “I am forming a most excellent plan as I look at you, my dear friend. You know Alexander quite well enough, and you are just the sort of person to encourage him to almost anything. You could do it.”
Lydia laughed out loud. “I cannot agree with you, Isabella; what on earth gave you that absurd idea? I would think if anyone should instruct Alexander on how to behave towards young ladies, it is you. He needs to hear such advice from his sister, believe me. I am certainly ill qualified for such an exercise. Besides, Alexander does not like me. We can never have a conversation without one upsetting the other. It is quite clear how much he detests me.”
“However can you say such a thing, Lydia?” Isabella looked astounded. Her fair curls shook around her neat coiffure in agitation. “Has he ever given you cause to think he dislikes you? What has he said? Has he behaved badly towards you?”
Lydia shook her head. “I wish I had not mentioned it; I am truly sorry, Isabella. No, he has never said anything amiss nor behaved in any way improper. Please forget I said anything at all.”
“Dear friend, tell me what you mean,” Isabella begged.
“If I am honest,” Lydia said sighing, “I think he looks at me as one looks at a truly wicked woman, and I suppose, in a way, I have at one time had my share of wickedness. That is altered anyhow; I am a respectable married woman.”
“Truly, Lydia, I think you are mistaken about my brother. I am sure he has mentioned his regard for you as my friend, and in any case, it would be going against the grain. He does not judge his fellow man. He is a clergyman after all.”
“Precisely,” Lydia answered, “I am quite used to the ways of clergymen. You forget my cousin is a man of the cloth.”
Isabella looked most put out.
“I will try at least to engage him in some conversation if you like,” said Lydia, “but I warn you, I do not think I am up to the job. I cannot promise to aid your brother’s chances of romantic liaison with any exchange we are likely to have. I truly believe you would be much better off having this talk with Miss Rowlandson.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door and Bertha entered with a grin on her face that stretched from ear to ear. “Mr and Miss Rowlandson have called, miss, shall I show them in?”
“There, Lydia, now you shall meet them!” Isabella giggled, as she ran round the room picking up her belongings, rearranging the chairs, and inspecting her reflection in the glass. “Bertha, do hurry and show them in.”
Freddie and Eleanor Rowlandson waltzed in with such an air of confidence and affable good humour that Lydia was taken by surprise. He was a very handsome man with a pleasing address and charming manner. Mr Rowlandson might be a farmer, but he was certainly something more than the country bumpkin Lydia had anticipated. His sister was something of an eye opener too; a beauty, all blonde curls and emerald eyes, and though Lydia could not tell why she took an instant dislike to the girl, one thing was certain: Miss Eleanor Rowlandson was not at all the plain young woman Lydia had expected to see. She was dressed in white muslin, with a Spanish cloak of the same swinging from her shoulders, and on her head a Persian hat with green feathers framed her pretty face, setting off her eyes, which Lydia thought were exactly the same shade as the eyes of the cat she had seen in the rector’s garden.
“We have heard so much about you, Mrs Wickham,” Mr Rowlandson enthused. “Miss Fitzalan was so delighted to hear you were to be in this part of the country again and so were we— thrilled at the thought of meeting with you at last. I hope you will forgive our speed at coming over to get a look at you, but we had heard such reports that we couldn’t wait a minute longer, we just had to come and see for ourselves. I might add, Mrs Wickham, that I need hardly say that we are not disappointed in the least, are we, my dear? You are every bit the woman of beauty and fashion we have heard so much about!”
Miss Rowlandson smiled and nodded in the right places, though Lydia noted it was not done with the same enthusiasm. The door opened again and there was Mr Fitzalan, turned up quite like a bad penny, Lydia thought, though she imagined it would be fun to watch his attempts at courting Eleanor. She could see, to her great amusement, that Miss Rowlandson was staring at him a great deal, smiling far too much, and fluttering her eyelashes at every chance, but these antics seemed to have no effect on her intended suitor, who either was not aware of her attempts to captivate him or chose to ignore them.
“Your sister is mistress of Netherfield, is she not?” Mr Rowlandson continued. “I am slightly acquainted with her husband Mr Bingley, as fine a fellow as ever lived.”
Lydia nodded and smiled; she was quite used to hearing praise of her relatives in such a manner. She surmised it might be easy to be thus distinguished by one’s fellow human beings if one were as rich.
“We have heard there is to be a ball at the house,” added his sister. “How I should love to be a fly on the wall at such a gathering and see all the beautiful gowns.”
Isabella looked anxiously at her friend. Lydia knew what she was thinking—that she would love to have Mr Rowlandson there, to twirl away the hours. Isabella looked down at her clenched hands with resignation; she knew it would be too much to ask her friend to invite him, and in any case, it was more than likely not in Lydia’s power to be able to do so.
“It would be my pleasure to invite you to the ball; it is my great privilege to invite whomever I choose,” Lydia announced, pleased to see the expression on Miss Rowlandson’s face who was now regarding her with a mixture of envy and admiration.
“Mrs Wickham, you cannot mean it!” Eleanor declared, jumping up from the seat, the ostrich feathers in her hat waving in her excitement. “Oh, tell me I have heard correctly; am I really to go to the ball?”
“That is very generous, Mrs Wickham,” her brother cried, grinning at Isabella who beamed back with sheer joy. “We would be delighted to accept your very kind invitation.”
Lydia could not have felt happier if she was mistress of Netherfield itself. It was most agreeable indeed to offer such generous hospitality at someone else’s expense. She only hoped that Jane would not mind too much when she told her what she had done. Everyone continued to praise her for showing such beneficence, all except Mr Fitzalan, who had not spoken throughout but merely watched her, with that same disapproving and unforgiving countenance, with those eyes that matched the sky outside.
“Do you dance, Mr Rowlandson?” Lydia asked. “No, do not answer me; I pride myself on my ability to discern a man who dances like a dream, and I would lay a bet on my best bonnet that you are such a creature.”
“High stakes indeed, Mrs Wickham,” laughed Mr Rowlandson.
“Do not laugh, sir. You clearly have no comprehension of the great store I lay by my headwear. Tell him it is so, Isabella,” she asked, giggling, but did not pause for breath long enough to allow her friend to speak. “I always love to dance, you know, and I hope once I have had my try out with all my favourite beaux, you shall save me a dance too. I do love to dance with a well-looking man.” Lydia could not help herself; he was so very charming and was clearly enjoying her flirtatious manner, as his eyes did not leave hers once. She did not notice her friend’s close observation of the pair of them, and even if she had, it would not have deterred her.
“My sister Isabella is an excellent dancer, the most accomplished in Hertfordshire I should say,” Mr Fitzalan butted in, and Lydia noted not only Mr Rowlandson heartily agreeing with him but regarded Alexander’s smug air, as if he rejoiced in detracting all attention from her own good self, which appeared to have been his object.
She was quite sick of him and decided she would have a little sport with him. “Mr Fitzalan, are we at last able to coax you into your dancing slippers? You cannot come to a ball at Netherfield and stand about you know; it is simply not allowed. You must not show your disapproval. Even Mr Darcy condescends to partner all, from the highest in the land, to the most lowly farmer’s daughter.”
Alexander stared back at her inscrutably before her steady gaze forced his eyes to look down at the ground, yet his jaw remained set firm and his mouth unsmiling.
“But Mr Fitzalan does dance, Mrs Wickham, and with great style I might add,” Eleanor interjected. “I cannot think where you got the idea from that he does not. Indeed, I have danced with him several times at the last two Assemblies.”
Lydia was most vexed to find that the man who had refused to partner her had not only agreed to dance with Miss Rowlandson but had accompanied her more than once. “I am sure he does dance after a fashion; I am just a tease, you know. But I think if we press him, he will admit that he was always reluctant to exhibit and frowned at those who did. I must say I am glad to hear of this change and to be told that he has a talent for dancing is music to my ears.”
“Perhaps there were reasons for my reluctance to dance on the occasions to which you refer, madam,” he said brusquely, before rising from his seat. “Forgive me, I must beg to leave you all.” He was gone instantly from the room, leaving the others staring at one another, stunned by his abrupt departure and the exchange between him and Mrs Wickham.
There was an awkward silence for a second or two before Lydia spoke. “Dear me, I appear to have touched a raw nerve; I was only funning you know. I do hope it won’t stop him performing at the ball. Now I shall be more anxious than ever to witness this rare display.” She laughed, but when the others hesitated before half-heartedly joining in, she had a notion that they were only doing so to be polite.