Lydia Page 10

  “Galloping about with Wickham!” she cried this morning over breakfast. “Terrorising all of Brighton with a pair of runaway horses!”

  There are no secrets in this town.

  “We did not gallop,” I lied. “Wickham was in complete control absolutely all the time. Nobody was terrorised.”

  “What will people say about me if you behave like this? I shall have to write to your parents, and then they will call you away and what will I do with no companion?”

  It is typical of Harriet to be more concerned for her reputation than for mine, and I think she is far too lazy to write to my parents, but I must be more careful.

  “You are right,” I said meekly. “I didn’t think, you know, because Wickham is an old family friend, but it was quite wrong of me, and most unladylike. I promise I shan’t do it again.”

  The dress she chose for me was pink.

  Now, a strong pink the colour of sunset, that is almost orange or red, is a very fine thing. A person of my complexion, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, needs to be careful with it, but used in the appropriate manner – a ribbon, a shawl – it can add a certain warmth. Worn with caution, a good pink can be pretty and delightful, but it should never – ever – constitute the main element of any outfit. Not for anyone over the age of ten. Sophy and Philadelphia Gardiner are both wild for the colour pink, and there, I believe, I rest my case.

  The pink Harriet chose for me tonight was just the tint my cousins favour, pale and pretty and the precise shade to drain all colour from my face. Hill makes a summer pudding that is the exact same colour.

  It is delicious, but no one in their right mind would choose to wear it.

  Harriet’s pink muslin is the clothing embodiment of Hill’s dessert, all layers of frills and lace, with a foamy raspberry bodice and skirts the colour of strawberries crushed into cream. Just looking at it made the skin of my neck come out in matching blotches, but I wore it without complaining, just to keep her happy.

  “Don’t you look delightful,” Wickham said when he joined us with Carter, Denny and Pratt at the assembly rooms. “Like a strawberry trifle.”

  I scowled. The officers laughed. Wickham offered me his arm and whispered, “Come, Lydia! Strawberry trifle just happens to be my favourite. Stop looking so cross, and let us try our luck at a friendly game of lottery tickets, as we did the first time we met in Meryton.”

  “Very well,” I relented. “I will play with you. But only because I beat you the last time we played.”

  “If I recall, I allowed you to win.”

  I hit his arm, and he chuckled, and we were turning together towards the tables when . . .

  “Monsieur le Comte de Fombelle-Aix-Jouvet!” the master of ceremonies announced. “Mademoiselle la Comtesse de Fombelle-Aix-Jouvet, Mrs. John Lovett, and Miss Esther Lovett!”

  Pratt, who was already at the champagne, started to wave his bottle around, hiccoughing, “Moosiour and Mad’mazel the Comte de tra-la-la,” over and over and giggling.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Harriet said. “Have some respect for persons of rank.”

  “Rank?” Denny objected. “What do the French nobility have left, that the Revolution has not taken from them?”

  I didn’t hear Harriet’s response. I wasn’t listening. I had removed my hand from Wickham’s arm and stood alone, staring at the new arrivals.

  It was the couple from the beach.

  The young man – a count! – wore a grey coat over an embroidered gold waistcoat, his black curls already escaping the blue ribbon meant to hold them back. I have the feeling that he does not overly care for fashion. There is something in the unruly curls, the knot of his cravat, and the hang of his coat that suggests a certain impatience and lack of interest in his appearance, yet for all his rumpled looks he was more glamorous tonight than any other man in the room. And she was dazzling in shimmering silver gauze, with long white gloves above her elbows and a dark velvet ribbon about her neck, her red hair piled on her head, and an amused expression on her face. Together, they were the embodiment of elegance and sophistication. Their companions, a girl in washed-out lilac and a stout woman who dressed like Mamma, were almost invisible beside them.

  I looked around for Wickham. Like me, he stood a little apart from the others, gazing at the new arrivals.

  “It’s them,” I whispered. “The people from the house.”

  “Plus companions.” Perhaps they felt our stare then, too, because the two young women turned their gaze on us. The young lady from the beach – the Comtesse – did not look at Wickham but stared straight at me, and I am quite certain I saw her eyes widen at the sight of my dress. And no wonder. I would be amazed if I were her, and saw me. I would probably not be able to believe that people such as I even existed.

  Behind me, Denny and Carter were sniggering.

  “Lieutenant Wickham strikes again,” Denny was saying, and Wickham was telling them to go away (only not so politely).

  I dragged my eyes away from the Comte and Comtesse. The mousy girl – Miss Esther Lovett – was still staring at our group, a warm blush spreading across her cheeks. I glanced at Wickham, then back at the girl. She had averted her gaze, but I recognised the look on her face – dazed and confused, a little stupid. When you grow used to him, as I have, you forget the effect that Wickham has on ladies when they first lay eyes on him. I have seen that look many times before – on the face of Mary King, on Lizzy, and even – though I hate to remember it – on myself.

  Thank goodness I am quite recovered from that phase!

  “Who is she?” Harriet asked.

  Denny explained that Miss Lovett was currently the most eligible young lady in Brighton, having a fortune of fifteen thousand pounds from her late father, as well as a small estate in Shropshire, there being no male heir.

  “How do you know?” I asked. Denny shrugged, and said that this was Brighton. Everyone knew everything about everybody.

  “I suppose she stays in the new buildings,” Harriet said with a sniff.

  Denny said that he had heard they were staying with their French relatives slightly out of town. The house on the hill, I thought. Tara. Did Wickham know already, when we went there yesterday? He stood staring thoughtfully at the party as they retreated to the card rooms.

  “You promised,” I whispered to him. “On my birthday – you said you wouldn’t pursue any more heiresses . . .”

  I hid in a smaller room, playing vingt-et-un with Harriet and some other ladies, torn between wanting to see the Comte and Comtesse and not wanting to be seen in my dreadful pink dress.

  I will never let Harriet pin so much as a ribbon to my hat again.

  Monsieur le Comte and Mademoiselle la Comtesse de Fombelle . . . I made Carter look in the visitor book so that I should know how to write their names. Monsieur le Comte and Mademoiselle la Comtesse.

  Mademoiselle – I have hardly any French, but I have enough to understand that.

  Mademoiselle means she is not married. They must be brother and sister!

  Wednesday, 17th June

  The 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

  The 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.