Lydia Bennet's Story (10 page)

Friday, July 9th
Mr Wickham has made me a present of the most exquisite pair of gloves I have ever owned. I tried to stop him, but he would have it no other way. How could I resist? No one ever treated me to such a thoughtful present in my life, and it was all done in such a discreet and gentleman-like manner. It is a secret, however, and I am not to tell. Harriet, it is true, would disapprove. She does not yet know that the Captain has gone away, and I do not want to enlighten her. She will only ask too many questions that I have not the answers for. I cannot help comparing Mr Wickham’s delicious gift with the vulgar trinket, which lies forgotten in my chest of drawers. I know which I would rather possess.

Mr Wickham has the most beautiful hands of anyone I have ever known. They are very strong and encased mine completely when he held them in his grasp. His touch was as gentle as if he held a tiny bird. I hope I shall see him soon—I think we are friends again!

THE PARTY OF FRIENDS was sat in the Ship Inn gathered around the fire, for though the month was July, the last few days had been chilly. The ladies, shivering in their muslin gowns, felt particularly cheered by the sight of the flames. The Colonel was anxious to raise their spirits and was telling them he had arranged a little excursion out near Worthing for them all to enjoy a pic-nic and look over an old ruinous folly that he was sure would be to the young ladies’ tastes. “For I know what tales of horror you enjoy, Miss Bennet,” he said. “The grotto was built by an eccentric nobleman; it is a vast place with deep underground passages and subterranean chambers. They say that deep within a gloomy chamber there is evidence still to be seen of his undying love for the poor girl who was found dead in mysterious circumstances.”

The Colonel paused for dramatic effect and Harriet screamed. “Not a skeleton, Henry, please do not tell me there are bones in that horrid place. I must say, I am not at all sure that I like the idea of rambling over ruins where maids are murdered and their ghosts are seen roaming the grounds.”

“Please be easy, Mrs Forster,” Mr Wickham interjected. “The only evidence—if indeed it may be described as such—is a name picked out in tiny pink shells as small as Miss Lydia Bennet’s fingernails,” he said, raising her hand and examining her fingertips closely, before planting a tender kiss to her utter discomposure.

She snatched away her fingers. “And what name in this cavernous grotto is fashioned out of shells, pray?”
He answered looking directly into her eyes. “I believe it is a name shared by someone in this very room,” he whispered, “Can you guess it?”
Lydia felt her cheeks redden and a flush swept over her in so swift a fashion there was nothing she could do to disguise her confusion.
“Now I consider the matter,” he continued, “I do not think I shall reveal the name after all. I propose there should be a search conducted, a game of ‘Hunt the Name.’ Do you not agree, Colonel?”
“I love to play hunting games,” Harriet exclaimed, “and if you have not given us too many clues,” she added, glancing across at Lydia, “I should be happy to search amongst the shells. Will it not be a terrible, dark, and gloomy place though, Mr Wickham? Is there sufficient air?”
“Alas, I cannot answer, Mrs Forster, but I would imagine there to be brackets for torches and some moving air down the shafts, unless the rumour that the farmer’s daughter met her death in the airless passages waiting for her lover is true!”
“Mr Wickham, you are truly vexing,” Lydia protested, “and now you are teasing us with fairy tales, you troublesome man. I do not believe there ever was such a girl, murdered or not. You are a horrid tease!”
“If I am, it is in retribution and only fair,” he replied in a whisper. “You tease me constantly and in ways which I am sure you are not even aware.”
She could not listen to him any longer for fear of displaying her blushes, so she turned away to ask the Colonel how soon they should be making this delightful outing. It was agreed that they should meet on the following afternoon, and Lydia felt quite excited at the prospect. At least she would not have to entertain the Captain, whose company she could not bear at present. She was becoming more than a little tired by his constant flattery and attempts at seduction, which had at first been so pleasing to her. She decided she might have given up on him sooner if not for Harriet’s encouragement, though she knew she might yet secure him and had to admit the thought of going home with a rich and handsome husband, to the envy of all her sisters, was a tempting thought indeed.
Lydia and Harriet were late setting off for the Steyne the next day and were flustered by the time they reached the Castle Tavern, where they had agreed to meet their friends. The Colonel had been with his men all the morning and was due to meet them at eleven. They were relieved to see no one waiting, but as they approached, they were met with an unfamiliar sight. Mr Wickham was perched, reins in hand, upon a whisky gig (which he had no doubt hired at great expense for the day), and at his side was seated Miss Westlake.
“Good morning, Miss Westlake, Mr Wickham,” Harriet called out as they approached, but Lydia could not find her tongue. She could not help being surprised to see Miss Westlake sitting in such an intimate way with Mr Wickham. Why, Lydia thought, if she sat any closer she would fair be on his knee!
Miss Westlake smiled and muttered pleasantly enough, but Wickham barely nodded in their direction, let alone addressed them. He seemed only interested in his partner and was, therefore, most attentive to the beauty that sat beside him, as was she in her turn. Lydia was so cross she could not even be civil to Harriet and stood in sulky spirits as they waited for everyone else. Out of the corner of her eye she could see them whispering, and although she attempted to appear in absorbed contemplation of her surroundings, she could not help glancing up at them on occasion. They ignored her, so totally engrossed were they in each other. Lydia grew quieter and more vexed by the moment.
Fortunately, she did not have to wait long before the Colonel and Mr Denny arrived in the Colonel’s coach and waved at the sight of them. Mr Pratt and Mr Chamberlayne soon joined them on horseback and then they were off on their way, travelling with speed out of Brighton, following the coastal path, Lydia urging on their coachman to overtake Mr Wickham if he could.
“Some people will never know what it is to have good manners and, for all their lofty perspective, needn’t think they are so far above me as to have the right to ignore me,” Lydia complained.
Harriet was intrigued. “Who has been so rude as to slight you, Lydia?”
“Mr Wickham and his lady barely had a word to say,” she replied. “He did not utter a word nor acknowledge us in any way, did you not notice?” Lydia cried. “I am most put out!”
“That is most unlike him,” said Harriet. “He is usually such an affable young man. I cannot say I noticed anything particularly, I was too busy looking out for Henry.”
“His friend was almost as bad, twittering away to him without once including us in her conversation,” Lydia continued. “I’ve never witnessed such rudeness. She is certainly throwing herself at him. Did you see the way she was looking at him? I was almost sick at the sight of such fawning!”
“Forgive me for saying so, and perhaps I shouldn’t repeat this,” admitted Harriet, “but Mr Chamberlayne has intimated that Mr Wickham is very keen on Miss Westlake. Lovers never do have eyes for anyone else.”
“Well, from my observation,” said Lydia, “I did not see any partiality on his side. Do you truly think he has feelings for her?”
“Well, they have certainly been spending a lot of time in each other’s company,” admitted Harriet. “I would think it likely!”
Lydia was quite taken aback. She did not know why she felt quite so vexed, but as the others mused over the possibilities of the lovers’ constancy, she could not help thinking that his attentions towards herself mattered far more than she ever would profess aloud.
After a pleasant ride through open countryside, they arrived within the hour, coming to a halt at the edge of a large park with wooded grounds. They glimpsed a single track leading to its heart, which begged them to follow its course. Colonel Forster handed the ladies down from the coach; they were all vastly pleased to be able to stretch their legs at last, and Lydia was anxious to discover the delights within. The Colonel led the way, Harriet clutching onto his hand with grim determination, convinced that she was going to meet with her death before the afternoon was over.
“Are you quite sure it is safe, Henry dear? There could be footpads lurking and any number of murderers in these woods. I don’t like it!”
“Oh, it’s thrilling,” shouted Lydia, her excitement at the prospect of any kind of adventure raising her spirits. “I hear not all footpads are murderers and some are quite handsome. Are you sure you would not enjoy an episode in a darkened grotto with a masked man, Harriet?” she whispered before laughing out loud at her friend’s screams of terror and delight.
They had been walking three or four abreast until the path narrowed; the trees became denser, their gnarled branches vaulting over their heads in gothic style. Everyone fell into single file, each becoming lost in their own thoughts, and, apart from the calling of a bird in the branches above and the snap of twigs underfoot, the entire company was quiet. Although the sun had decided to come out at last, the woods were deep in shadow. The scent of cool ferns and moss assailed the senses, a perfume to awaken the spirits. The cold green tunnel threatened to engulf them, tree roots clawed across the damp earth to trip the unwary, and Lydia twice caught her muslin on brambles which snagged and snapped back, scratching her bare arms.
“Do be careful, Miss Bennet,” called Mr Denny and Lydia turned to smile at him. Dawdling along at the back, she could see, were Mr Wickham with Miss Westlake, who was crying out for him to take her hand, lest she fall over. He seemed only too eager to comply. Lydia was so busy observing their antics that she did not see the tree root which caught her foot, sending her sprawling. She could only hear the muffled titters of laughter behind her as Denny helped her to her feet, and she knew that Mr Wickham and his friend were laughing at her clumsiness. How wretched she felt. Why had she not been more careful? They must think her a blundering oaf. She brushed the leaves from her gown, feeling overwhelmingly subdued and rather vexed with herself. Why did she mind so much what Mr Wickham thought about her? She determined on the spot not to mind what he did or said; she would not be so easily upset.
Everyone sighed in admiration as they came out of the woodland walk, at last into the open, and were faced with the grotto entrance a few feet away, set into towering rocks, which formed part of the bank before them. It was fashioned like a Grecian temple; the ivy covered door stood invitingly open.
“May we explore?” Lydia begged. The full-length windows of the porch entrance gave a tantalising foretaste of what lay within, and she longed to take a look.
“There are lanterns, candles, and a tinder box kept in a recess in the porch if anyone is brave enough to explore further,” said the Colonel, “but do take care; there have been tales of sheep losing their way along the passages, only to be found later . . . a pile of bones.” He laughed, enjoying the effect his commentary was having upon an avid audience, and then added, “I’ll give a bottle of my best wine to the first person to find the name in shells.”
The Colonel, Denny, Pratt, and Chamberlayne entered first, leaving Lydia, Harriet, Miss Westlake, and Mr Wickham to bring up the rear. Lydia tried to engage Mr Wickham in conversation and was in mid sentence before she realised that he was not listening to a single word she was saying. As soon as he could release himself, he was off at Miss Westlake’s side, and by the time Lydia had sorted out a lantern with all the trouble of lighting it, he and the rest of the party had disappeared. She began to feel very cross again with George Wickham, who it seemed only enjoyed her company when it suited him.
The porch entrance was very beautiful, the walls being inlaid with hundreds of pieces of shell, flint, and glass, all put there by many hours of work, a labour of love indeed. There were three passages, one directly in front and two side passages, leading to various chambers and tunnels.
“Which way did Henry go, Lydia? I cannot see him anywhere. So intent is he on being the intrepid explorer, he and all those other so-called gentleman have left us quite behind.”
“Well, they are not far away,” Lydia answered, leading Harriet to the right, down a dark passageway where they found themselves in a large round chamber with stone seats set back into the walls. They searched as well as they could in the dim light but could not find anything that looked like a name amongst the shells. Harriet admitted that she had begun to find the whole idea rather tiresome when Lydia persuaded her to venture into the connecting passage, suggesting that they might find Henry. “I think I hear them, don’t you?” Lydia declared, cupping her hand to her ear and striding on ahead.
“No, I think you are mistaken,” Harriet cried in response. “Wait for me, Lydia, you are going too fast!” Harriet was becoming increasingly anxious, and her companion was starting to feel she was rather spoiling her fun.
Lydia ignored her and hurried along, the lantern lighting up the narrow tunnel, which ran along in a straight line. The air was thinner, the walls slimy to the touch, and there was a pervading smell of damp.
“Ooh, I don’t like it, Lydia. Where have they got to?” Harriet ran to catch up, trying to cling onto her friend’s arm for reassurance; unfortunately, Lydia was becoming quite out of patience.
“There is nothing to worry about, Harriet. We have a lantern, we can always retrace our steps, and I am sure I heard Henry’s voice just now,” she lied.
They had entered a smaller chamber, exquisitely decorated, where the walls were pierced with mother-of-pearl and pieces of silvered glass that twinkled, displaying a thousand reflections that illuminated their lanterns’ candle flames.
“We have discovered a treasure cave,” Lydia cried. “Just look, Harriet. Have you ever seen anything so lovely?”
“It is beautiful,” Harriet exclaimed, “but where is everyone? I should have thought we must meet someone by now. I confess this place is starting to unnerve me a little.”
“Nonsense, Harriet,” Lydia cried. “They must have all taken the left fork, that’s all. We will run into them at any moment, I am sure.”
No sooner did she speak than they heard the boom of a man’s voice a little way off. Before Harriet had a chance to call out, Lydia snuffed the lantern.
“There, what did I tell you. Let’s keep quiet and jump out on them; what a good joke we will have,” she whispered.
“Do you not know that I am afraid of the dark?” Harriet cried at once. “I am quite terrified! Oh, Lydia, why did you do that? It is so black; there is not a chink of light!”
“Harriet, we are perfectly fine,” Lydia assured her. “We are not in any danger!”
“How do we know that the voice belongs to someone we know?” Harriet whispered in terror. “It could be anyone, even a murderer! It does not sound like Henry to me!”
“Of course it must be someone we know,” Lydia moaned. “Stand still and be quiet or they will realize we are here!”
“Well, I am not going to stay here to be frightened or starved to death, I am going back,” Harriet retorted. “Henry will be worrying where I am.”
“Suit yourself,” Lydia told her, “but you would be much better off waiting here with me for the lantern to be lighted again.”
She would not be told, and feeling her way along the craggy walls, Harriet set off in the direction they had come, complaining of ill usage as she went.
The voices grew nearer and were heard more loudly. They belonged to Miss Westlake and Mr Wickham. Lydia strained her ears, but she found it almost impossible to hear what they were saying. They were in the next chamber and it was plain they were in dispute over something.
“I will not listen any longer to your foolish plans, it is hopeless,” she heard Miss Westlake say. Wickham answered, but his voice was so deep and low, she only caught the words “love” and “money.”
“It will only make matters worse; I never heard of a scheme more doomed to failure,” his agitated partner replied. “I am going now, are you coming?’
Without waiting for his reply, Miss Westlake left him without speaking another word and scuttled down the passageway in the opposite direction. After a moment or two of listening to him cursing the world and every female in it, Lydia called out his name before she knew what she had done.