Lydia Bennet's Story (11 page)

“WHERE ARE YOU, MISS Bennet? What has happened to your lantern?” called Mr Wickham. As she lied and told him the candle had blown out by itself, Lydia heard his steps come closer until at last he reached out to touch her. She stumbled backwards in the dark; his touch, though gentle, made her heart hammer.

“Where is your lantern?” she asked, recovering herself enough to speak, knowing that Miss Westlake must have taken the one they shared. “I suppose you have given it to your cross companion.”

Wickham sighed deeply.
“I must admit I overheard you both talking,” Lydia continued. “At least, I gathered you were in disagreement with one another. I didn’t hear all that was said, but one thing seemed very clear.”
“And what might that be, Miss Bennet? Pray tell, for I have never found dealing with any lady to be clear cut.”
“You are in love with Miss Westlake, are you not?”
There was a silence, and Lydia wished she had not spoken. How could she have said such a thing? How would it sound to him? She wished she had kept her tongue.
“No, I am not,” he replied eventually, his voice very low. “I am not in love, you must know I am not.” He paused and she heard him sigh again. “I have never been in love in my life,” he continued. “Indeed, Miss Lydia, I do not know if I am capable of ever loving anyone. I confess I do not know what will become of me.” He took a step towards her, and though she was inclined to move back, her legs seemed to have lost their power to take any action at all. “Who will teach me of love, Miss Bennet?” he asked. “Will you?”
“Please stop being silly, Mr Wickham,” Lydia replied as firmly as she could. She did not know how to answer him. He unnerved her and left her feeling completely defenceless. “You have made sport enough of me today; I declare I quite hate you for your teasing ways.”
There was no space left between them. Lydia could feel the damp of the wall penetrating the thin fabric of her gown.
He clutched and held her hand. “Forgive me?” he asked. “I cannot bear to think of you hating me.”
“I think we should go back, Mr Wickham,” she said, shaking her hand free. She still felt cross at the manner in which he and Miss Westlake had snubbed her, laughed at her, and there was something in his soft voice which made her feel uneasy. She felt helpless and unable to think as she should.
“Let us not be enemies, Miss Bennet,” he implored. “I so dislike being at odds with you, my little friend. I much prefer to see you when you are happy with me, and I can recall many occasions when you have been more than delighted with my behaviour. To name but one instance, I can never forget the expression on your face when you accepted my gift of gloves in town the other afternoon. I avow it was not one of reproof.”
He pulled her towards him, grasping her upper arms tight, kneading his fingers into her tender skin. Goose pimples tingled at his touch.
“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded, hating him for having seen the truth of her feelings. “I was very grateful for your kindness to me on that day.”
“I am sure I cannot describe it,” he said, “but it is my dearest wish to see that look on your countenance again one day.”
He slipped his hands under her arms, his thumbs brushing the flesh liberated by a wanton fichu that had fallen to the floor. She caught her breath. He leaned in towards her, forcing her hard against the damp wall before he caressed her cheek with his lips. She gasped; he was pressed so close she could feel the ivory buttons on his waistcoat and the fob within the pocket of his buckskin breeches leaving their rigid impression. His lips sought hers, and she allowed him to kiss her with greater urgency.
“There!” he declared as he pulled away. “I am sure that must be something like it. If only there was light enough to see your beautiful eyes with their knowing expression.”
Her feelings were in such confusion she could not breathe and did not know what to do. “How dare you,” she cried at last, with as much feeling as she could, and tried to push him away.
Wickham laughed and pressed himself against her. “How I love a challenge; are you taunting me, Miss Bennet? Do you dare me to kiss you again?”
The truth was that a part of her longed for him to kiss her again. She did not think she could refuse him. “I am not . . .” were the only words she managed to utter before he had his mouth enclosed on hers again. She could not resist and found that, not only was she letting him embrace her, but she was kissing him back; that is, she kissed him until the recollection that he was there with Miss Westlake floated across her mind’s eye and she pushed him away with some force. Lydia was so vexed with him for making her feel so completely in his power that she could not find the words to express her emotions. She did not know what to say; she just knew she should leave.
“I think we should go back,” she said. “I suddenly feel very cold.”
“If that is what you want,” he said catching hold of her hand again and suppressing a laugh, “but you are not cold, Miss Bennet; you are a flaming arrow, my sweet little girl, burning a way through my heart. Please tell me that you are my friend before we return and that you forgive me for stealing a kiss. I could not help myself; your eyes have been begging it of me since we came to Brighton.”
“I will forgive you, Mr Wickham, but I beg you will not take such liberties again,” she cried. “We must go back or they will send out a search party.”
“You are quite right, come along, Miss Bennet. Everyone will think we have got lost or that you have seduced me.” He took her hand and pulled her along in the darkness, laughing as he went. “Come along, my sweet Lydia, my dear little friend.”
“Oh, Mr Wickham!” she shouted as they set off into the passage. “You make me quite despair!”
They were out again in the sunshine soon enough and everyone was congratulating Mr Denny on finding the name they had been seeking. He declared he would have found “Harriet” pricked out in seashells much sooner but had been labouring under the misapprehension that the name he had been looking for was someone else’s. Lydia looked across at her friend to see if she was still cross about the lantern but a grin from Harriet was enough to let her know that there were no hard feelings. Harriet was happy now she had found her Henry, and she sat holding his hand as if her life depended on it. Large rugs and cushions had been fetched and spread out on the grass so they could enjoy their pic-nic, and Pratt and Chamberlayne were happily engaged in arranging platters of cold chicken and meat pasties, polishing crystal glasses, and popping corks from bottles. Mr Wickham made no attempt to catch Lydia’s eye and soon joined Miss Westlake; they sat quite apart from the others, and he was as attentive to that lady as ever. How Lydia fumed. She could not believe that she had let her guard down quite so badly. How dare he take such advantage of the situation! She was adamant that she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing just how discomposed she was and endeavoured to be as light-hearted and flirtatious as ever. Before long she had drawn an admiring audience of his fellow officers around. Anyone observing her would have imagined she was in love with everyone.
Miss Westlake seemed to tire of her admirer rather quickly. Lydia could see that relations between the pair, though civil, were tense. When Miss Westlake turned her attention to Mr Denny for the rest of the afternoon, Lydia felt a certain satisfaction that Mr Wickham had failed to have everything his own way.

Sunday, July 18th
I was resolved to forget my experience as quickly as I could, but to my utter dismay I have found that such a task is not that simple. Mr Wickham will NOT be forgiven for his behaviour, though I can think of nothing else, playing over the scene in my head with a different ending each time. I now know just how I should have behaved and what I should have said which is vexing in the extreme. However, I am inclined to add that it is not my fault if an ardent young man finds he is attracted to me and cannot keep his hands off me. I cannot be held responsible!

It did not escape Harriet’s notice that I was unusually quiet on the journey home, and she repeatedly asked if I were quite well. I was unable to answer; I could still feel Mr Wickham’s lips on mine, his gentle hands upon my arms, and his smell, which exuded from my thin dress, scenting the air around me. Despite appealing to Harriet to lower the window in order to get the air, I could not resist drawing my fichu, redolent with his fragrance, across my shoulders once again. I do not want to admit it, but against all my efforts to feel otherwise, I think I am falling in love with him.

Tuesday, July 20th
I do not know if it is my imagination, but whenever I have been in company with Mr Wickham these last two days, he has not spoken a word to me, yet at the same time, his behaviour towards me is most brazen. I can scarcely describe the shocking way he looks at me. I have found him staring at me on occasion, and it seems to me that when our eyes meet they lock with such intensity that I feel everyone must be aware of it. However, Harriet has made no comment, and she surely would if she suspected aught. I do not know what to make of it. He appears to ignore me and does not attempt a single conversation on the one hand, but on the other, his actions, his eyes, which bespeak so much more, leave me in utter confusion. I have not forgiven his behaviour on the day of the pic-nic, but I feel myself relenting. He looked so very fetching this morning in a blue coat; there is something about the cut of his breeches which makes me swoon at the very thought! His black eyes are most provoking and profligate in their way of glancing at me. I think him one of the most handsome men I have ever set eyes on!

WITH A MIND EXCITED by the promise of an entertaining afternoon, Lydia set forth with her friends on the following Wednesday to attend a review given by the Prince to celebrate the magnificence of the encampment. Barouches, landaus, and gigs paraded into the grounds with military precision, each one filled with laughing girls in sheer muslin, decorously draped to best advantage, displaying new bonnets with fluttering ribbons, all determined to catch the eye of a handsome soldier. Every regiment was involved in some way, every soldier out swaggered the last, and it was impossible to know where to look; Lydia’s eye wished to be in every direction at once so as not to miss a single treat. They witnessed the Prince’s inspection of the parade ground and there were several mock fights and displays of sword fighting. Lydia watched in awe as Mr Wickham, whose execution in wielding a sabre was as superior as any of the royal dragoons, showed them all how it should be done with dash and flair.
“Mr Wickham is in such good looks today, is he not?” Harriet said,

as she stood up out of the Colonel’s landau to make a closer study. “Where is Miss Westlake? I daresay she is enjoying his performance.” “I have not seen her; indeed, I do not think she is here,” said Lydia, well aware that Miss Westlake had not been seen at any function since the day of the pic-nic and that she was not in attendance at the review either. Lydia had her own idea that Miss Westlake was out of humour with Mr Wickham and was keeping her distance. There had obviously been some falling out between them on that last occasion, and though Lydia had no idea what it had all been about, she felt certain that neither of them were in a hurry to make up.

The man in question chose to ride past their carriage at that moment, doff his hat, and blow a kiss in her direction.
Lydia glowed as she looked out at the scene, and though her bonnet afforded some protection, she shaded her eyes with both hands, thus obscuring her reddened face. She watched him gallop away on his horse, resolute in her desire not to completely forgive him. She had not forgotten how badly he had behaved, and she kept these thoughts uppermost in her mind.
“Would you like a drink, Harriet? It’s so very hot, I’ve a terrible thirst.”
“Yes, please,” answered Harriet turning to face her. “Are you quite sure you wish to go? You look awfully pink you know.”
Lydia nodded furiously, opening the carriage door and skipping off to find the refreshment tent before her friend could witness her agitation.
In the sweltering heat, a mock battle of epic proportions was taking place next, with the Prince leading his dragoons against the other regiments. Lydia kept one eye on the proceedings as the two opposing armies lined up facing one another. All was quiet but for the clink of swords and stirrups, the creak of leather, the flap of flags snapping in the breeze. Horses stamped, twitching with impatience to be on the move. George Wickham, groomed to perfection, looked steadily ahead, waiting for the signal.
It was so hot Lydia felt she might faint as she hurried along under the blistering sun, and she wondered how it was that the soldiers did not collapse in the heat. She appeared to be the only person moving amongst the quiet crowds, who watched intently in expectation. Then the silent tranquillity of the day was broken. A flag waved, a pistol fired, the Prince’s troops advanced with lightning speed. The battle began with such bloodthirsty vigour that, within minutes, it got completely out of hand, and it soon became impossible to separate the spectators from the combatants. The defending army was forced back into the crowd. Soldiers on horseback became entangled with carriages and laundelettes, phaetons and tilburies. Horses reared and bolted, ladies screamed and fainted, blood was spilled by overzealous swordsmen, and the air was thick from pistol fire, sending all into confusion.
Lydia found herself in the middle of the battle scene through no fault of her own. Officers on horseback charged towards her, shouting to get out of their way as they let pistol shots fire into the air to warn others of their proximity. She ran as hard as she could, but there was nowhere to go but further into the ensuing battlefield, and she missed being trampled underfoot by mere seconds. A young officer of the Prince’s regiment grabbed Lydia’s arm as she stood looking about her helplessly. “Come along my pretty girl, I will look after you,” he said, taking her hand and leading her away at a trot.
She snatched her hand from his firm grasp and ran towards the place she thought she had left Harriet, but she could not see the Colonel’s carriage. Everyone was running in every direction, horses panicked and brayed, and gunpowder smoke from the cannons filled the air, making it impossible to see or decide on the best course. As she started to feel more than a little hysterical at the worsening scene and had become like a young rabbit rooted to the spot, too frightened to move, a horse galloped alongside her and a hand was thrust in her direction. She looked up but hesitated as she identified her rescuer. She was overcome to see him but wanted him to know that she had not fully forgiven him.
“Do you want to stay here and be killed? Give me your hand for God’s sake!” shouted George Wickham. He leapt down from the horse to help her mount before she could utter another word, and as he settled into the saddle behind her, she felt his arm snake around her waist, his fingers pressing through the fabric of her gown as he held her close. She was enjoying the sensation so much she quite forgot to be vexed. All she could do was smile.
“I have you safe, Miss Bennet,” he whispered into her hair. “Hold tight, lean into me; I will not let you fall.”
Mr Wickham is rescuing me, she thought as they left the horrific scene, galloping away with speed, weaving their way through the mayhem. It was all quite delightful. She giggled and saluted as they passed Harriet, who was safe at the Colonel’s side, and waved at everyone she encountered, whether she knew them or not. She held tight onto Wickham’s arm, unable to believe her good fortune. He did not utter a word to her for the entire journey back to the inn, but she was content to savour the pleasure in the moment, enjoying the strength of his arm holding her tight and the touch of his thighs against hers like a caress. She wished the ride would last forever.
He was to set her down at the door of the inn, but as they approached, he seemed to change his mind and turned into an alleyway where he said he should be able to tie up his horse more easily. He jumped down and held up his arms towards her, catching her by the waist, as she fell against him, which caused such a worm of excitement within her she knew she had only one course. She boldly caught hold of his hands and fixed him with her dark eyes.
“Do you note the expression on my countenance, Mr Wickham? Is it not the look you expressed a wish to see?”
“It is quite delightful, Miss Bennet,” he said as she stepped up and kissed him on his cheek.
“There,” she giggled, “a kiss for my hero. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“Miss Lydia, you have no need to thank me, although . . .” he touched his cheek where she had planted her kiss, “to thank me like this could never be unpleasant to me.”
“If that is the case, Mr Wickham,” she whispered softly, “may I be so bold as to thank you again?”
She looked back at him, with an expression that told of her earnest desire to please, and knew that he would not refuse her. Lydia did not wait for his reply, and this time he bent his head towards hers, so that she only had to pull just a little on his lapel to bring his mouth into line with hers.
“You are cold standing here in the shadows,” he said, after that first, sweet kiss. Lydia felt his fingertips stroke the back of her bare arms. “Will you allow me to put my jacket about your shoulders, Miss Bennet?”
“I will,” she replied, wishing that he would just hold her in his arms and kiss her again. Mr Wickham deftly removed his jacket, placed it about her shoulders, and then took hold of both her hands. “No, it will not do,” he whispered, kissing her fingertips. “I am afraid, Miss Bennet, there is nothing else to be done, I must insist that you come a little closer.” He pulled her towards him, and she did not resist. She stood on tiptoe to caress his lips, draping her arms around his neck, entwining her fingers in his curls. Their hearts beat together through his thin chemise; he cradled her face in his hands, and this time he kissed her with a passion that left her reeling. Lydia felt she had left her own body and was floating somewhere in the heavens, enveloped in Wickham’s arms. She could not help but compare George’s kisses with those of the Captain and was glad once more that he had chosen to leave Brighton for the present. An enormous feeling of relief lifted from her; indeed, she hoped he might never return. Nevertheless, she spent the next five minutes in delicious reverie, as she submitted to George’s kisses, imagining what might happen if he did come back to claim her, convinced her suitors would fight for her favours.
“But what of Miss Westlake?” she asked eventually, pulling away from him. “Does she not engage your affections?” She hardly wanted to hear his answer, she was so afraid it might be what she did not want to hear.
“Miss Westlake is a fine girl, but there is only one who engages my affections at this moment, Miss Bennet,” he replied.
Lydia did not wait to hear confirmation of her name but gave herself up with abandon to George’s slow and sweet kisses, which put her in such a state of delirium that she swooned in his arms.