Lydia Bennet's Story (20 page)

Wednesday, October 27th
I feel so wretched I think I might die. All my hopes of making George love me have been completely dashed. In my heart I know this is not the only time I have been deceived; the rumours I have heard are more than just gossip. Misery engulfs me. All my anxiety and sorrows of the last couple of months well up inside, along with the tears that come relentlessly. Happiness seems so elusive; I had imagined that life would be so perfect with George, but I now know that my marriage is as tarnished as the copper pans in my kitchen. I cannot think what to do; there is no one I can talk to, and even if I were to write home, I have a feeling they would all take great pleasure in telling me that they had expected nothing else.

No, there is only one way to deal with this problem. There is nothing I can do but forgive him. I am far too proud to have anyone catch even a sniff of scandal and am determined to carry on as though nothing has happened. After all, surely most young men are tempted at one time or another. The risk of sending him running off into his lover’s arms again is great, and I do not want that above anything else. My heart might be broken, but it is not irreparable. I will be everything he desires and more. And he will fall in love with me all over again, so much so that he will never think about straying again.

THE NEXT DAY LYDIA set off for the milliner’s in Percy Street; the afternoon was mild, the sun was shining, and she felt happier for being out of doors, though her object in strolling out was not to enjoy the weather. Nothing improved her disposition more than the purchase of a new bonnet, and she was determined to buy one. Indeed, she had decided she would spend the entire afternoon on a shopping expedition. Never was there a happier way of raising her spirits, and she was exceedingly excited at the prospect of a whole new wardrobe. After all, was that not what Wickham had promised? He would not dare refuse her! Let Mrs Armstrong abuse her fashion sense now. By the time she had finished, there would not be a more elegant creature in all of Newcastle. George would not be able to resist her. She would look so well, he would never look at another woman again.

When she reached the milliner’s, she stopped and stared in at the window before going in to see what might be of particular interest. Beyond the exquisite pokes, shakos, tams, and turbans, she could see that the shop was surprisingly busy for a Thursday afternoon. She could see Miss Skinner, holding court behind the counter, surrounded by half a dozen or more of her particular friends who were there, not in any pursuit of headdresses for themselves, but to hear what she was saying. She looked most adamant, and Lydia wondered what could be so entertaining to the other misses intent on cooing like doves at her animated discourse or laughing out loud. Lydia was intrigued, and hoping to hear a little of the gossip that engaged them all so fervently, she walked in through the open door unobserved by anyone. There was such an atmosphere of charged excitement and hilarity in the little room, it would have caught the interest of the least curious person.

“And what did he do after that?” exclaimed a young lady leaning on the counter, eagerly gazing up at Miss Skinner as though she were a story book heroine. There were hoots of laughter as Miss Skinner ran her fingers passionately over her torso. “He asked if he could warm his hands!”

“And what did you say?”
“I said I had the very place and then I puckered my lips and . . . . ” Lydia could not move, and though she was intent on

listening to a conversation not meant for her ears, she was certain that she did not want to hear its conclusion. “ . . . Mr Wickham kissed me!”
The bell above the door clanged loudly as Lydia grabbed the handle for support. Miss Skinner’s emboldened discourse was instantly quieted as she took in the presence of the person who stood in the shop’s doorway. She became quite mute. No one ever looked more embarrassed; her cheeks flared in a most unbecoming way against the fairness of her porcelain complexion, contrasting greatly with her auburn ringlets, which curled about her countenance. Her audience turned as one and stared at poor Lydia, who was rooted to the spot. Someone gasped with concern and another giggled as she tried to suppress her amusement. Lydia was mortified. She turned on her heel and flounced out of the shop. The only thing to do was get away.
In haste, she turned the corner into Moseley Street and ran as fast as she could. She was aware that people were staring at her as she flew by, but she did not care. How could she have been so stupid? She should have realised that Miss Skinner had been the hussy to have so engaged Wickham. Oh, it was too cruel! And to find her entertaining half the town with lurid reports of his behaviour was the worst outcome of all. Lydia knew it would not be long before the news had circulated around the town and was anxious to get home as quickly as she could.
Unfortunately, she had not anticipated quite how rapidly the gossip would spread, or how speedily it would come to the attention of those who made it their life’s work to be as spiteful as it was possible to be. Later that very afternoon, she was sat in her little sitting room, to all intents and purposes engaged in trimming her old bonnet and unsuccessfully trying to take her mind off her erring husband, when her servant Bessie entered the room to say that Mrs Armstrong and Miss Fenwick had called and asked if she was at home.
“Do ask them in,” Lydia replied. She did not think she could send them away; it was imperative that she should behave as if nothing unusual had happened. Besides, having their company would give her something else to think about. After all, there could be no danger of them knowing of the rift between Lydia and her husband just yet, and if there had been any hints at all, she was in a position to dispel them.
“Do come in, Mrs Armstrong, Miss Fenwick, how charming to see you,” Lydia said cheerfully. She gestured towards the sofa. “Do sit down.”
The ladies sat down and it was not long before they were regaling Lydia with all the gossip of the town. This is quite like old times, thought Lydia, when my old friends Charlotte and Maria Lucas used to call and have over the events of the previous night’s ball.
“Have you heard the latest news, my dear?” Evelina supped her tea and raised a quizzical brow.
Lydia shook her head. She dreaded the report but reassured herself that, even if the gossip she wanted to keep quiet had reached her acquaintances’ ears, they would not be so blatant as to inflict it upon her so brutally. She was quite wrong.
“We have heard this morning at the residence of Mrs Belasis, who is a very good friend of mine and a very reliable source of information, some interesting news of Miss Skinner. You know her, I am sure.”
Evelina paused long enough to see the crimson blush spreading over Lydia’s cheeks as she nodded in assent. “I know of her, though I am not an acquaintance.”
“Miss Skinner is carrying on an illicit liaison with a gentleman,” whispered Evelina, as though Miss Skinner must be standing at the door eavesdropping. Mrs Armstrong looked from side to side before delivering the worst. “She was seen cavorting in the gardens in the dark whilst we were all dancing!”
“Are you quite sure?” asked Lydia. “How is it possible she was seen in the dark? You do know how people love to gossip.”
“Oh, it is quite certain,” Lucy interjected, “though, by all accounts, we have little information as to his identity, or indeed, exactly what they were up to in the gloom of the gazebo.”
“More’s the pity,” added Mrs Armstrong, “the man needs thrashing! We may not have his name yet, though there are rumours abounding that he is a married man.”
“Though to be fair, Evelina,” her friend remarked, “he is not the first and, I daresay, will not be the last. Miss Skinner likes to entertain all the handsome officers.”
Lydia did not know where to look and picked up her teacup with shaking hands. She had an idea her visitors knew very well the identity of Miss Skinner’s lover and were enjoying watching her squirm.
Evelina sat triumphant with a smug expression of assured satisfaction. “Now, to get to the point of my visit this morning, Mrs Wickham. I hope you will accept my invitation to a little soirée on Wednesday, for a light supper, some cards, and dancing, with your dear husband, of course. How is he?”
“He is quite well, thank you.” Lydia put down her cup for fear of revealing the state of her nerves. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she grew more anxious by the moment.
“He is so charming, such a one with the ladies, is he not? And he is such a good dancer. But talking of dancing, weren’t you the popular one last night?” said Mrs Armstrong, fixing Lydia with a beady eye. “You must be quite worn out with so many partners!”
“Oh, I cannot recall, I am sure,” Lydia answered and, attempting to change the subject, said, “I do admire your gown, Mrs Armstrong. Is it crêpe? It is cut so beautifully; you must give me the name of your seamstress. You always look so elegant, such a picture of perfection!”
“I saw your husband dancing with the milliner,” Evelina added with a smirk as she ignored Lydia’s question and made a close study of her countenance.
“Yes, she is an excellent dancer, is she not?” Lydia replied and picked up her cup again in the hope that the strong tea would give her the courage she needed to withstand this conversation. “Wickham enjoys dancing so much!”
“Aye, and that’s not all by some accounts!” chuckled Mrs Armstrong, smiling conspiratorially at her friend Lucy. “Well now, we cannot sit here all day; we really must consider taking our leave. You will be expecting your husband home for nuncheon, will you not?” Evelina picked up her gloves.
“Oh no, do not hurry on his account,” Lydia answered politely, though she was quite desperate to be rid of them. Her mind was racing as she digested Mrs Armstrong’s comments. “I never see him before five o’clock, he has so much to do with the regiment. There is always plenty to occupy a soldier.”
“He had business in town early this morning,” pronounced Evelina. “Indeed, I have seen him walking in Percy Street every day this last week.”
“I expect he has had business in town. I really do not know all the pattern of his day,” Lydia answered as brightly as she could. A nagging thread of suspicion tugged at the back of her mind, but she told herself not to be silly. She was sure her friends had only called on an errand of mischief. They were trying to unnerve her.
“Well, we really must be going,” said Evelina, pulling on her gloves and standing up. “Come along, Lucy, we mustn’t delay any longer.”
Off they went, leaving Lydia’s mind in turmoil. She watched from the window. They were hurrying down the street, their heads bowed together, and their bonnets shaking, as though laughing at some shared amusement. It was quite clear that word had got out and Wickham’s dallying was known by all.

LYDIA PENNED A LETTER immediately to her sister Lizzy begging that she might be invited to Pemberley House in Derbyshire, though she did not divulge her true reasons for wishing to flee from Newcastle in such haste. She wrote that she wished to include a tour of Derbyshire before her Christmas visit to Netherfield, professing that she longed to see Pemberley and could break her journey comfortably, whilst saving on her travel expenses if she combined the two visits into one. What Mr Darcy said on learning of this new scheme of his sister-in-law’s can only be conjectured, but news came to Lydia from Lizzy soon after informing her that, whilst she was welcome to pay a visit, the same hospitality would not ever be extended to her husband. Lydia knew that Mr Darcy would refuse Wickham an invitation, and this suited her purposes exactly; she needed some time away from her husband and from Newcastle. So, at the beginning of November, with happy feelings of escape, Lydia journeyed south to Derbyshire. Pemberley was everything she expected, and Lydia was soon enjoying her sister’s good fortune and society whilst tolerating her brother-in-law’s company. After a fortnight she was feeling very happy again and more disposed to think kindly towards her husband. By the beginning of December, she had some exciting news, which she could not wait to impart. She wrote to her mother as soon as the arrangements were settled.

Please forgive me for not having written lately, but I have been away from home, enjoying the hospitality in Derbyshire. I am happy to report that my sister Lizzy is well and that Mr Darcy continues to improve under her influence. I am now able to spend thirty minutes in his company without the need to reach for a bottle of something fortifying!