by Jane Odiwe
I had the most awful trouble concealing the Captain’s love token from prying eyes and removed it from my neck as soon as I could. Hiding it was my first thought and a most delicate operation, but it is now secreted amongst my linens. I do not want Harriet to see it and have all the attention that such a discovery might make. There will be talk of engagements and wedding plans, and I cannot endure such teasing.
I do not know how to proceed and am unable to imagine what ails me! I would be a simpleton if I did not encourage him. If I can only ignore my feelings and think about the prize, a chance to be married to a rich man, I am sure it will work out for the best. He admires me very much, I am certain. He has told me he loves me and no one has ever said that, except perhaps mama. Papa shows me little affection and he has never been demonstrative; at least the Captain can’t wait to kiss me! That he is within a hair’s breadth of proposing I have no doubt and, with a little more encouragement, I am convinced of my efforts to secure him! Oh, I am sure I can fancy myself in love if I can just believe it. More effort is required—I recall papa’s constant entreaties—but I never thought I should take such notice!
Saturday, June 19th
A day which held so much promise and started out so well has turned out to be so horrid I hardly know where to begin.
The whole of Brighton turned out for the races; there was such a spectacle, so many red and bluecoats, and the Royal party in their boxes. Before the races began, there were all sorts of hilarious diversions, pony racing, donkey racing, and even running races. Many handsome ladies were applied to for joining in the fun and I was one of them! I chose to ride like a man, while the prissy misses struggled along, sitting side saddle, which had them constantly falling down. I have never ridden so fast in my life, and I swear the entire race ground cheered my name, urging me on. My pretty little donkey brought me home victorious, and at the finish, the Captain was there to rein in my four-legged friend. He and his handsome friends carried me about on their shoulders up to the Royal Box; I was so admired and everyone applauded. The Prince, who clutched my hand for such a time I declare he forgot he was holding it, told me how much the sight of my vigorous riding had cheered him. He is such a kind gentleman, and Mrs Fitzherbert is elegance itself.
The horses then made their appearance on the horseshoe track, bets were placed, fortunes won and lost, wine and porter flowed, and the entire company was all very merry. As the last races were running, the Captain bade me join him to cheer on the Prince’s horses he had trained. He placed several bets on my behalf, and we watched his geldings win each race with great excitement. At once a crowd surrounded us, he was taken, lifted high above everyone’s heads, and carried off. Just as I was enjoying the moment, aware that everyone’s eyes were employed in the direction of the Captain’s curricle and hence on myself, my attention was caught by the vision of one who was not attending me, one whom I know well, who was engaged in what appeared to be outrageous flirtation. Anyone could see that the recipient of his attentions was observing him with what I can only describe as a look of pure adoration. Mr Wickham was gazing into the eyes of Miss Westlake; he had her hand in his and was raising it to his lips. He kissed her fingertips then leaned forward to whisper something into her hair.
The day was very hot, and suddenly, I felt quite overwhelmed by the heat, though I cannot account for why I felt so unexpectedly out of sorts. A tiresome headache plagued me, throbbing in my temples, to put me quite out of humour. The Captain was entirely taken up with his friends, Harriet and her Colonel had disappeared, there was no one for me to even sit or have a conversation with; everyone was occupied with their own amusements.
The evening was no better; the Captain declared that I owed him more than a little civility for being so generous with his money, and when he turned his attentions to another young lady, I can only say I was relieved to see him go! I cannot ever remember such a tedious day and I am sorely vexed!
Sunday, June 27th
I am still unable to rally—nothing and nobody can amuse me. Everyone and everything is intolerably dull and stupid. Captain Trayton-Camfield bored me senseless at Promenade Grove this evening; his behaviour, though attentive, is lacklustre and dreary.
Mr Wickham seemed diverted enough in the company of Miss Westlake, who gazes at him with complete admiration and unerring devotion. Thankfully, they disappeared before the evening was over; I could not bear to watch them staring into one another’s eyes a moment longer. Mr Wickham seems completely unaware of anything or anyone else; he has no manners and hers are even worse. I should hate to have him fawning over me like a lovesick puppy. Lord! If I should ever carry on in such a way, I would be ashamed of myself. Ugh! I am reminded of a certain pawing Captain who I wish would go to the other ends of the earth and take his curricle with him!
It is my birthday tomorrow, and we shall be attending the assembly ball at the Castle Tavern. I have a mind to dance with Denny all night. Mr Wickham will have to beg if he wishes to step out with me!
Tuesday, June 29th
I gloried in my popularity last night, as all my favoured beaux and many more besides declared a wish to dance with the birthday girl. I received good wishes and tokens from all my friends but one. Mr Wickham was not in attendance at the ball. He sent no excuses or pardons, no birthday greetings or felicitations.
There is to be a dreary card party tomorrow evening, but I do not know if I shall go—I grow weary of my devoted beau who appears to find the society of others as interesting as my own company. I declare I have quite given up on young men. Gallants of old, such as one reads of in Miss Burney’s books, are knights of the past. Indeed, my sister Kitty and I are of the same opinion: True gentlemen are becoming such a rarity that, if Catherine and I were ever to be solicited for our hands in marriage, I daresay we would refuse outright unless the intended could prove his undying love and proffer a book full of gentlemanly accomplishments.
Chapter 8
BY THE END OF the week Lydia’s humour had improved enough to enjoy some shopping in St James’s Street with Harriet. She was determined to spend her winnings on some well-chosen purchases, and so she set off with a light heart.
Their first port of call was the pastry cook’s on the corner, where they stopped for a cup of chocolate and a delicious pastry. They sat in the window, which afforded a wonderful spot for observation of the passing world in the shape of the citizens of Brighton, young and old, rich and poor. They laughed at the poor wretches who struggled up the street against the wind, which whipped in off the sea, exposing pretty ankles and gouty legs alike.
Clutching their bonnets tightly, they made a tour of the shops. At the linendraper’s they found some lovely silk, just fit for a ball gown, and a coloured muslin with a small red spot at three shillings and sixpence, which was considered a great bargain. Lydia bought stockings, three pairs for twelve shillings, but Harriet bought silk stockings at twelve shillings for a single pair—extravagance indeed! Lydia was expressing a desire to look at some gloves when a familiar voice declared he would like to be of assistance in her choice of a new pair.
“Good afternoon, Mr Wickham,” Harriet greeted him. “May I ask what brings you to town?”
“It would seem we are in pursuit of the same objects of desire. A pair of new gloves is my requirement.”
Lydia refused to meet his eyes, though she felt them observing her closely. The memory of him encountering her with the Captain in the dim grove came rushing forth and all she wanted to do was run away.
“Come, Miss Bennet,” Mr Wickham said, “let us see if we may find our heart’s fancy.”
Taking her arm, he marched her into the shop before she had a chance to protest and stood at her side, calling to the shopkeeper who laid out several pairs for their perusal. The sight of such achingly beautiful gloves was wholly engrossing, and though Lydia would have liked to remain feeling cross with Mr Wickham, she soon forgot quite how vexed she
was with her attentive companion. Despite herself, she was very pleased to see him again.
“I will leave you a moment, Lydia. I am badly in need of evening gloves and I think I see just what I want,” said Harriet, before she moved to the counter opposite.
“They are all so fine,” Lydia sighed, hardly attending to her friend who had already left them, “but I cannot help admiring the York tan which are heavenly. What do you think, Mr Wickham?” She picked them up and sighed over the soft leather, which was the perfect hue and so fashionable.
George Wickham glanced over his shoulder, and seeing that her friend was occupied on the other side of the shop with kid gloves for the ballroom, he turned to whisper in her ear. “Let it be my treat, Miss Bennet. I had a good run on the cards last night, and besides, I would wish you and I to be friends once more,” he said, taking her tiny hand and unbuttoning her old, worn glove before he carefully and deliberately removed each leather finger, as she looked on aghast. He held her fingers between his own large palms, turning them one way and then the other, as if to gauge their size, before picking up the most expensive pair and instructing her to try them on. His hands were cold, and the touch of his long tapered fingers interlaced with hers, quickened her breath and rendered her quite insensible.
“Oh, Mr Wickham, it is too generous; I cannot accept your money. It would be quite wrong,” she stammered as she fumbled to try them on, relieved to be out of his grasp, which had such a disturbing effect on her senses. The exquisite gloves were so irresistible, perhaps she would just see how they fitted; after all, she could purchase them herself if need be. She did not have to accept his money.
“They fit perfectly,” he said, taking both of her hands in his own. He held them and stroked the leather across her palms with his strong thumbs, making Lydia jump before she snatched her fingers away from his firm hold. She was bewildered by his behaviour and found herself to be uncharacteristically speechless. Before she had a chance to remove them, Wickham had reached for his purse and paid for the gloves. Lydia knew she should have stopped him, but they were so lovely; she wanted them to be hers so much, and she felt a certain thrill that he had wanted to pay for them.
“Mr Wickham, I cannot thank you enough,” she exclaimed. “They are beautiful!”
“Yes,” he said, staring at her with an earnest expression.
She could not look into his eyes, which seemed to see into her very soul, and so stared down at her hands, which were trembling.
He lifted her chin with his finger, so that she was forced to meet his gaze once more, and looking at her intently whispered, “Beautiful!”
Lydia blushed, her cheeks burning as red as the lobsters they had seen in the fish shop that afternoon. “I do not know what to say, ‘thank you’ seems such an inadequate expression,” she faltered.
“It is enough to see your face and the pleasure they so clearly give you.” He lowered his voice. “You need not say anything to Harriet; this will be our little secret.”
The gloves were boxed and beribboned, he presented them with a bow and was on the point of addressing her again when Harriet returned, having selected her evening gloves. Thus satisfied with their purchases, they left the shop. They stood outside for a moment. Lydia asked if he would like to accompany them some more but was instantly disappointed. Mr Wickham immediately took his leave, saying he was to meet a friend down by the seashore. Harriet suggested a walk in the other direction much to Lydia’s frustration, as she was longing to know exactly whom he might be meeting. She wondered if it could be Miss Westlake and imagined what they might do to amuse themselves. No doubt Miss Westlake would contrive some opportunity for them to be thrown together—in a donkey carriage perhaps? As Lydia mused on the possibilities and half attended to her companion’s conversation, she reflected on what had just passed at the glove-makers. She was thrilled with her purchase, but she was most disturbed by Mr Wickham’s manners. Thinking on it, she had been rather pleased to see him leave them; she could not explain it, but whenever she saw that gentleman lately, she did not quite know how to act or behave and it was a most unsettling feeling.
Wednesday, July 7th
Much to my relief, the Captain has not called. I happened to hear Mr Denny say that he had seen him driving out of Brighton very fast in his curricle this afternoon and had overheard his friends say he has gone to London on important business. I cannot say I feel at all anxious for his return!
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!
Chapter 9
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 protes
ted, “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!
