by Jane Odiwe
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!
Chapter 11
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 rescuin
g 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.
Thursday, July 22nd
I do not want Harriet to know of my new amour just yet, as I know she will not approve. As far as she is concerned, I am practically a married lady—what would she think if she only guessed half the truth?!!!
I think I might just burst with the excitement of it all and I cannot think what I am to do. I have written to Kitty, whom I know I can trust implicitly. I have described for her in the most minute detail every feeling in my body, every sentiment of my soul, not omitting that she must either set to with the scissors as soon as she has read the letter or burn the evidence, whichever she feels most prudent! I have a feeling that she is not going to be wholly surprised by my news and will also be congratulating herself on the fact that she declared in a letter to me more than a fortnight ago that Wickham and I were in love. In love!—Oh, yes indeed!
Friday, July 23rd
I declare that George Wickham has bewitched me and all I can think of is him, his face, his mouth, his kisses, and how I want him to hold me once more. I cannot imagine how we will ever be alone again, and I might just die if a moment does not soon present itself!
Tonight I danced four times with my Georgie, three with Denny, two with Pratt, and various odd ones with others of my acquaintance. I near fainted away with Georgie in my arms as we danced and looked longingly into each other’s eyes whenever we dared. During the third, he whispered to meet him outside just after tea, and I could hardly contain my excitement. I managed to slip away and ran into the night air, turning into the darkened alley by the side of the inn. A hand grabbed me from the shadows, and I was engulfed in Mr Wickham’s arms. He embraced me so tightly that he took my breath away. I declare George’s slow and sweet kisses put me in such a state of frenzy, from the curls on the crown of my head to the lace edge of my fichu, that I nearly succumbed to a fainting fit. Indeed, he was so worried about my pallid countenance and shallow breathing as I lay motionless in his arms that he was obliged to lay his head on my heart to determine if I still breathed. Thankfully, I was soon revived by his thoughtful actions and could gasp once more, although George insisted on counting my heartbeats for a full five minutes, soothing each quickened pulse with the balm of a tender kiss, before he was completely satisfied. Those kisses still burned at the close of the evening, and I felt that anyone looking at me could see the impression of his lips, like red scars scorched into my flesh as though he had branded me as his own. George Wickham has left his imperceptible mark on me, and I am enslaved! Oh, happy state!
Once in the ballroom again, I was grieved to see that George took great pains to avoid me, preferring to dance with anyone who smiled in his direction and claiming three dances with Miss Westlake (how I have come to detest her), and I thought I should die until I received a sign to let me know I was still his chosen one. It was not until we were going home and were standing at the cloakroom that George surprised me by taking it upon himself to collect my cloak, which he carefully placed about my shoulders and then tied under my chin, brushing his fingers against my throat and behind my ears. I looked wildly about me, for although I was enjoying every sensation far more than I could ever describe, I did not want us to be discovered. Thankfully, his actions seemed to pass unnoticed. I long to caress him again. I cannot wait for tomorrow!
Chapter 12
THE NEXT DAY, THE usual party was to be found promenading along the cliff top; Harriet and Henry were leading the way in front, Mr Denny, Mr Pratt, and Mr Chamberlayne followed, leaving Lydia and Mr Wickham to bring up the rear. They had been in Donaldson’s all morning, and as the sun came out from behind a cloud, Lydia remembered that she had left her parasol behind.
“Miss Bennet, will you do anything to get me away from your friends?” he whispered.
“Indeed, Mr Wickham, it is no falsehood,” she answered. “I do not know what has happened to my mind lately; I have turned into more of a scatterbrain than ever I was in my life before. Indeed, my thoughts seem to be preoccupied on other matters and not on those which are necessarily of the moment.”
“Are these other matters or other people, Miss Bennet? In particular, do your thoughts tend to favour many individuals or just one pers
on?”
“Oh,” she cried unable to resist striking him on the arm, “you delight in vexing me, Mr Wickham. I do not understand you.”
“I will escort you to Donaldson’s, Miss Bennet, to retrieve your parasol; you cannot go alone,” he announced loudly in the next breath, for all the company to hear.
“Why, thank you, Mr Wickham. That is most kind,” she answered with as demure an expression as she could.
“Don’t be long,” called Harriet. “We will wait for you at Dr Awsiter’s Baths.”
They rushed away, Lydia heady in Mr Wickham’s company, yet being careful not to gaze into his eyes too often for fear of giving all her feelings away. The parasol was soon found, and they were on the point of leaving when George espied a pair of the most exquisitely carved cameo earrings in a glass topped cabinet, insisted that they should be hers, and bought and paid for them before she had a chance to object to his wild generosity.
“Oh, George, I long to be on our own,” she whispered. “Yet, I feel the chances for us to be alone are so few and far between that I will go distracted before much longer. Thank you for my beautiful earrings, but how will I be able to wear them? I cannot be seen in them whilst I am in Brighton; however would I explain where they came from? Harriet would be sure to notice them for she has been exclaiming after a pair for several weeks without any success from her dear Colonel.”
