by Jane Odiwe
“Oh, Wickham has always been a terrible flirt if that is what you mean, Mrs Armstrong. He cannot help himself; he means nothing by it, you know,” Lydia replied as brightly as she could.
“He may not, but there was no one in the room could have mistook her motives, I am telling you. She could not keep her hands to herself; she touched his arm, his hand, whispered in his ear, and when she put her arm in his to march him out of the door, I thought, ‘Evelina, you have a duty to your dear friend, Mrs Wickham, who can have no idea what Miss Arabella is about.’ I am sure you understand, my dear, I only wish to be helpful.”
“Yes, of course,” Lydia smiled. “I shall certainly take note of what you say, but I am sure Mr Wickham is aware of her wiles and wishes to be friendly in the most commonplace sense.”
The following week Mrs Armstrong had reported at least three more sightings of young girls in the company of her husband. Though Lydia was not prepared to challenge him outright and was convinced of his innocence, she was feeling a little unnerved and regarded all females under the age of twenty-five with suspicion, especially if they had any dealings with George. Even Bessie, her maid, seemed to colour when he came into the room, and on more than one occasion she had found Wickham alone in the sitting room with her at some very odd hours. There had always seemed to be a perfectly good reason for this, however; if he was not helping her to poke the fire or jiggle a key in a cabinet, he was insisting on carrying her heavy pails of water upstairs to the bedchamber, though this very act of kindness seemed to tire him more than anything.
Thursday, October 14th
To be a married lady is almost enough in itself to warrant ecstatic effusions. I simply adore the look of my wedding ring and have at last got used to the strange sensation upon my finger. To be addressed as Mrs Wickham is my greatest pleasure and making a new home comes a very close second, though it has taken several weeks to become accustomed to the smallness of the place. What I would really like is a house on the higher slopes of town where the wealthy are settling, not timbered lodgings in the old part of town. Mr Wickham is at pains to point out some of the imposing public buildings nearby, which he suggests are equally comparable to those of London, but I am not impressed. Still, my darling Georgie has promised me an exciting new life and I feel sure all will come to us in time. In the meantime, I do the best I can with the rooms we share and fill every corner with purchases from the warehouses and craftsmen nearby until my husband quite despairs. “There will be no room to take a turn before you are finished, Lydia. There is not a table or a chair left in the carpenter’s window that you haven’t purloined, or a Chinese trinket in the warehouses, and I will never understand your obsession with cushions, pads, and bolsters of every description, which grace every seat. ’Tis fortunate I have a slender behind!”
I have inherited my mother’s ability to disregard a husband’s complaints, for which I am very grateful!
Sunday, October 24th
There is an Assembly Ball tomorrow evening. Everyone who is anybody in Newcastle attends and turns out without fail.
I am thankful for the fact that the weather is still warm, as I still have to wear my summer gowns, part of my wedding trousseau; but how I long for something new to wear to the ball. There is no money left for luxuries at present, especially now as the rent must be paid and as Wickham spends what is left going out on the town. Going to the Rooms is a treat and one of the few times I share an evening out with my husband. I try not to complain, but it is very difficult when he is out every night of the week and spends all day with the regiment. I would never confide to a soul that I am lonely, but there are times when I feel downright miserable. The officers’ wives are not as friendly as I had hoped, and certainly nothing compared to dearest Harriet and Isabella. Still, I look forward to the balls, and I am determined to make the most of every occasion.
Mr Wickham and I are toasted and complimented on our dancing by all. We make the most elegant couple, and whether we are feeling particularly pleased or vexed with one another, we are sure to put on a good show. The ball cannot come soon enough!
Chapter 21
MAJOR ARMSTRONG AND HIS wife greeted Lydia and her husband at the close of the first dance, stopping them as they crossed the room. Lydia’s heart sank, though she was pleased to see that Evelina’s exertions on the dance floor had rendered her complexion the same shade of puce as the velvet hangings at the windows.
“Mr and Mrs Wickham, here we are again, how charming to see you both,” Mrs Armstrong proclaimed. “So, Mrs Wickham, that dress is all the mode in Hertfordshire is it? Southern style, bless me, and here I was thinking long sleeves were quite the thing. I daresay you are wearing quite the latest fashion, but one wonders how some of these designs can be entertained. Lucy and I must look to Hertfordshire in future if we are not to appear perfect frights.”
Lydia fumed inside. It was not the first time her clothes had been commented on by this woman, and she could not think of an immediate reply. If only Wickham had not been gambling again this last week, there might have been enough for a new gown. She would write to her sister Lizzy in the morning; she could not possibly go out and about in the same gown much longer, and she silently cursed her Aunt Gardiner for her choice of wedding clothes once more.
“And, Mr Wickham, you are delighting us all with your dancing.”
“Why, thank you, Mrs Armstrong. If your husband will allow, I hope it will be your pleasure to step out with me for the next.”
“I would be delighted if your dear wife does not mind. How very gallant.”
Lydia maintained her smile, though she knew in the next breath Major Armstrong would be leading her out onto the dance floor, gazing too often on her décolletage and squeezing her hand. She knew if she were to give him any encouragement he was the type of man that would declare his all, despite his wife, and she was extremely careful never to be anywhere alone with that gentleman. She had met the type too many times in her short life. Before the dance was over, her fingers, her waist, and her toes had all been violated in more ways than she could number, he had undressed her with his eyes and made several none-too-subtle suggestions about needing to take the air, begging her to accompany him outside.
As soon as she could make her escape, she sought out the officers of her acquaintance who made life in Newcastle such a joy. It was not long before a little group surrounded her. George sought out his next partner; he would not attempt to remove Lydia from Captain Welby’s side, and in any case, there was that pretty milliner, Miss Skinner, standing all alone and forlorn, in want of a partner. He would be the man to step in and whirl her round for the next one, secure in the knowledge that his wife was otherwise engaged and oblivious to his own activities.
“Mrs Wickham, the lady formed to break all our hearts, would you not agree, gentlemen?” Captain Welby addressed the party who stood admiringly in a circle around her.
Lydia laughed and patted her curls. “Captain Welby, you flatterer. I am sure I could not inspire such heartache, though I am also sure I have affection enough to bestow on you all.”
“The lady underestimates the depths of our torture, does she not, my friends?” the Captain quipped.
“Mrs Wickham, promise to dance with us all,” begged Mr Gascoigne, taking her hand and kissing her fingers.
“Yes, who will be the lucky man, Mrs Wickham?” shouted Mr Herbert, blushing crimson at his courage for speaking up at all.
“Why, I will dance with each one of you,” she pronounced loudly as Captain Welby stepped up to take her hand first. Now, there was a handsome man, Lydia reflected; he was as good a dancer as her dear husband and so eager in his compliments.
The Captain would have needed little encouragement if Lydia had chosen to pursue him; that he found her attractive he let her know at every opportunity, but beyond a little harmless flirtation, she was not interested. George Wickham was the only man for her, and
she loved him with a true heart. That the Captain made a gallant partner there was no doubt, but as soon as the dance was over, Lydia thanked her partner and went in search of her husband. She was feeling hot and disquieted; she needed a drink and would ask George to fetch her one. However, after scanning the ballroom and perusing the card room, he did not appear. She couldn’t find him anywhere and no one seemed to know of his whereabouts either. She could not imagine where he could be, but in desperate need of some fresh air, she passed through the doors leading out into the gardens beyond. It was very dark but for the pale wash of moonlight that highlighted the gravel walk and lit up the cold stone statues as the clouds passed overhead. She felt better out of doors and breathed in the sweet autumnal air, watching her feet as her slippers crunched on the path. Everywhere was quiet and still, the smell of newly cut grass and the fragrance of late blooming roses lifted her spirits. Her head was full of thoughts of George. When she found him, she would do her utmost not to be cross, she decided. George’s temper was so easily lost; at the slightest provocation, it would flare. Without meaning to plague him, she knew that he would accuse her of nagging and pestering him. Lydia sighed. Although she was sure she was not the easiest person in the world to live with, she knew George Wickham must be the most difficult. She stepped beyond a hedge of yew trees where she spied a bench and was making her way along with a view to having a rest on the seat when her attention was caught by the sounds of low voices approaching—the unmistakable resonance of sweethearts’ talk and lovers’ exertions. They stopped and kissed passionately. Lydia froze.
“We cannot keep meeting like this,” a lady said quietly giggling. “Someone is bound to see us. I really think I ought to go, although I hate to leave you.”
“Dear sweet creature,” he answered, “I believe you might just steal my heart. Please stay a little longer, I beg you. Step into the gazebo, my dear; we will not be long.”
Lydia could only just hear what was being said. She knew she should not listen, but she was caught. If she moved, they would hear her. She stopped, waiting for a moment when she could return to the safety of the Rooms. It was too quiet, as were the activities of those in the gazebo. She sat down on the bench, her ears straining and her heart hammering.
The voices were heard again. From the safety of the sheltered spot, their guard was let down, their voices ringing across the quiet of the gardens audibly. “But what of your wife? You always look so perfect a couple, I cannot hope to compete for your affections,” the lady was heard to say.
“We are not here to discuss my wife,” he answered forcefully. “There is only one who engages my affections at this moment and that is you, my dear. Come, it is a little too cramped to share the seat in comfort. Perhaps you could sit on my knee.” Lydia gasped in disbelief. She clamped her hand over her mouth as quickly as she could, but she had been heard. As she rose from her seat to withdraw out of sight behind a hedge, the courting couple she had disturbed emerged from the shadows, arranging their dress, picking the fallen leaves out of their hair as they ran laughing back in the direction of the Rooms. Lydia did not recognise the lady, but she could not fail to distinguish the gentleman. She would have recognised him—his profile, his infectious laugh, and especially his heartfelt protestations—even in the pitch black of a night with no moon, for it was her very own husband George Wickham.
Lydia did not want to cause a scene, always mindful that she was forever under the scrutiny of her vindictive acquaintances. How she kept her tongue until they were going home before telling him exactly what she had seen, she could not tell. Instead, she took revenge by flirting wildly with every man who came in sight and even made a play for Major Armstrong, to his great gratification and much to the annoyance of his wife. She drank copious amounts of wine, draining glass after glass, until the visions and noises that haunted her were distorted into faded recollection.
She became aware that her husband was watching her with increasing anguish. Finally, after witnessing her throwing her arms around Captain Welby, he marched her off the dance floor and into a carriage, which they could ill afford, where the combination of too much wine and the swaying motion of the vehicle resulted in the ultimate remedy of relieving her stomach all over Wickham’s lap, causing him to scold and abuse her vehemently.
“Good Lord, Lydia! Are you drunk? Now look! These are my best breeches, damn you. Have a care!”
“Indeed, sir, I would apologise but I am not sorry in the least. You have got off lightly for your misdemeanours!”
One look at her face told him all he needed to know, and at once he identified the intruder who had shortened such an exhilarating interlude in the garden. “What are you talking about, Mrs Wickham? I do not understand you.”
“I saw you, George, making vile love with that woman, whoever she might be. I saw and heard everything!” She sat looking out of the window at the dark streets, her eyes purposefully averted from those of her husband, and waited for him to speak. Unable to cry, she acknowledged the truth she had suspected for so long. She had been betrayed.
“And what of your disgraceful behaviour, Mrs Wickham?” he began. “Yes, the woman who bears my name, the greatest flirt in all Newcastle. Do you consider your actions to be so very different from mine?”
Lydia could not believe her ears. Far from receiving the contrite explanation and apology she had expected, he was red faced and agitated, staring straight into her eyes, and telling her that she was the one to have behaved badly.
“And I might ask you,” she said as calmly as she could, “why you felt it necessary to risk humiliating me in front of all my friends and neighbours. Can you deny that you are carrying on with that hussy?”
“Lydia, listen to me, my girl. A man must have a little sport now and again. It was just a little kiss; no one saw us, only you, my dear. You know she is nothing to me; you are my partner in life, you have my ring on your finger, and I married you. Nothing can change that, and if I have been a little indiscreet, well my dear, I shall see to it that I am more careful in future.”
“More careful in future? More careful in future!” Lydia was incensed and, rising out of her seat, pummelled her fists on his chest in frustration. “Do you not repent your heinous behaviour? Are you not sorry for what you have done?”
“Come, come, calm down, dear,” he soothed, firmly removing her and forcing her to sit back down on the opposite seat. “Do not upset yourself. You must know I am a man of the world. You are making more of this trifling affair than is necessary. Why, there isn’t a soldier in the regiment who doesn’t have a wife and a girl besides. That is the way of life. You are being unreasonable, my dear. I am a good husband; I have provided you with a comfortable home, have I not? All I ask in return is that you do your duty as a wife should and turn a blind eye to certain necessary circumstances.”
“So you can carry on gambling, drinking, and womanizing to your heart’s content?” she shouted, unable to keep her composure any longer. “A comfortable home has been my creation alone, and if not for my generous sisters, I would be miserable indeed!”
“As far as I am concerned, I have kept my side of the bargain,” her husband answered quietly. “I might ask exactly what it is you feel you have been denied. You have had everything money can buy. You, in your turn, do little except sit about the place laughing with your friends. If I enjoy a little drink, a game of cards, and the young flesh of a filly now and again, as your husband, that is my right and the sooner you understand that, the better off you will be.”
They arrived home, but Lydia was not to be quieted so easily. She paced up and down the pavement as Wickham searched for the key in his soggy pockets and, aware that she felt inclined to scream at him, did her best to lower her voice to a rant. “And what is it that you expect me to do now?”
“Come now, let’s have no more of this nonsense. You will certainly set tongues wagging if our neighbours hear you shouting like th
at. Be a dutiful wife and I will see you get a new hat. Nay, I’ll go so far as to promise a new gown! Now, what could be more handsome than that?”
“Mr Wickham,” came his wife’s reply, “I warn you, if I ever find out you have betrayed me again, I shall run away with Captain Welby!”
She ran into the house, pushing past him as the door opened, barely managing to keep from crying. Wickham was left standing, at first with an expression of bewilderment on his face as though he could not possibly conceive what had occurred to upset her so, but then a look of mirth spread swiftly across his countenance and he gave in to huge guffaws.
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.
