by Jane Odiwe
Lydia retired to her room to mull over the events of the day. She reclined on a sofa at the foot of her bed and plumped a silk cushion behind her head. She was not quite ready for sleep, and her eyes sought out the view, resting on the wooded landscape in the distance, the tops of trees tinged with copper at the end of a beautiful day.
So Isabella had a young man. Strange to think she had not mentioned him in her correspondence, but then they did not write as they used to do. There was always something else to do and she just never seemed able to find the time. Besides, it was not always easy to write in the happy vein she would have desired. She was quite excited at the prospect of seeing her friend on the morrow. Lucky Isabella, thought Lydia, to have attracted a young farmer who had both property and land. To be near to her beloved mother, but quite far enough away from her brother, would be a great advantage, Lydia considered, with amusement. She could not wait to hear all of Isabella’s news!
Chapter 26
AS SOON AS SHE had breakfasted, Lydia hastened away to her carriage and was soon bowling along the drive and ascending out of the park where, for an instant, she looked back at the house in all its handsome grandeur. They cantered through the wood and out into the lanes, heading for the rectory at Monks Holt just two miles away and were soon stopped before the gates of a very ancient looking house, not as modern as Lydia’s preference would have had it, but large and substantial nevertheless. She walked up a path of old mellow brick with tiers and banks of flowers nodding on either side before lifting the huge iron knocker on the old oak door.
There was silence. She was sure they were expecting her; Isabella had insisted she come as early as possible. She knocked once more as loudly as she could. Again there was silence, but eventually, she heard distant footsteps, then the door opened, and there stood a short, plump girl, wheezing with all the humour of a very good housekeeper, who showed her in with a welcoming smile.
“Forgive me, Mrs Wickham. I was sitting with Mrs Fitzalan upstairs and, what with there being so many steps to come down and me not as agile as I should be . . . well, come in and I will show you to the sitting room. Miss Isabella asked me to say that she is sorry she is not here in person to greet you, but she has just stepped out in order to fetch her mother’s tonic draught and won’t be long. I’ll tell the rector you are here.”
“Oh no, do not disturb him. I am quite happy to sit and wait,” Lydia replied anxiously. She wished to avoid Mr Fitzalan if she could.
They passed along a panelled hallway, dim and gloomy after the bright light outside, before Lydia was shown into the pretty sitting room. With oak beams and mullioned windows, the house was very old and of a bygone age. Bars of sunlight blazed over the furniture, large stuffed sofas covered in old, faded damask graced either side of the fireplace, carved tables were set in the alcoves, and ancient throne-like chairs with rush seats ranged along the walls. Lydia was very fond of Isabella’s home, though she thought how she might improve it with some alterations to the structure and a few choice modern fittings. It was a charming family house. Lydia walked over to the casement window to look out onto the terrace and formal garden, which was still laid out in the old style in hedges of knots. White doves pecked at the intricate pathways and flew beyond the high yew hedges into a painted dovecote and a sleepy cat, sunning himself on a seat, stretched his limbs and rolled over to luxuriate in the warmth. She was admiring the view when a figure turned a corner around a hedge, appeared with a trug and a garden fork, and busied himself by the garden wall. Lydia craned her neck to see. The tall muscular gardener, clad only in a white shirt, tucked into his breeches, with the sleeves rolled up, displaying a very fine pair of legs to Lydia’s way of thinking, was partly obscured by the hedge. He stood, his back towards her, tying up a straggling rose that had fallen away from the wall. She could not help thinking what a fine figure of a man he made. His dark hair was almost wild; the breeze shook his curls and billowed at his chemise, so that his strong, lean body was exposed. In the next moment, he turned and Lydia could not hide her astonishment. Her mouth fell quite open as it became clear exactly whom she had been ogling with such admiration. That he had seen her expression she was sure, for despite dipping behind the curtain as quickly as she could, their eyes had met. Alexander Fitzalan had fixed her with his piercing blue eyes and his mien was one of gravity.
She could not think how she had not recognised him; she should have known his dark head anywhere, but to see him in such a state of undress and without his clerical black, which seemed to be as much a part of him as a beetle’s black armour, had taken her completely by surprise. She sat down, feeling flustered, and prayed he would not come and speak to her. After five minutes, she began to feel quite safe and was ready to breathe again without turning in alarm at every creak of the floorboards and every footstep that passed by the door. She began to loll in the chair, closing her eyes in the warmth of the sun and admonished herself for her folly. But the turning of the door handle was enough to set her upright once more, and to her dismay, her composure disintegrated as the person she least wanted to see stepped into the room.
“Mrs Wickham, I had no idea you were here,” Mr Fitzalan declared. “I hope you have not been sitting long on your own.” He stood before her in his usual black garb, and Lydia could not help but wonder if she had seen an apparition out there in the garden. “My sister had an errand to attend to, but she thought she would be returned before you arrived. I cannot think what must be detaining her.”
This was quite a speech, and more words than Lydia thought she had ever heard him utter, though she felt it devoid of the necessary enquiries and flatteries on her health, her beauty, and her person, which young men of her acquaintance usually emitted. He sat down opposite her and fiddled nervously with the fringing on a fat velvet cushion.
“You have a beautiful garden, Mr Fitzalan,” Lydia remarked. “You must be a great gardener I think.”
Alexander did not know where to look. He was clearly mortified by her comments, though she was not to know that merely the recollection of his being seen in his shirt and breeches was enough to confound him. Why did Mrs Wickham always seem to take so much pleasure in his discomposure? He could not think what to say and was immensely grateful for the fact that his sister chose that instant to burst in on the pair of them.
“Oh, Lydia, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting on my company,” she cried as she came flying into the room, throwing her cloak and her bonnet onto a chair before falling into a seat. “The apothecary could not be found, then I was delayed by Miss Wynn, who always has a week’s gossip to impart, and then I saw Miss Rowlandson, who begged for some advice about a new bonnet.”
“You saw Miss Rowlandson? How is she? Were you helpful in your advice, Isabella?” Mr Fitzalan sat up with instant attention, prompting his sister with more animation than Lydia had ever seen in him.
“Suffice to say, she entered the shop and bought the very hat I recommended, so yes, I would say so. Do not worry, Alexander; for your sake, I would not put her off.”
Lydia looked from brother to sister. Mr Fitzalan must be smitten with this Miss Rowlandson, judging by the daft expression spreading over his countenance and his sister’s coy smiles. She hoped the poor woman knew of his designs; it would not bode well to have Mr Fitzalan take one by surprise with declarations of affection, but that could hardly be the case. He did not know what it was to be in love; he had professed as much.
“I must go and attend my duties, forgive me, ladies,” he said as he rose, colouring instantly and bowing stiffly before leaving the room in such haste as made Lydia nearly burst out laughing.
At last they were left alone, and in the natural course of conversation, Isabella had soon taken Lydia into her confidence. “Miss Eleanor Rowlandson is a good friend of ours; indeed, I hope she may be more than just that—a sister too perhaps.”
“Is your brother in love with Miss Rowlandson?” Lydia aske
d, trying to keep the astonishment out of her voice.
“I cannot say, though it is clear he likes her well enough. No, Eleanor has a brother, Frederick. Oh, Lydia, it is towards this excellent fellow that my desires tend and my hopes lie.”
“You sly thing, not a word did you divulge to me in any of your letters. How could you keep such a secret?”
“To be truthful, Lydia, he has only just declared his intention of courting me, and I did not want to say anything until I was really sure. Lydia, I do love him, more than anyone ever.”
“Is he handsome? Is he rich?” Lydia quizzed laughingly, keeping up the pretence that she knew nothing about him.
“Both! I am so lucky; I cannot believe my good fortune. However, we are not married yet, nor even engaged, but I have high hopes.”
“Isabella, I am so happy for you. You deserve to be so blessed. Tell me all about him.”
“I danced with him at an Assembly in Meryton, though I had already been introduced to him by his sister. They live at HighCross, which is only down the road, and she was one of the first to call when we moved here to be with Alexander. The family owns much of the farmland hereabouts; Eleanor lives with their parents close by, and Freddie has the running of Home Farm. Lydia, I know you will love them both as much as I do.”
“I’m sure I shall. And do you think, when you have gone to live at Home Farm, Eleanor might be set up in the rectory?”
“I wish it more than I can say, but you know my brother, Lydia. For all my love of his endearing ways, he does not have that knack with ladies that others possess. He does not know what to say to them. He is truly awkward with strangers, and how any young lady is to come to know him on a more intimate basis I do not know. He cannot make any small talk nor get past saying ‘how do you do’ or have any idea of how to flatter or compliment. If only he had a teacher, a girl of his acquaintance, someone with whom he feels comfortable who could teach him the art of conversing on subjects lighter than those which only interest clergymen.” Isabella looked with intent at her friend. “Yes, that is what he needs: someone to show him the way.”
“Surely if Eleanor is interested, she will be the person to do that,” Lydia replied, picking up the cushion Mr Fitzalan had abandoned.
“Perhaps, but I fear she may not be aware that he has even the simplest regard for her, based on his behaviour thus far. No, what he needs is someone to instruct him in the ways of love and teach him to flirt a little.”
Lydia was at a loss as to know what to say as she sat smoothing out the cushion’s fringe between her fingers. She thought Isabella was asking the impossible. It made her giggle to think of Alexander even attempting to flirt with any poor unsuspecting female, let alone encourage anyone to take on the task of instructing him in the art of seduction.
Isabella was staring at her with a look somewhere between recognition and amusement. “I am forming a most excellent plan as I look at you, my dear friend. You know Alexander quite well enough, and you are just the sort of person to encourage him to almost anything. You could do it.”
Lydia laughed out loud. “I cannot agree with you, Isabella; what on earth gave you that absurd idea? I would think if anyone should instruct Alexander on how to behave towards young ladies, it is you. He needs to hear such advice from his sister, believe me. I am certainly ill qualified for such an exercise. Besides, Alexander does not like me. We can never have a conversation without one upsetting the other. It is quite clear how much he detests me.”
“However can you say such a thing, Lydia?” Isabella looked astounded. Her fair curls shook around her neat coiffure in agitation. “Has he ever given you cause to think he dislikes you? What has he said? Has he behaved badly towards you?”
Lydia shook her head. “I wish I had not mentioned it; I am truly sorry, Isabella. No, he has never said anything amiss nor behaved in any way improper. Please forget I said anything at all.”
“Dear friend, tell me what you mean,” Isabella begged.
“If I am honest,” Lydia said sighing, “I think he looks at me as one looks at a truly wicked woman, and I suppose, in a way, I have at one time had my share of wickedness. That is altered anyhow; I am a respectable married woman.”
“Truly, Lydia, I think you are mistaken about my brother. I am sure he has mentioned his regard for you as my friend, and in any case, it would be going against the grain. He does not judge his fellow man. He is a clergyman after all.”
“Precisely,” Lydia answered, “I am quite used to the ways of clergymen. You forget my cousin is a man of the cloth.”
Isabella looked most put out.
“I will try at least to engage him in some conversation if you like,” said Lydia, “but I warn you, I do not think I am up to the job. I cannot promise to aid your brother’s chances of romantic liaison with any exchange we are likely to have. I truly believe you would be much better off having this talk with Miss Rowlandson.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door and Bertha entered with a grin on her face that stretched from ear to ear. “Mr and Miss Rowlandson have called, miss, shall I show them in?”
“There, Lydia, now you shall meet them!” Isabella giggled, as she ran round the room picking up her belongings, rearranging the chairs, and inspecting her reflection in the glass. “Bertha, do hurry and show them in.”
Freddie and Eleanor Rowlandson waltzed in with such an air of confidence and affable good humour that Lydia was taken by surprise. He was a very handsome man with a pleasing address and charming manner. Mr Rowlandson might be a farmer, but he was certainly something more than the country bumpkin Lydia had anticipated. His sister was something of an eye opener too; a beauty, all blonde curls and emerald eyes, and though Lydia could not tell why she took an instant dislike to the girl, one thing was certain: Miss Eleanor Rowlandson was not at all the plain young woman Lydia had expected to see. She was dressed in white muslin, with a Spanish cloak of the same swinging from her shoulders, and on her head a Persian hat with green feathers framed her pretty face, setting off her eyes, which Lydia thought were exactly the same shade as the eyes of the cat she had seen in the rector’s garden.
“We have heard so much about you, Mrs Wickham,” Mr Rowlandson enthused. “Miss Fitzalan was so delighted to hear you were to be in this part of the country again and so were we—thrilled at the thought of meeting with you at last. I hope you will forgive our speed at coming over to get a look at you, but we had heard such reports that we couldn’t wait a minute longer, we just had to come and see for ourselves. I might add, Mrs Wickham, that I need hardly say that we are not disappointed in the least, are we, my dear? You are every bit the woman of beauty and fashion we have heard so much about!”
Miss Rowlandson smiled and nodded in the right places, though Lydia noted it was not done with the same enthusiasm. The door opened again and there was Mr Fitzalan, turned up quite like a bad penny, Lydia thought, though she imagined it would be fun to watch his attempts at courting Eleanor. She could see, to her great amusement, that Miss Rowlandson was staring at him a great deal, smiling far too much, and fluttering her eyelashes at every chance, but these antics seemed to have no effect on her intended suitor, who either was not aware of her attempts to captivate him or chose to ignore them.
“Your sister is mistress of Netherfield, is she not?” Mr Rowlandson continued. “I am slightly acquainted with her husband Mr Bingley, as fine a fellow as ever lived.”
Lydia nodded and smiled; she was quite used to hearing praise of her relatives in such a manner. She surmised it might be easy to be thus distinguished by one’s fellow human beings if one were as rich.
“We have heard there is to be a ball at the house,” added his sister. “How I should love to be a fly on the wall at such a gathering and see all the beautiful gowns.”
Isabella looked anxiously at her friend. Lydia knew what she was thinking—that she would love to have
Mr Rowlandson there, to twirl away the hours. Isabella looked down at her clenched hands with resignation; she knew it would be too much to ask her friend to invite him, and in any case, it was more than likely not in Lydia’s power to be able to do so.
“It would be my pleasure to invite you to the ball; it is my great privilege to invite whomever I choose,” Lydia announced, pleased to see the expression on Miss Rowlandson’s face who was now regarding her with a mixture of envy and admiration.
“Mrs Wickham, you cannot mean it!” Eleanor declared, jumping up from the seat, the ostrich feathers in her hat waving in her excitement. “Oh, tell me I have heard correctly; am I really to go to the ball?”
“That is very generous, Mrs Wickham,” her brother cried, grinning at Isabella who beamed back with sheer joy. “We would be delighted to accept your very kind invitation.”
Lydia could not have felt happier if she was mistress of Netherfield itself. It was most agreeable indeed to offer such generous hospitality at someone else’s expense. She only hoped that Jane would not mind too much when she told her what she had done. Everyone continued to praise her for showing such beneficence, all except Mr Fitzalan, who had not spoken throughout but merely watched her, with that same disapproving and unforgiving countenance, with those eyes that matched the sky outside.
