Bad Miss Bennet

by Jean Burnett

  By this time one of the cards in the trump suit had been played and her ladyship, having produced the highest trump, took the trick. Her glee at winning a handful of pennies was pathetic to behold. Her cheeks were flushed and her manner became arch.

  ‘I am enjoying such good fortune, Mr Darcy,’ she simpered. ‘Perhaps we might play for higher stakes?’ My brother-in-law looked at the small pile of pennies with a puzzled expression. At that moment Sapphire stood up abruptly, pleaded a headache and left the table. The Reverend and de Lawrence almost fought each other to escort her to the door. I guessed she knew of her mother’s ruse and despised it. We continued to play and my lacklustre cards produced no tricks at all. I was finally ‘looed’ to the obvious delight of Lady Boulter. I placed three pennies in the pot.

  In the following double pool rounds I had better luck, eventually winning all of five pence. Lady Boulter continued to win most trumps, concealing her own cards in the folds of her flowing shawl which she wore due to her ‘extreme susceptibility’ to the cold. Only Mr de Lawrence and I appeared to notice the deception.

  Late that night, in my own rooms, I took the bold step of preparing for my flight by taking a bath. I hoped it would not have a weakening effect on my constitution. I bathed in my chemise with a sachet of almonds, pine nuts, linseed, marshmallow root and lily bulb-something the French call a bain de modestie. Afterwards, I recovered lying on my bed having dabbed tuberose essence liberally on my person.

  Adelaide laid out a walking dress of lilac blue edged with Pomona green. One cannot be too well dressed when planning a Great Escape. I had decided that this was the moment when I would sever relations with my family, at least for some time. I was now a person of means and I intended to sink or swim by myself – with a little help from my friends. I held my destiny in my own hands as if it were a new born babe and I the midwife. In particular I shall sever all ties with Pemberley and my odious brother-in-law.

  As the night wore on Adelaide and I sat around in my chamber, ill at ease, with our belongings packed at our feet. Pausing to light another candle, Adelaide smothered a cry when a large spider emerged from under a rug like a calling card from the underworld. I did not voice this gothic thought aloud for fear of unsettling my maid even more.

  At a little after midnight the house seemed quiet enough. We stole through the corridors with all that we could carry. A large portmanteau had been deposited in a summerhouse on a remote part of the estate the day before. The Rev. Arbuthnot had been charged with recovering it and placing it in the chaise which he had ordered at my request. I paused for a moment to slip a letter under the door of Darcy’s study. I had taken the utmost care over its composition.

  My Dear Brother-in-Law,

  You will receive this letter when I have left this house, I hope for the last time. I have been hated and despised while under its roof – an object of scorn to all. Now I am able to shake off the dust of Pemberley from my shoes. Thanks to a generous legacy from my late employer I am now a woman of independent means. You must know that I never had any intention of marrying the Reverend Arbuthnot but I derived great pleasure in convincing you otherwise. I am returning to the Continent to resume the life of my choice. We will be well rid of each other, I believe.

  Your servant,

  Lydia Wickham

  As an afterthought I added my fondest love to Lizzie.

  Adelaide had been able to copy a key obtained from her favourite footman and we unlocked one of the large windows opening onto the terrace. We moved swiftly down the drive to where the chaise was waiting accompanied by the Reverend who was shivering with apprehension. The man had no stomach at all for dissimulation and treachery. Lady Boulter would eat him alive. He was glad to bid us adieu. I instructed him to deny all knowledge of my flight, but I fear Darcy will easily prise the truth from him.

  We were thankful to reach an inn in the nearest town where we sat up all night waiting for the early morning coach at first light. No effort was made to apprehend us on the long journey to London. I fancy that Darcy was indeed glad to be rid of me.

  And so, dear reader, I took flight from these English shores once more like a wayward bird that follows its own path rather than join its fellows. As we journeyed to Paris I wondered whether I would ever have a house or even a city I could call mine. Would I be forever in transit like a ghostly portmanteau? Adelaide obviously shared my fears.

  ‘We won’t never settle, will we, madam?’ I stared out of the window seeing my pale face reflected. ‘I truly hope we shall,’ I replied, but I did not convince either of us.

  Chapter Thirty

  Paris again

  We lodged with Selena and Miles in their apartment on the charming rue St Sulpice. It was a somewhat cramped lodging for all of us but I knew I would not be staying long. I had informed the embassy of my arrival but I was sure they already knew. I did not have long to wait; within a few days while Selena and I were enjoying coffee and ices at Tortoni’s, I was presented with a letter carried by my demonic shadow, Captain Marshfield. It contained my instructions. After the briefest of conversations the captain departed and I hastily scanned the note. I told Selena that it was a message from the Count who was anxious to be re-united with me.

  ‘He asks me to leave immediately,’ I told her. It was almost true. The letter informed me that the Count had returned to Paris and I was to make myself known to him as soon as possible. My joy at the prospect of seeing him once more was mixed with the trepidation I felt at the task before me. Selena was aghast at the news.

  ‘You have scarcely had time to see the sights of the city – or visit the milliners, not to mention attending a soirée or two.’

  ‘It is for the best,’ I assured her. ‘My future lies with the Count.’ I crossed my fingers firmly as I said this. Selena gave a cynical sniff. ‘You are full of moonshine, Lydia. How can your future lie with this man? You scarcely know him, and he may be married. He is also an aristocrat and a foreigner. You will be nothing but a plaything for him.’

  ‘One thing can lead to another,’ I replied, spooning the last of the ice-cream into my mouth while looking around the crowded café for I knew not what. The place was awash with well-dressed women and officers in uniforms of every hue. The babble of voices was so loud that Selena and I were reduced to lip reading.

  ‘I will write to you from Vienna,’ I promised. ‘They say it is a charming city.’

  But we did not go to Vienna. My reunion with the Count was a rapturous one, sealed in his lodgings by an afternoon of love and the presentation of a sapphire necklace similar to the ones adorning the necks of the ladies of the night in the Palais Royal.

  Selena was right, as always. I was the Count’s plaything, but he was kind and attentive and generous and my task was to deceive him. In short, my family’s view of me was correct. I was a dissolute woman who could be bought and sold. Even my country had purchased me for its own purposes. Once again I heard Wickham’s voice in my head.

  ‘Ten thousand pounds to make an honest woman of you.’

  Perhaps if Wickham had really loved me. If he had lived. I pushed these thoughts from my mind as I changed for dinner that evening – poulet marengo at the Café des Colonnes followed by the Paris Opera. Women have so few choices in this life and mine had been blighted by lack of money and a false husband. Yes, I admit I am rash and often foolish but I have a determination to succeed in securing the things I crave. Despite my dalliance with the Count I have not despaired of making a good marriage one day. In the meantime I would enjoy my life. If only awkward incidents would not intrude on my plans. Sighing, I followed the Count out to the carriage.

  He held my hand as we lurched over the Parisian potholes, kissing my fingers and admiring my delicate oval nails.

  ‘I cannot wait to see Vienna,’ I prattled, ‘the Hofburg and the Schonbrunn palaces, the Vienna Woods and the music. I hear that Schubert’s melodies are divine.’ I had been reading all I could on the subject. The Count released my hand. />
  ‘We are not going to Vienna immediately. I have an invitation to visit the Princess of Wales in Italy, at her villa in Pesaro. You may accompany me if you will.’

  ‘Italy?’ I had a vision of the mildewed canals of Venice. ‘I hear it is very unhealthy in the summer.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ he chuckled. ‘The Villa Caprile is perched on a hill overlooking the gulf. I believe it is a most healthful spot. It is a great honour; as an Englishwoman I thought you would be overwhelmed.’ I gulped, thinking of my instructions from the embassy.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I replied hastily, ‘although the princess is not highly regarded in England … but the people love her.’ I thought this statement covered all eventualities.

  The carriage drew up at the opera house and I fantasised briefly about my own carriage. It would be lacquered jet black with my monogram in gold, upholstered in aubergine leather with cushions of matching silk. Perhaps the Count could be persuaded to pay for it.

  The embassy would be delighted to know that I was to visit the Princess of Wales, but of course they already knew and I soon received another note detailing how I was to send dispatches back from Pesaro. A local man who supplied the villa with eggs would be my courier.

  The Count arranged for me to replenish my wardrobe before we left for Italy. Selena fulfilled her desire to drag me around the milliners of the city. The modistes of Paris were on a level far above their English counterparts. I chose a lilac pelisse worn with dove grey kid gloves and grey satin slippers, a black lace parasol, a straw bonnet trimmed with cherries and leaves, a gown all of palest grey lace over silver, and yards and yards of muslin which is worn everywhere here, often over a scarlet silk underskirt. I had my monogram embroidered on parasols, gloves and reticules in gold thread and raised white threadwork. The Count never questioned the cost of all this finery and I repaid him in the time-honoured way.

  ‘I must have a fur muff,’ I told my friend, ‘what shall it be – seal or chinchilla?’ It was now spring officially, but I satisfied my lust for fur with a large chinchilla creation. I liked it above everything.

  In between bouts of shopping Selena and I ate dainty coloured macaroons and sipped café au lait in the Palais Royal while discussing our futures. Earlier I had introduced the Count to my friends and he had been courtesy itself. He had discussed Waterloo and the fate of Napoleon with Miles. The two men agreed that the little corporal had fared very well.

  ‘He should have been shot,’ declared the Count.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Miles, ‘the Russians would have shot him.’

  It was only when the Count casually mentioned the number of duels he had fought in Paris that Miles looked somewhat disturbed. When the Count had departed Miles gave his opinion. ‘The fellow must have rats in the garret. Four duels! He is a mad man … damme if he ain’t!’

  Selena advised her husband to avoid any situation where he might be challenged. ‘What would become of me with Lydia gone away and you dead in the Bois de Boulogne?’

  Miles promised to do his best but duelling continued to be the main pastime of the men in Paris. The remnants of Napoleon’s army continued to challenge everyone at the slightest opportunity, especially English officers.

  In the meantime my wardrobe continued to expand and I familiarised myself with the Count’s well-muscled body with its fine silky hairs. He was an athletic and considerate lover but given to petulance when fully dressed. I observed that he disliked sudden changes to his daily routine. His manservant suffered the brunt of this but I took care not to give him grounds for complaint.

  We embarked on the journey to Italy, splendidly attired on my part, but with a sense of foreboding curdling my stomach. Over confidence in my abilities as a spy alternated with moments of sheer terror. After all, I told myself, the Prince Regent had not been difficult to manage and his estranged wife was said to be terminally stupid. It would surely be possible to obtain some information to send back to the embassy. On the other hand, the Count was another bowl of schnitzel entirely – or whatever they ate in Vienna.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Pesaro, Italy

  The journey to Pesaro passed well enough. I was surprised that the springs of the coach were not etched on my rear, I had made so many journeys across the continent in the past year.

  The Villa Caprile was a delightfully elegant house on the San Bartolo hill above Pesaro. It had three tiers of terraces adorned with box hedging and fruit trees, a grand frescoed salon which stretched the entire length of the house and two tiers of apartments surmounted by a cupola. Little pathways led from the house across the surrounding hills linking it to nearby villas. The whole aspect was charmingly Mediterranean and as satisfyingly different from England as could be.

  The princess greeted the Count effusively and as I sank into a deep curtsey she assured me in her fractured English that she was delighted to welcome me to her home. I doubt she would have welcomed me had she known that I had slept with her husband.

  I soon discovered that I was one of only two representatives of Britannia at the villa. Most of the princess’s English staff had departed due to a combination of despair and frustration. As they were responsible for providing evidence of her bad behaviour to furnish the Prince Regent with divorce proceedings, this was an unfortunate situation. I was now the only person able to provide the information because her English secretary, Joseph Hownam, refused out of loyalty to say anything detrimental about his employer.

  The household presently consisted of low class Italians led by the man called Pergami who served as chamberlain, bodyguard and lover to Princess Caroline. Various members of his family attended to the cooking, the laundry and the buying of provisions. The princess herself was a small, dumpy, Germanic woman with very little education or polish, although she played the pianoforte very well. I christened her the musical dumpling.

  We had barely settled ourselves into the guest apartment when we saw evidence of the princess’s eccentric behaviour. After having disgraced herself in Milan and Rome where she had thrown wild parties and brought a donkey to the dinner table crowned with roses, she had resolved to lead a more bucolic lifestyle. Her new passion was for amateur theatricals using the small, open air theatre in the grounds of the villa.

  ‘You must meet the neighbours, my dears,’ she declared. ‘The area is a paradise of poets and artists. We shall give delightful performances in our little theatre. There will be parts for all of you.’

  The Count looked most uneasy at this announcement. He was trying to come to terms with the presence of Pergami at the dinner table. The princess had given him the title of Barone. The Count decided to ignore the man and instructed me to do likewise.

  ‘I think the Count could only be relied on for military parts,’ I assured our hostess. ‘He is uncomfortable out of uniform.’ This was said jokingly but the princess did not grasp this.

  ‘Oh dear, I intend to give extracts from French plays, starting with Racine’s Phèdre.’ I wondered if she saw the Count as an oversized Cupid with his blond hair and blue eyes.

  ‘You will come down to bathe with me in the morning?’ Princess Caroline addressed me directly. I was not sure whether this was an invitation or a command.

  ‘I would be delighted, your highness’ I murmured, although I dislike immersing myself in salt water, so bad for the skin. At least the princess’s hygiene habits had improved in recent years.

  When we left for the bay early on the following morning I spied the Count riding off in the direction of the cardinal’s villa. Cardinal Albani was the princess’s most important neighbour. I wondered if the Count intended to compare notes with him.

  As we basked on the deck of the little boat the princess suddenly turned to me. ‘The Prince of Wales is a very poor lover.’ My eyes were closed and I was caught off guard. ‘I know,’ I replied languidly then added, ‘that is, I have heard rumours to that effect.’

  She nodded. ‘He is a disgrace as a husband, a lover and a prince, but wh
en my daughter is queen I shall return to England in triumph.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ I ventured, ‘your life here is a very pleasant one. Could you bear to leave it?’ The princess looked astounded,

  ‘I am the Princess of Wales and I shall be the mother of a queen. What could be greater than that?’ Did the poor woman not realise that Prinny intended to divorce her as soon as he had sufficient ammunition? Mindful of this I tried to turn the conversation to Pergami. The princess sang his praises like a lark. He was the most faithful retainer and bodyguard. He could take over all duties if necessary but at the moment Captain Olivieri was her equerry and her Italian secretary.

  ‘Captain Olivieri?’ I enquired. ‘I do not believe I have met him.’

  ‘He is away in Milan on a commission for me but he will return in a few days. He is most dashing and handsome.’ She leaned forward confidentially. ‘Tell me my dear, is the Count a good lover?’ I found my mouth opening and shutting like a fish in astonishment. One did not expect such coarseness from a princess. Seeing my expression she shrieked with laughter, ‘Come, come, you are no blushing virgin. You may confide in me.’

  I smiled weakly, suddenly feeling very warm although I was only partly clothed. I was supposed to extract this type of information from her, not volunteer it. I made an evasive reply but she had moved on to another topic.

  ‘On our wedding night the prince was very drunk on brandy and spent the entire night collapsed in the fireplace. It was not what I had been led to expect.’ I could picture the scene in my mind’s eye only too clearly. Mr Wickham had often returned from carousing with his fellow officers too drunk to discharge his marital duties.

  Later, I asked Adelaide about Pergami. She had already acquired a smattering of Italian and she was able to listen in to the kitchen talk.

  ‘Of course he’s her lover; Pergami’s mother boasts of it. It’s the only remark she ever makes. I wouldn’t be surprised if that Captain Olivieri obliges her as well. They say she’s insatiable.’