Lydia

by Natasha Farrant

  “I suppose she will want him to marry Jane,” Kitty said.

  Mary announced that nothing good ever came from listening at doors.

  “Papa will say he should be for Lizzy,” I whispered to Kitty. “Seeing as she’s his favourite.”

  “And then they will argue,” Kitty agreed.

  I had to put my hand over her mouth as we pressed our ears to the door, to stifle the sound of her coughing. Sure enough, Mamma and Father’s argument was proceeding exactly as we knew it would.

  “Lizzy is not a bit better than the others!” my mother protested. “She is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia.”

  “What about me?” Kitty glared at the door. “I’m handsome and good-tempered!”

  I laughed, and jumped out of the way as she tried to kick me.

  Mary sniffed.

  “I suppose you think we are being frivolous,” I said.

  She plunged her nose into the book she was carrying.

  “All this talk of husbands,” she said. “When you could be improving—”

  “Our minds, yes, I know.” I sighed.

  “She’s coming!” Kitty hissed, and we scurried away across the vestibule.

  The library door opened and our mother flounced out, calling for tea to soothe her nerves. She looked at us suspiciously as she passed and we all flew about pretending to be busy.

  “You know nothing about him!” Mary hissed when Mamma was gone.

  “We know he’s rich,” Kitty corrected. “And there is nothing frivolous about that.”

  Mary asked, was that all she really cared for in a husband? Kitty said she hoped he would be handsome, too.

  “I dare say you would sooner have a rector or a curate than a rich man,” I teased Mary. “And spend your days tending his poultry and dairy, and listening to his sermons, and darning his socks, and be poor as a mouse.”

  Mary flushed. “Some of us may choose not to marry,” she said.

  “Not marry!” I cried. “What on earth would you do instead?”

  “I should hate a poor husband,” Kitty declared. “Jane can have her Mr. Bingley and his four or five thousand a year. My husband will have twice as much, and be so good-looking everyone will faint dead away as soon as they see him.”

  “Men like that don’t marry girls like you, Kitty,” Mary said.

  “Girls like what?” Kitty pouted.

  “Girls with no money.”

  “They do if they love them!” Kitty cried.

  “Love!” Mary scoffed, but Kitty had seized the dress she was supposed to be mending and was dancing with it around the vestibule. “Rich!” she sang. “Handsome! Jealous!”

  I laughed again and looked out of the window. The rain had stopped. Jane and Lizzy were walking together outside, doubtless whispering about our new neighbour. I don’t know why everything always has to be about them, just because they are the oldest. Sometimes you would think my parents only had two daughters instead of five, but I’m sure we are all just as good as they are.

  Kitty stopped dancing and threw herself on to the settle.

  “What about you, Liddy?” she asked. “What sort of a man will you marry?”

  Oh, rich and handsome, to be sure! That is what I was going to say. But the front door was standing open. Outside, Jane and Lizzy were walking towards the stream.

  “Well?” Mary asked. “What sort of husband will yours be?”

  I thought of the Waire winding lazily towards the sea, and the feeling I had the day the officers came to Meryton, that the world would never be the same. Suddenly rich and handsome did not seem enough.

  “Someone magnificent,” I said, “who will make the rest of you wild with envy, and who will take me a long, long way from here.”

  Wednesday, 16th October

  Last night was the first assembly ball since the regiment came, and Aunt Philips was quite right – it was so much more jolly for their presence!

  We met the officer who blushed when we passed him in the street. His name is Captain Carter. He is not as tall as I remembered him, and his hair is more ginger than sandy. His friend is Mr. Denny. He seemed taller than when first we saw him, and has crooked teeth and bushy eyebrows, but they both cut a fine figure in their dress uniforms, and dance infinitely better than any of our neighbours, who look like farm boys next to them. They have another friend called Pratt, who has the biggest whiskers I have ever seen. I laughed when I saw them and told him whiskers were quite out of fashion, and he said, “Who cares, when I wear them with such panache?”

  I am not entirely sure what panache is, but I like it.

  I danced every dance. Every single one. My slippers are quite torn to shreds.

  All the talk at home today is of Mr. Bingley, who came to the ball with his two sisters, one of their husbands, and a rich gentleman called Mr. Darcy, who is very tall, with flashing dark eyes and an expensive-looking coat. He didn’t dance once but looked like he might die of boredom unless someone put him out of his misery and shot him first. The Bingley sisters (the Conceited Miss Caroline and the Hateful Mrs. Hurst) were dressed all in feathers and fans and held their noses so high in the air it was a wonder they didn’t trip over their own silk petticoats. The husband was fat and had hair growing out of his ears. They are all ghastly, except for Mr. Bingley, who as well as being pleasingly rich is very beautiful, in a soft, brown-eyed sort of way, and has made himself exceedingly popular by promising to give a ball. He danced with Jane twice, which in Mamma’s eyes makes them as good as married.

  “He never paid such a compliment to any other lady in the room,” Mamma informed Charlotte and Maria Lucas when they came to visit this afternoon.

  “She still didn’t dance as much as I did,” I informed them.

  Kitty giggled. Lizzy told us to be quiet. Mary rolled her eyes.

  “Mr. Robinson asked whom he thought the prettiest woman in the room,” Charlotte told us. “And he replied, the eldest Miss Bennet beyond a doubt, there cannot be two opinions on that point . . .”

  Mamma sighed happily.

  “Every single dance,” I said, but now they were all taken up with Lizzy, and with how she had overheard Mr. Darcy refuse to dance with her even when Mr. Bingley pressed him to, and when Mr. Bingley said he thought Lizzy was pretty Mr. Darcy said she was only tolerable, which I think is hilarious because usually everyone thinks Lizzy is perfect, but Mamma is furious about, probably because he is richer than any person we have ever known and would be even more of a catch than Bingley, although she won’t admit it. Well, let them talk! I danced more last night than any of them, and dancing is my favourite thing in the world.

  Thursday, 14th November

  Today we went to Netherfield. Jane has been there these past few days because . . . oh, it’s a long story. I honestly think Mamma is a matchmaking genius. Even I am somewhat shocked at her methods, but I cannot deny that they work.

  A few days ago, Mr. Bingley’s sisters invited Jane for dinner, and Mamma wouldn’t let her take the carriage but sent her on horseback instead because (Mamma said) she thought it was going to rain and that way the sisters would have to ask her to stay the night so she wouldn’t get wet, and who knew what romance might unfold with Jane and the Beautiful Bing-ley under the same roof? Except that the rain started before Jane arrived, and she got soaked through and caught a cold. She is too sick even to come home, and I doubt looks very romantic with her nose all red. Lizzy has been there since yesterday attending to her, and we went today to visit.

  Netherfield is . . . like no place I have ever been, with a great long drive from the gatehouse, all bordered with lime trees, and meadows on either side full of the fluffiest sheep and fattest cows and glossiest horses. The house itself is all pillars and yellow stone and enormous windows, and double steps leading up to the biggest front door I have ever seen. Mamma was ecstatic. “Imagine Jane, mistress of all this!” she cried. “Oh, it will do very well for her, very well indeed! I can see her here plain
as day!”

  Kitty and I laughed, and she took offence. “This is important!” she cried. “It is Jane’s future! It is all our futures!”

  “Darling Mamma, we are only laughing because you are so happy.” I kissed her, and she smiled again. That is the way it always is with Mamma. People mock her because she cannot hide her thoughts or feelings, but she has the best intentions.

  The visit itself did not go well. Mamma likes to pretend that she is equal to anybody, but I could tell as soon as we stepped out of the carriage that she was nervous, what with the big house and all our futures at stake. The awful Caroline Bingley was there, and the horrible Mr. Darcy, who wouldn’t dance with Lizzy at the ball. We went upstairs to see Jane, still streaming snot into her lace-trimmed pillows, and when we came back down to the drawing room Mamma could not stop talking about her to Bingley. “The greatest patience in the world . . . the sweetest temper I ever met with . . .” she babbled, and then straight into how lovely Netherfield was, as if she couldn’t wait to move Jane in. I think, if Lizzy hadn’t interrupted, she would have suggested Jane never come home at all, but marry him from her sickbed. But Lizzy did interrupt, and only made things worse, because then there was a whole conversation about which was better, town or country, and Mr. Darcy said how boring the country is compared to London. I must say, even though I have never been to London, I agree with Mr. Darcy. I long to go to London, but Mamma got offended again and said he didn’t understand a thing, Caroline Bingley looked down her mighty nose at us, and Lizzy defended him.

  Defended Darcy. Against her own mother! Who then lost her head and basically accused him of having no breeding. Bingley is nice and managed to keep a straight face, but his sister smirked, and Darcy looked thunderous. Lizzy actually winced, and diverted the conversation by asking after Charlotte Lucas.

  I was thinking about the ball Mr. Bingley had promised, and what a very fine thing it would be, but he did not mention it once during our visit. In the end, I had to take matters into my own hands.

  “Mr. Bingley!” I said as we were leaving. “Did not you promise to give a ball? It would be the most shameful thing in the world if you were not to keep your promise!”

  Again Caroline Bingley raised her eyebrows, and again Lizzy looked mortified, but I think Mr. Bingley was vastly relieved to have something nice to talk about, and said that I should name the day!

  Kitty was almost hysterical on the way home. “You were so forward!” she gasped between peals of laughter.

  “I thought I did remarkably well,” I said.

  “You did indeed,” Mamma said. “Remember, girls, when you want something, you must fight for it. Nobody else will do it for you.”

  For a moment, I did not recognise her. She looked so fierce. Then she caught us looking at her, and smiled, and kissed me. “A ball!” she cried. “What shall we all wear?”

  Oh, yes, Mamma was quite right to send Jane on horseback, and I was right to ask for a ball, no matter how forward it was.

  Monday, 18th November

  We have a house guest! He is completely ridiculous but I don’t think he is funny at all. In fact, I would like to murder him.

  Mr. Collins – that is his name – looks exactly like a pig, with a big soft lump of a body and a nose like a turnip. Although he is a rector, I would not wish him even on Mary. He wears black from head to toe, with a white neckerchief to show off his dirty yellow teeth, and the only thing more awful than his greasy, mouse-coloured hair is the hideous round hat he insists on wearing whenever he ventures outside.

  Mr. Collins is our cousin, and when Father dies he will inherit Longbourn, though we have never met him before in our life. Then, Mamma says, he will have the power to throw us out of our home and on to the streets without so much as a stick of furniture. “It is no use complaining,” says Mamma (who complains about it all the time). “It is just the way it is. Men inherit, and women must hope for the best.” Currently, Mr. Collins lives in Kent, in a parsonage belonging to a rich noblewoman called Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He appears to be quite in love with her and she has a daughter Mamma already hates, because even though Mr. Collins says she is too sickly to have any proper accomplishments, she is extremely rich.

  “Lizzy is extremely accomplished,” Mamma said, as Mr. Collins guzzled Hill’s delicious lemon posset. “Why, she plays the piano better than anyone in Hertfordshire, and she is always with her nose in a book.”

  Kitty kicked me under the table. “Why is Mamma telling lies about Lizzy?” she whispered, and I shrugged to say I had no idea.

  “Lizzy doesn’t read half as much as me,” Mary protested. “And she only reads in English. I am teaching myself Greek.”

  “Teaching yourself?” Mr. Collins looked appalled. “But what about your governess?”

  “We don’t have a governess,” Mary said. “I have asked for one so many times, but Father says there is no point in educating girls . . .”

  “We are not talking about you, Mary,” Mamma interrupted. I caught Kitty’s eye and giggled.

  “I’m learning Greek,” I minced beneath my breath. Kitty snorted. Mr. Collins turned his attention to me.

  “And what does Miss Lydia read?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t.” Mary glared at me. “She prefers chasing after officers.”

  I nearly choked on a dried fig. Mr. Collins looked confused.

  “Lydia likes to be outside,” Jane said, before I could respond.

  Mr. Collins declared that outdoor pursuits were very admirable and even educational, but that I should not forsake books entirely. “For not reading will make you stupid.”

  “I’m afraid it is far too late for that,” Father said.

  Mr. Collins and Father both chuckled like it was the most amusing thing in the world. Jane squeezed my hand under the table.

  “Monstrous, monstrous man!” I complained to Kitty when we went up to bed. “And ugly! So ugly!”

  “You have to be nice to him,” Kitty said. “Liddy, you have to try.”

  “Nice to him! Why? He wasn’t nice to me!”

  Kitty started on about Longbourn and the inheritance and being thrown on the streets, but I wasn’t listening.

  “I don’t care if Mr. Collins stands to inherit half of Hertfordshire, I shan’t be nice to him. I would rather beg on the street than ask for his protection! I would rather keep pigs!”

  Kitty said nothing. I threw myself on my bed and began to write, jabbing my diary like my pencil was a dagger and the paper Mr. Collins’s face.

  “What are you doing?” Kitty asked after a while.

  “I’m writing my journal. I’m going to make it as scurrilous as possible. I mean to sell it when we’re poor, and become a publishing scandal, and make us pots of money.”

  “Liddy, be serious. What will happen to us when Father dies?”

  I put down my pencil. Kitty’s face was soft in the candlelight, her eyes big and dark and frightened. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that she is older than me.

  “Father isn’t going to die for ages and ages,” I told her. “I never saw a man in better health. But when he does . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, we shall all have to go and live with Jane and the splendidly rich Mr. Bingley.”

  Kitty gave a snort of laughter and all was well again. But I can’t help thinking, what if the future isn’t Mr. Bingley and balls and dazzling husbands – what if the future is Mr. Collins?

  I don’t think I could bear that.

  Tuesday, 19th November

  The day did not start well. Mr. Collins insisted on accompanying us on our walk to town after breakfast. I thought I would die from the tedium of listening to him. Everything we passed compared badly to the grand de Bourgh estate – our bridge is smaller than Lady Catherine’s bridge, our lanes are not so well kept, our very trees are not so tall.

  “Though to be sure it is a pleasant county,” he gabbled when Lizzy told him we were happy here.

  We stoppe
d on the bridge to watch a kingfisher hunting in the stream, and he seized the opportunity to educate us.

  “What you see here, dear cousins,” he said, “is a magnificent specimen of the female Alcedo atthis. The name is Latin, of course, but as Miss Mary would doubtless be aware it derives from the Greek ‘halcyon’. We know her to be of the fairer sex by the colour of her lower mandible, which is of an orange-reddish hue, with a black tip. Is not that a fascinating fact, Miss Lydia?”

  “Fascinating,” I sighed as the kingfisher flew away.

  No, the day did not start well and the mile to Meryton never felt so long, but within minutes of arriving nothing mattered any more – nothing. For there outside the library was Denny returned from London. And standing beside him . . .

  The gentleman standing with Denny was most definitely athletic. He has just joined the regiment, and is tall and strong but also slim and elegant in his dark riding coat, and when he took off his hat I saw that his hair was light brown and thick and just a little bit messy. He has a lovely smile, and a dimple in his left cheek, and his mouth is wide and generous – the mouth of someone who likes to laugh and eat and drink, and his eyes are a sort of golden hazel, and when he talks to you he makes you feel you are the most important person in the world.

  Denny introduced us. I was last, as usual. That is what comes of being the youngest.

  “Lydia.” The handsome gentleman smiled. “I once sailed on a ship of that name, all across the Mediterranean.”

  “What were you doing on a ship?”

  Lizzy said, “Lydia, don’t ask questions!”

  “I should like to see the Mediterranean above all things,” I told him.

  “Well, then you must,” he said.

  That was all, but it left me in a daze.

  “Where is the Mediterranean?” I asked Mary when we came home.

  She huffed and said she could not believe I didn’t know, but Jane took pity on me and showed me on Father’s globe. It is a very small sea, but it touches an awful lot of countries – France and Spain and Greece and about a hundred more I have never heard of.