Lydia (14 page)

Sunday, 21st June

M
y lack of education, as Mary calls it, is entirely Father's fault. There's no point blaming Mamma. She knows even less about anything than I do. But Father, who spends whole days in his library, could have taught me
something
. If we had been boys, we should all have been sent to school, but I don't see what being a boy has to do with anything. Plenty of girls go to school – even Harriet did. We cannot all be like Mary, always educating ourselves. Some of us require motivation, and it is too bad Father never saw fit to give it, or I shouldn't be in the trouble I am now.

After returning from the spa yesterday, I went immediately to the library, where, ignoring the assembled company, the tea, the coffee and the fashionable periodicals, I made straight for the books and looked for the librarian. My courage almost failed me when he appeared. He looked so exactly as a librarian should, with his grey whiskers and faded brown coat and little spectacles on the end of his nose like Mary's – so very studious and learned. But my mission was urgent. I girded my loins.

“I should like to read the works of Saint Augustine,” I said haughtily. “And I also need some poetry, novels, and plays.”

“I see.” The librarian frowned, and his spectacles slipped even farther down his nose. “Do you have anything more specific in mind?”

I crumbled.

“Nothing at all!” I cried. “I have just four days in which to become educated.”

“How educated?” the librarian asked.

I slumped into a nearby armchair, feeling discouraged. There seemed no point in dissembling. “Just enough to be convincing,” I admitted.

The librarian – who is a
charming
man – patted my shoulder, gave me Saint Augustine, and scurried away to gather a veritable tower of learning, the names of which I must write down to anchor them for ever in my memory.

They were:

Jean-Jacques Rousseau,
The Social Contract

William Shakespeare,
Hamlet
,
Richard III
,
Romeo and Juliet
and the
Sonnets

John Milton,
Paradise Lost

Alexander Pope,
The Rape of the Lock

Geoffrey Chaucer,
The Canterbury Tales

“I have also included Mrs. Radcliffe's
The Mysteries of Udolpho
,” he said. “I find a knowledge of contemporary culture is a very pleasing thing, and it is of course immensely fashionable.”

“Of course.” I gulped. “But all this – all this is what I have to read to appear intelligent?”

The librarian said, “Well, it's a start.”

All those books! A
start
! I felt the blood drain from my face.

“If I may make a suggestion?” the librarian said gently.

“Please do,” I whispered.

“It is not always necessary, to give an
impression
of learning, to have read entire works. As long as the conversation does not linger, selected chapters in many cases will suffice. The world does not expect young ladies to have read all of Mr. Rousseau. Or indeed, all of Saint Augustine. An introduction, an opening act, some judiciously chosen lines to quote at apposite moments . . . Would you like me to help you?”

I nodded. I had a lump in my throat. I don't think any stranger has been so nice to me,
ever
.

“You may settle in my private office, if you wish,” he said. “You will not be disturbed there. And I shall prepare the books for you, and mark the appropriate pages, and explain what you do not understand. Perhaps you will develop a taste for learning – what a grand thing that would be!”

He opened a door, hidden among the stacks, revealing a small room beyond. I saw a desk crowded with papers, a comfortable chair before the fireplace, a silver tray with a decanter of brandy, one wall that was not lined with books – it was exactly like Father's library at home. I had to bite my lip not to give way to proper tears.

“You had better send the books to my lodgings,” I told him. “My friend – Mrs. Forster, I am staying with her – she would think it strange that I was come here to study. She is not accustomed to me reading – nobody is, really. I shall read the books quietly in my room, where it will not excite comment or suspicion. Pretend that I am ill, perhaps – yes, that is what I shall do. If you could mark them up, as you suggested, and be
discreet when you send them. Pretend they are not books. Say – just say they are a delivery, and if anyone asks, pretend that they are clothes.”

The librarian bowed. “As you wish,” he said, but I could see that he was disappointed.

He showed me how to fill in a card with the titles of the books I wanted, and I gave him our Market Street address, and then he said the strangest thing as I left.

“Do not be afraid of books, Miss Bennet. Simply treat them with the respect they deserve, and you will be richly rewarded. You do not have to be clever or rich or have attended celebrated schools or universities in order to appreciate them. It is enough simply to have an open and receptive mind – and sometimes, it is true, a little perseverance. But you must not be afraid, Miss Bennet, for books do not judge you. Do you understand?”

I fled, clutching Saint Augustine to my bosom.

It has cost me five shillings – five shillings! – to subscribe to the library. The books arrived yesterday evening, and are stacked in a pile on the floor of my tiny bedroom. I can do this. They are only books, after all. How difficult can it be? How astonished Mary will be when she finds how learned I have become in Brighton! And Father, too! I shall make a great point when I go home of asking for a book to read from his library – not the novels Lizzy likes, with coaches driving off roads and maidens being rescued by pirates, but something serious and dull. That
will
be a joke! That will make them sit up!

But I have wasted enough time writing about this. To work, to work! For I have much to read before I see the Comte and Comtesse again.

Wednesday, 24th June

I
have done exactly as I said. I have feigned sickness, and spent the last four days in my room.

Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light
.

Hear and believe! thy own importance know . . .

Alas, poor Yorick!

For hym was levere have at his beddes heed

Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed . . .

The librarian was true to his word, and sent the books with notes on the most relevant pages, but even so my mind is fit to burst. No wonder Mary is always so cross. She must be constantly worried that her head is about to explode.

Harriet has seen the books, of course. It is impossible to hide anything in such a small house. I had to pretend I ordered
them to stop myself being bored while I was ill.

Wickham called this evening. I did not go down, but opened my door just an inch to hear what they were saying.

“
Reading
,” Harriet said. “Real books. Shakespeare and poetry and something foreign.”

“But Lydia never reads!” Wickham sounded astonished. “She is famous for it.”

They all cackled unkindly. I closed the door softly.

It is all very well for Wickham to laugh, but I cannot recollect ever seeing
him
with a book in his hands. It is always cards, or a glass, or the reins of a horse. I bet he has never heard of Saint Augustine or Milton. He probably hasn't even heard of
Shakespeare
.

He could never understand.

Books may not judge you, but people do.

Thursday, 25th June

I
pretended I was ill again this morning, then waited until Harriet was gone before slipping out myself. I wore my newly tailored muslin – it seemed the safest option, since the Comtesse appeared to approve of it – but with white stockings this time instead of the “obvious” pantaloons, and my yellow straw bonnet. I shall never be as striking as she or as graceful as Lizzy – I may as well accept that right now – but I felt definitely as if I belonged more in Brighton than in Meryton.

I arrived at the Coach and Anchor at exactly eleven o'clock. The courtyard was crowded with all manner of people and contraptions and animals and luggage, all getting in each other's ways, but there was no sign of the Comte de Fombelle and his trap. Disappointment flooded me. He had not come – he
would
not come. They did not want me for a friend.

“Miss Bennet!”

A voice, strangely inflected but familiar. A blue frock coat pushing through the crowd, a tall hat at a jaunty angle over a head of black curls, that flash of scarlet from the scarf.
He had come!

“I left the trap with a boy around the corner,” he explained, as he offered me his arm. “The mayhem here! It reminds me of Madras.”

“Oh, me too!” I had no idea what Madras was, but it seemed the right thing to say (I have since discovered it is a city in India).

A large woman elbowed past us, screeching after a footman.

“Actually, I take that back.” He laughed. “Brighton is not nearly so civilized.”

I laughed, too, though I am still not sure why it was funny.

The Comte de Fombelle – Alaric – does not drive as fast as Wickham, but he is much more alarming, because he never looks where he is going and gets so involved in whatever he is talking about (he talks a
lot
) that he confuses the horse.

“What have you been doing, Miss Bennet, since last we saw you at the Chalybeate Spa? My sister says she did not spot you at the beach.”

“Reading, mostly,” I said. “I have . . . I have been a little unwell.”

He expressed concern. Should he perhaps drive me home? Put off the expedition for another day? Tara was a little drive away, was I strong enough, was I sure? He pulled on the left rein as he turned to look at me. The horse ambled across the road.

I gently readjusted the reins. He didn't seem to notice. “I assure you I am feeling much better.”

“Well, if you
assure
me, I shall have to believe you.” I thought that he was teasing me, but then he said with great sincerity, “We are so pleased that you are come to visit. We are
just returned from India these few weeks, you know, and we were children when we left, so we hardly know a soul, and we live so isolated up on the clifftop! You will have to tame us, Miss Bennet, and instruct us in proper English ways.”

“Surely you have your aunt for that – Mrs. Lovett.”

The Comte pulled a face. “She is perhaps a little
too
English and proper. She is very concerned with society, you know – appearances, and what people think.” He smiled slyly. “That is the only reason she tolerates our wild ways, I think. She does not realise that beneath this noble exterior beats the heart of someone who wants to break free from society!”

“
Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains
. . .” I murmured – delighted to be able to make such early use of my new reading.

“You've read Rousseau!” Alaric looked delighted. “How splendid! Do you know Voltaire as well?”

“I prefer Shakespeare,” I said, trying not to panic.

“Me too! Theo laughs at me, and I suppose it is a little obvious – she detests all that is
obvious
– but there is nobody as good as Shakespeare in my opinion, nobody! I like the historical plays myself.
Richard III
!
Bad is the world; and all will come to naught, When such bad dealing must be seen in thought!
”

He dropped the reins, the better to wave his hands about as he declaimed. The grey mare wandered on to the verge to graze.

“So evil!” he cried. “And yet so human!”

“I think you had better see to the mare,” I said, “before she tips us into the ditch.”

“Greedy beast!” Alaric gathered the reins once more and
cracked the whip, startling the mare into a canter that threw me back into my seat. “Thank heavens you are sensible as well as educated, Miss Bennet,” he shouted. “Which play do
you
love most?”

“I like the sonnets,” I said firmly. I had prepared for this. “
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
”

“
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
,” Alaric cried above the clatter of hooves. “
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May—
”

“
And summer's lease hath all too short a date
,” I finished.

There was no need for me to quote more. The Comte de Fombelle recited the entire sonnet and two more besides by the time we reached the elephant-gated drive to Tara. The mare, which had slowed on the road up the hill, picked up speed again, sensing home. Overgrown meadows, grazing horses, heavy trees passed in a blur and we clattered to a halt in a small stable yard, beside a shiny new carriage.

“Aunt Lovett's,” the Comte said cheerfully. “She despises all forms of public transportation, and always takes her own. You saw her horses in the field.”

He jumped down and held a hand up to me. I don't think he has a notion what a terrifying driver he is. “Let me just unhitch the mare, and then I'll take you down. You don't mind a bit of a walk, do you? It's easier than driving all the way to the house, for then I should have to bring her back again, and here is no one about to take care of her, apart from Aunt's coachman, but I don't like to ask him. Besides, I've grown fond of this beast, and it doesn't take a minute. He will help me put the trap away later.”

Goodness, I thought as I watched him. I bet Mr. Darcy
never sees to his own horse. That must be what it means to be of noble birth. They are above convention, and may do exactly as they please.

The mare, released from her harness, trotted amiably into the meadow to join the other horses. Alaric beamed and offered me his arm. “Come!” he said. “And welcome to the most ridiculous house in England.”

The driveway from the stables was short, winding through a tunnel of trees planted by Mr. John Shelton to protect it from the weather. “Except he didn't realise,” the Comte de Fombelle explained, “that the wind would cause them to grow almost horizontal. They look quite mad, do not you think? Watch your footing, by the way. They have put out roots over the years, and it is easy to trip.”

Together we walked below the gnarled canopy of trees, and even before I saw the house I had the strangest feeling that I was not at Brighton at all, or even in England, but in another land entirely, and that it was magic.

The tunnel opened on to a turning circle, a patchy lawn bordered by roses and rosemary bushes and grown over with wild camomile, and beyond it – the most ridiculous house in England.

Except that it isn't.

The house is heaven. The house is
divine
. The house is exactly where I would like to live, for ever and ever until I die.

Mr. Shelton, the Comte de Fombelle explained, built the house in the style of a South Indian palace. Its name is Indian, too – “Tara” means “star”. It is white, and built on two storeys, with carved pillars all along the front, and cornices that look
like they might once have been gold, and three towers topped by strange onion-shaped domes, also gold. Tall windows at the front are protected by faded blue shutters, which are actually French, and were added by the Comte's mother to protect them from the constant whistling wind.

“It is a little shabby,” the Comte said. “The house has been standing empty for so long, and has suffered from the weather. But we will soon put it right. When I was little, before we left for India, there were the most tremendous parties here. People used to come from miles around, and there was music and dancing, sometimes for days on end. Theo says we will do all that again, in time.”

He pushed open the front door, which was made of heavy wood, as intricately carved as the pillars. Inside, every room was a different colour (downstairs, at least – I did not go upstairs). The vestibule is painted white and gold, and I glimpsed a sort of study on the left as we entered, red, with woodwork the same jade green as my earrings. The dining room is painted all over with a motif of peacock feathers, and the drawing room is the prettiest deep lilac, again with trims of gold, and all the stone floors are covered with Indian rugs and carpets, and everywhere there is the smell of incense, like church but nicer, and there is French lace at the windows, and screens painted with elephants and tigers.

Just as I thought it could not get any better, the Comte flung open the drawing-room windows, and we stepped out on to a stone terrace.

“The
pièce de résistance
!” he murmured, and there it was – the sea, at its bluest, most glorious, most extraordinary best, and we high above it like gulls, or eagles, or those boys who sit
being lookouts at the top of the masts of tall, tall ships.

“It isn't bad,” Alaric said with a smile. “For a ridiculous house.”

It was so quiet there, so still and strangely beautiful – the exact opposite of plain, loud, always-busy Longbourn. I could have stood there for ever.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

“Theo is in her workroom,” he said. “And some neighbours came this morning for my aunt and Esther – they are gone shopping, I believe.”

“And the servants?”

“There is only Marie, our housekeeper, who was
Maman
's maid, and came with her from France, and was with us in Madras, and has looked after us all our lives. Somewhere about are my aunt's maid and horseman, but they will go with her when she leaves.”

“And that is all? Apart from Marie, you live
alone
?”

“Quite alone!” the Comte said cheerfully.

I gazed down at the sea, and then back towards the house. What heaven! I thought. To have your very own palace, and to live alone with no one to boss or nag or scold you . . .

“Come!” The Comte led me away from the terrace, down a narrow winding path bordered on either side with lavender, ending in a sheltered courtyard in which stood a miniature replica of Tara, colonnades and all.

“The summer house,” the Comte announced. “Originally built as a folly for my mother, now taken over by Theo as a workroom. Ah, Patch has heard us – I can hear his barking.”

He pushed open a wooden door as elaborately carved as that of the main house, and the little dog shot out, yapping and
growling and leaping about us. The Comte gestured for me to enter, then followed me in with the dog in his arms furiously wriggling and licking his face.

Inside, the summer house consisted of only one plain room. None of the colours here like those of the big house, no rugs on the floor, no decorations or baubles. White walls and a stone floor swept clean, and a broom in the corner to ensure it remained so. A fireplace equally pristine, the only furniture a long table and two straight-backed chairs. But standing by the tall low windows, two dressmaker's manikins, the one swathed in cerulean-blue muslin pinned with swatches of crimson stuff, the other sporting a bodice of the same green-and-white stripes as the Comtesse's dress from the other day, with the lady herself standing before it, carefully pinning orange piping about the ruched sleeves.

She glanced up as we entered. Today she wore a severe dress of navy blue, with a white fichu, beneath a calico apron, and spectacles perched precariously on the end of her nose. (“Her dressmaking outfit,” the Comte whispered. “And the spectacles are purely for show.”)

“What do you think of this orange?” she asked by way of greeting. “I like bold patterns and colours, but I don't think it is quite right.”

I did not know what to say, but I don't think she expected an answer.

Her workroom was like a treasure cave. Bolts of cloth such as I have never seen lay stacked on shelves built into the alcoves by the fireplace – plain muslins the colours of precious jewels, checked cottons, striped satins and silks, all brought over from India. On the table were several wooden trays inlaid
with mother-of-pearl on which, neatly arranged, lay pins and needles, thimbles and scissors, and all the tools of the dressmaker's trade, and a great pile of
La Belle Assemblée
(infinitely more appealing than my library books). A giant board leaned against a wall, to which were pinned a multitude of drawings, quite as good as any you see in the fashion periodicals, but outlandish and exciting, too, using the patterns and fabrics from her collection – evening gowns and walking dresses, short jackets, long coats, clothes for children, for men, for women.

“All hers,” Alaric said with a proud look.