Bad Miss Bennet Page 2

  ‘Oh, Mrs Wickham, is that gown not excessively elegant? It looks so well on your sister – and on you too,’ she added, after a pause that could only be described as pregnant. I curled my lip in a semblance of a smile and pointed to the book she was carrying.

  ‘I see you are reading Miss Clara Reeve’s new novel, The Old English Baron. I was greatly diverted by it and I would be happy to explain some of the more difficult passages to you at any time convenient.’ I continued on my way with a gay wave of the hand leaving Georgiana with her mouth fallen open in a most unattractive manner.

  Chapter Two

  London

  I would not wish to give the impression, dear reader, that my transference to London and the obtaining of suitable lodgings were easy tasks. There was a great deal of wheedling, pleading and what can only be described as horse-trading to be seen to before I was able to leave. I confided this to my journal – the only means of expressing my resentment. I pleased Lizzie by agreeing to stop at Longbourn en route for a short time. Very short if I can find a suitable excuse.

  Fortunately, the Caruthers came to my rescue. Selena quickly extended an invitation. They have taken up residence in Curzon Street in St James’s London. This is quite a fashionable street, I understand, and will serve as a starting point for my adventures. Naturally, I told my relatives that I can stay indefinitely. This met with Darcy’s approval as he informed me that he would give me an allowance of three hundred and fifty pounds per year, more than a governess would earn but not exactly riches. What a soul of generosity he is! How many gowns will I be able to buy with that? However, I am not too downhearted. I have plans, stratagems, ambitions. If only they knew of my aspirations. These I confide to my journal where, no doubt, they will be read by posterity in due course.

  A woman in my position must fend for herself or be resigned to a life of dull, dragging poverty and boredom as a poor relation, the suppliant in the corner. Such a life would be unbearable for someone of my temperament. Have I not suffered enough these last few years?

  I finally made my escape from Pemberley on a bitter cold day in early December. Lizzie was kind enough to bequeath me some of her unwanted wardrobe which I shall alter and make tolerably modish. I was especially grateful for a long, worsted wool pelisse in dark green with fur trimming that would offer me protection from the elements on the long journey south. The green was so dark it was almost black and thus satisfies my sister’s sense of propriety. My valise was loaded onto the mail coach by one of Pemberley’s footmen, who was escorting me – the one with the shapely calves who has been most attentive to my needs.

  After long hours in a public vehicle feeling every jolt in the abominable roads and suffering the companionship of dolts, hags and clergymen, I arrived at Longbourn more dead than alive. I was greeted by my mother with tiresome exclamations of misery and floods of tears at my widowed state. My father gave me a long, hard look and pronounced me ‘Somewhat improved with age’ as if I was one of his precious bottles of claret.

  Immediately, I fancied I was back in my childhood again with Kitty begging to share my bedroom and Mary moralising about Napoleon. I was plagued incessantly to recount the details of my stay in Brussels, the ball, the battle at Waterloo and the ghoulish delights of widowhood so that the womenfolk in my family could exclaim and twitter to their hearts’ content. My father merely remarked, after a slight pause, that he was glad to hear of my husband’s courage on the battlefield. I suspected that, like Darcy, he was not convinced by my version of events.

  My mother was predictably delighted to hear of my removal to London.

  ‘What good fortune, my dear and such an opportunity to enjoy the delights of the capital. Your friends will, of course, escort you to the balls and assemblies?’

  ‘She is still in mourning,’ remarked my father, but my mother was not discouraged. ‘That situation will not last forever. She is still young enough to marry again. What better place to find a husband, unless it be Brighton?’

  I contrived to be on my way as soon as decency permitted with my father’s solemn warnings and my mother’s advice about bonnets ringing in my ears. Papa had reminded me again of my foolish marriage to Wickham and the potential disgrace it brought upon the family, only averted by the generosity of the noble Mr Darcy.

  ‘You will need to marry again, Lydia. You are only nineteen. I trust you will choose a new spouse with greater care. You cannot expect your brother-in-law to rescue you a second time.’

  Indeed not, I told myself.

  ‘Think of your sisters,’ he warned me. I thought it unlikely that my two very plain, portionless sisters would be affected by my behaviour. They were not prime marriage market material. And neither are you! rang a voice in my head.

  My sister Jane and her husband were out of the district so there was no possibility of being conveyed to London in any style. The prospect of another journey by mail coach was not enticing and it was another reminder of my lowly status, but at least my companions were more agreeable this time.

  As we drew near to London a handsome, well-dressed gentleman with dark eyes and a spirited manner conversed pleasantly with me for a while until he decided to ‘take a turn up top with the horses’. Immediately our speed increased to a ridiculous rate and we were tossed about like corks.

  Suddenly, we came to a shuddering halt on a quiet stretch of the Barnet Road and everything became very quiet except for the whinnying of the horses. A woman clutching a child began to whimper with fear and presently my spirited companion appeared at the window and, almost apologetically, asked us to get down from the coach.

  We tumbled out stiff-legged and weary while the men demanded to know what was happening. Another complained about our reckless speed. The spirited man merely smiled and indicated a rider who had appeared from behind a tree. He wore a kerchief wound around the lower part of his face under his hat. He held a pistol pointed in our direction. I turned towards the spirited man only to find him pointing a pistol at our backs. Highwaymen! Are my misfortunes never to end?

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ exclaimed one of the braver male passengers. ‘The days of highwaymen are over. You are an anachronism, sir, you and your accomplice. Be off with you.’

  ‘Alas, my fine fellow, you are right, but we must scratch a living as best we may.’ With that he raised his pistol and blew the unfortunate man’s hat into the trees leaving the poor fellow gibbering with fright.

  Thus I arrived in London without my garnet necklace to which I had been so much attached. My pleas to the scoundrels that I was the penniless widow of a war hero fell on deaf ears. They would have our jewellery and would remove it by force if necessary. As I handed him the necklace, the spirited villain even had the effrontery to express a wish that we might meet again, telling me that his name was Jeremy Sartain – ‘known to my friends as Jerry’. The rogue was evidently quite fearless, not caring who knew his identity. He courteously left me my wedding ring – the one object I would not have missed.

  I sat fuming in a corner seat as we resumed our journey to London amid much weeping and wailing of women, and harrumphing of men bellowing on about what they would do if they caught the robbers. The prospect of a hanging always fills the English with a sense of well-being. The robbers had made quite a haul of gold coins but I was the only woman on board with any jewellery of value. My companions offered me their sympathy and assured me that the garnets would be trafficked at one of the many ‘flash’ houses in the capital by nightfall. When I looked puzzled they explained that such places were inns where stolen goods were taken and exchanged for cash.

  I finally arrived that evening at the Caruthers’ house and fell into Selena’s arms bewailing the loss of my jewels.

  ‘Alas!’ I cried, ‘I am quite done up … frappé en morte!’ (My grasp of the French language is improving daily.) ‘What shall I do?’ I sobbed, ‘I have only a few pearls and a small gold cross in which to go out and about in society. I shall cut a very poor figure.’ Selena laugh
ed and told me not to fret.

  ‘We are giving an intimate party here in a few days. There will be an opportunity for card games and plenty of flippant coxcombs and wealthy witlings to play with. I have chosen them with care. You will soon make good your losses.’ Thank heavens for good friends. Especially those who are in one’s debt.

  I was able to write in my journal that evening that Curzon Street has proved to be a delightful spot, at least from first impressions. The sight of rows of tall houses, the traffic of carriages, the cries of tradesmen and the general life, combine to lift my spirits. I love cities, the potential for living is so great compared to the empty wastes of rural England.

  I am vastly content with Selena and Miles and I am accommodating myself to their small eccentricities. It is obvious that their financial state is almost as bad as my own, but that does not prevent them from living life to the full – a philosophy I have always shared.

  Selena was showing a greater fondness for gin and display than I previously remember, but no doubt that is due to her nerves. She takes full responsibility for the running of the household, Miles being amiable but useless for anything off the battlefield. He has been spending too much money on prints of a distracting nature (according to his wife), obtained from a certain Joseph Stockdale, bookseller and coal merchant, who keeps a shop at No. 24 Opera Colonnade which is frequented by most of the ton and lowlifes in the city. Yesterday, Miles showed me his most valued print depicting the Countess Godiva saving the city of Coventry. He was most put out when I burst into a fit of the giggles.

  ‘And the price is …?’ interrupted Selena. When Miles told her she became faint and went in search of the laudanum bottle.

  We have been frantically preparing for the soirée to be held here on the day after tomorrow. It was essential for my hosts to obtain some relief from their many creditors and for me to make some useful contacts, I have agreed to pay a reasonable amount for my board and lodging but I am eager to blossom forth into my own establishment.

  The guests have been selected with great care, mainly for their wealth and their bad luck at the card table. Selena gave me exact descriptions of the most likely fellows. I may need to cultivate one for money and another for influence. I am determined to gain entry to a soirée at Almack’s in King Street, St James’s, the acme of society, but I must first find a sponsor. The assemblies at this establishment are frequented by the ton and the highest in the land. Great opportunities might come my way if I could but be included in their company.

  Selena thought this scheme entirely unnecessary.

  ‘Surely you could like any good humoured man with a comfortable income?’ Perhaps she was right and I was aiming too high but I have aspirations.

  On the night of the party I decided to appear in half mourning.

  ‘Nobody here will be aware of my circumstances,’ I told Selena. I wore a gown of pale grey gauze trimmed with violet velvet with a white lace fichu. I borrowed an Indian shawl of the finest work from my hostess. It glowed with deep, peacock blues and greens and purple.

  ‘Arrange your hair a little higher than usual and adjust your bodice a little lower,’ my friend advised. Indeed, I may lose the bodice of my dress completely should I lean too far forward at the card table, but needs must as the saying goes and one always needs something to distract the other players. Indeed, I may add to the entertainment.

  Selena had set off her blonde curls with a gown of white muslin banded with green and gold satin ribbons matching the gold thread binding her hair. My friend’s fair, refined looks were much admired, although they concealed a will of iron.

  I could barely contain my feelings of anticipation mixed with nerves as the hour approached. Miles offered me a little brandy to buck me up but I refused. I must keep a clear head. This could be the beginning of my new life. I am not generally a prey to nerves but I found that I was operating my fan so vigorously that he went in search of the mysterious draught.

  The guests began to arrive at nine and we divided the company between two tables. Selena and I were the only females present. I sat at one table and she at the other. I would have enjoyed seeing the expression on Darcy’s face at that moment, should he have been able to catch sight of us. Miles took up a commanding position near the window, striking a Napoleonic pose with his arm across his chest and his reddish hair en brosse. I think he disliked being out of uniform. Fortunately, he remembered that his task was to keep the faro bank and he quickly took up his position.

  The men had already drunk liberally at other establishments and they continued in this way as the evening progressed. My neighbour at the table was a dwarfish, unremarkable fellow who introduced himself as Mr Getheridge. I noticed that he had enjoyed moderate success at the cards and I asked him why he did not continue. As he escorted me to the supper table he said with a slight smile that he was a banker and, therefore, cautious by nature.

  ‘Losing money does not agree with me, madam. I prefer to stop while I am winning.’

  At the mention of the word banker I began to revise my former opinion of Mr Getheridge. He suddenly appeared less ordinary in my eyes. A lone female should always include a banker or two among her acquaintances.

  He kept up a flow of conversation as he procured ices and champagne for me. As I had been required to contribute to the cost of the refreshments, I decided to enjoy them.

  ‘Are you appreciating what London has to offer, madam?’ He gave me what can only be described as a leer. Without waiting for a reply he began to sing a few bars of a popular song, ‘London Town’s a dashing place, for ev’rything that’s going on’. I drew away from him, declaring that I preferred a good book. (This is not entirely untrue, dear reader.)

  ‘I confess I am a lover of the Gothic, sir. A frisson of horror enlivens a tedious afternoon, I find.’ My companion positively twinkled.

  ‘I find that there are many ways of enlivening a dull afternoon, my dear!’ Miles signalled to me at this point and whispered that Mr Getheridge was not only a wealthy banker but also a great lover of women.

  ‘He has a wife and family, but he keeps several mistresses at Brighton and London, in some splendour, I believe. They say he is a very devil between the sheets. You would not credit it from the look of him, would you?’

  Miles returned to his duties and I returned to the tables, Mr Getheridge having gone outside for a little air. Selena and I paused to exchange notes behind our fans. Her winnings amounted to three hundred and fifty guineas and mine were two hundred guineas. As we also took a share of the house money we were quite content. We agreed to change tables at this point.

  My new neighbour was a certain Lord Augustus Finchbrook, a young man with watery blue eyes, a thatch of pale blond hair and a weak head for wine and brandy. I hoped his credit was good. I was encouraged by his talk of the high perch phaeton he had just purchased, together with the two finest Arabs in the country. I gathered he was referring to horses.

  ‘You must come for a spin in her, my dear Mrs Wickham,’ he said, slurring his words a little. He leaned perilously close to me as he spoke, peering down at my bosoms. The brandy fumes were almost visibly wafting from his pink ears.

  I smiled winningly at him and said that nothing would give me greater pleasure but first I intended to win a large sum of money from him. He let out a neigh of a laugh and then muttered something that sounded like, ‘A demned fine little filly and pert as they come,’ before promptly nodding off for a moment.

  I poked him in the ribs none too gently before I shuffled the cards. The rattle of dice from Selena’s hazard table could be heard in the background. Milord woke with a start and to my surprise he gazed wistfully across the room to where Selena was holding court at the next table.

  ‘That lady has a very purposeful walk,’ he announced. ‘Indeed she is so purposeful that I am terrified to approach her. She fills me with alarm.’ I could detect that my friend filled this young man with other emotions as well as fear. He showed a marked lack of concentrati
on on the game, not seeming to care where or how he played. Meanwhile he continued to gaze across at Selena and I prepared to move in for the kill.

  ‘Will you play to win or lose, my lord?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I always lose against the house so I shall play to lose,’ he yawned, quite unconcerned. I proceeded to place the cards as the players made their bets, praying that the pagan gods of fortune would smile on me. I gave the gods some encouragement by using my special cards which were slightly doctored or sanded for the purpose. Wickham had shown me this trick soon after our marriage. Indeed, he knew so many ways of cheating that I cannot understand why he lost so often.

  Chapter Three

  ‘You are enjoying good fortune, my dear.’ Mr Getheridge suddenly appeared behind me and placed his hairy hand on my shoulder, squeezing it a little as he did so. ‘I admire a woman who is lucky with money. The gods smile upon you.’ If only he knew the truth – yes, I would tell him! I turned and gazed up at him, batting my eyelashes.

  ‘Alas, sir, I am merely a poor soldier’s widow. I cannot imagine why I have been so fortunate tonight. Those gods must indeed be smiling on me.’

  Getheridge laughed and indicated the almost comatose Finchbrook.

  ‘I fancy you have found yourself a good mark, Mrs Wickham.’ I looked outraged and he quickly invited me to take some air in the garden. I refused with indignation but he insisted, whispering urgently into my ear, ‘You will get no further with this one. Take my advice, whatever you planned for him must wait until he is recovered a little.’

  I allowed my hirsute friend to conduct me to the garden where he continued to whisper in a conspiratorial manner. ‘If I do not mistake, you madam, you are in search of something that is my forte. I think I may be able to help you.’

  ‘Truly, sir?’ I replied, ‘And what will be the cost?’