Lydia (7 page)

Sunday, 29th December

I
t has been the best Christmas in the entire history of Christmases, better even than the one when I was little and we were given the doll's house, or the one when the spaniel's puppies were born.

The house has been full to bursting for days. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner came from London as usual with all four of their children, and from the minute they tumbled out of the carriage the place has been all noise and fun.

“We must gather holly!” William cried, as he always does.

“Ivy!” Philadelphia shouted.

“And rosemary and bay!” Sophy ordered.

“I want to paddle in the stream!” Henry yelled, but his mother said no.

And then we ran about the woods gathering greenery for Jane and Lizzy to make into wreaths, and raided the kitchen for mince pies behind Hill's back. Kitty and I have the two little Gardiner girls sleeping in our room on beds brought down from the attic, and the boys are in Father's dressing room. He
pretends to mind, but secretly he likes to imagine they are the sons he never had (and who, life being so unfair, would have inherited Longbourn). “Good to have the house not overrun by females,” he says, as he does every year, as William and Henry chase each other up and down stairs, and “That's the spirit!” as they thump each other with cricket bats.

Everything is topsy-turvy at Christmas – the house so full of greenery it looks like a forest, the tables and sideboards heaving with pies and puddings, sides of beef and gleaming hams, capons and carp and jellies and aspic, fires blazing in every room, so bright it is as if there were no night, mealtimes almost forgotten as visitors come and go. Some stuff their mouths and drink wine till they are red in the face and some fall asleep on the sofa. Others help to push back furniture so that we can dance to Mary or Lizzy or Aunt Gardiner at the piano, and Captain Carter on his violin.

Colonel Forster has married recently. His wife, Harriet, is about a century younger than him and very pretty. Kitty thinks her very fashionable, but her clothes are perfectly hideous. Tonight she was wearing yellow-spotted lilac with a double row of primrose ruffles at her skirt and neckline, and her hair pinned in so many curls she could not move her head. Wick-ham says she is trying to look older than she is, because her husband is so ancient – at least twenty years older than her.

“Do purple and yellow make a person look older?” I asked.

Wickham said no, they made a person look like a particularly dangerous mushroom, and made me snort with laughter.

There has been no riding since the Gardiners arrived, but I danced a vastly jolly reel with Wickham this evening, all whooping and clapping. He dances better than anybody.

“Look at the stars,” he said when he left. “It will be a fine day tomorrow, Lydia. Shall I come back in the afternoon, and ask your mamma's permission to take you for a proper ride at last?”

“What, in the countryside? Do you mean outside the paddock?”

Wickham said that was exactly what he meant.

“I should like that more than anything!” I told him.

“Then consider it done. It will be my Christmas present to you.”

He bowed, very formally, which made me laugh again, then moved away to take his leave of the others. He lingered over his goodbyes to Lizzy, but I found I did not mind.

Tomorrow when we ride, I shall wear my new fur-lined gloves. I wish I could have a proper riding habit – I would make it red, with gold buttons, nicely fitted, with a grey necktie and a matching smart grey top hat. As it is, I will have to make do with my blue wool. Even so, I can see us now, galloping across the fields, jumping over ditches, the warm breath of the horses, the rising mist. How fine everyone will think us!

Yes, it has been the best Christmas ever.

Monday, 30th December

E
verybody has gone. The Gardiners returned to London yesterday, taking Jane with them. In the past I would have complained at the unfairness of it. Lizzy and Jane go to town all the time, because they are Aunt Gardiner's favourites, but Kitty, Mary and I have never been invited. For a moment, as they drove away, I felt desolate. I tried to tell myself that I couldn't care less about London now, when there is so much fun to be had in Hertfordshire, but as William and Henry and Philadelphia and Sophy climbed back into the carriage, you could almost see all the merriness and bustle and excitement and cheer being sucked in after them.

“Blessed peace!” Father said, but it didn't feel that way at all. It felt suddenly very quiet and cold and lonely.

We will keep the greenery and decorations up until Twelfth Night. Mamma is already planning the menu for our celebrations, but the extra candles are all out and the spare beds have already been put away. The Christmas pies are finished and it's to be a cold dinner tonight, so that the
servants may rest.

Wickham was wrong about the weather. It has started to snow. We all ran out when it began, and played at catching flakes as we used to when we were children. But it was cold, and our boots and gloves and cloaks were soon wet – you feel these things more when you are grown-up. We have put our steaming clothes to dry before the kitchen stove and our boots are stuffed with rags. I thought to walk to Meryton this afternoon to make up for the blessed peace at home, but Hill says I mustn't, in case the snow turns into a blizzard, in which case I might not be able to return. We are due at the Lucases tomorrow to celebrate New Year's Eve. Nobody was looking forward to it, but if the snow gets worse we may not be able to get there, and so now Mamma is desperate for us to go. She has told Father to order the farm boy to clear the whole road between here and Lucas Lodge. Father refuses. “It would be both unfair and impossible,” he says, and so Mamma is sulking.

Everyone is bad-tempered.

“For heaven's sake, Lydia, stop fidgeting!” Lizzy cried as we sat sewing after luncheon. “If you are going to be like this as long as the snow lasts, I will strangle you.”

“Couldn't you strangle her anyway?” Mary asked.

“That is a monstrous thing to say!” I cried.

“At least
I
am able to entertain myself quietly,” Mary said. “
I
do not rely on the company of small children or officers to be happy. As long as I have my books . . .”

“You will die an old maid,” I finished for her.

“LYDIA!”

I stormed up to my room, taking care to stomp on every
single step along the way.

I paced up and down before my window all afternoon, but I never saw a soul. Wickham did not come, and I did not get my ride.

Monday, 6th January

I
t was a sorry Twelfth Night. Denny, Carter, and Pratt turned up out of the night, snow-covered and red-nosed, with wet boots from braving the roads on foot and breath smelling of the brandy they had drunk to keep warm. Wickham did not come.

“He had another engagement.” Denny would not quite meet Lizzy's eye as he spoke.

“Where?” I asked.

Denny said it was not his place to tell.

“Why not?”

Lizzy said, “Lydia, go and tell Hill we're ready for tea.”

“Did he send a message?”

“Lydia!”

I hate Lizzy when she's like that. And I hate Carter and Denny for all their mystery, and I hate this endless snow for keeping us trapped at home. It is not nearly so much fun without Wickham. Carter and Denny and Pratt are nice, but he is different. They do not let me win at cards, and when I
suggested going outside to look at the stars, they said they had only just got warm. All they want to do is eat and drink and dance, but dancing is dull with so few people, and they don't dance nearly as well as him.

“Denny,” I asked, when we finally gave up on the dancing. “Will you teach me to shoot a gun?”

“Shoot a gun?” Denny's bushy eyebrows shot into his hair. Carter and Pratt laughed. “That is not a usual occupation for a young lady, Miss Lydia.”

“No,” I said. “I suppose it isn't.”

Perhaps there has been an accident, and they think we are not strong enough to bear it. No, his friends would have been in a sombre mood if that were so . . . Perhaps he has been sent away – maybe promoted into another regiment, and it is a great secret. But then surely he would have said goodbye?

Surely friends do not leave without saying goodbye?

The officers left early, when it began to snow again. Hill, who claims to know about these things, says that January will be bitter, and she wouldn't be surprised if it snowed for days. It can't – it mustn't! We have been snowed in at Longbourn before, when I was twelve. I remember the desolation of it, even at that age – the weeks of boredom after the first excitement, seeing no one, eating only potatoes and jam. We were fit to kill each other by the end.

Which would be worse: marrying Mr. Collins, or being stuck in a house with your sisters? Charlotte's wedding is on Thursday. Mamma says if we have to, we will walk through the snow to attend it, just to show that we don't care.

God! I already want to kill everybody
now
.

Thursday, 6th February

I
t did not snow for days, it snowed for weeks. I don't even want to think about it. We managed to avoid murdering each other, but it was a close thing on my part at times. Mary's music! Mamma's nerves! No visitors apart from the Lucases, who
unlike
us have a
sleigh
. No letters – no news of Wickham. Thank heavens for Kitty and Napoleon.

Anyway, it is all over at last. The air is warmer, we have had TWO WHOLE DAYS of sunshine, and the snow is finally melting. Soon the ground will be dry enough for riding again. Visitors will come to Longbourn, and Wickham and I can finally have our Christmas gallop. Though we have not heard from him for over a month, Sir Lucas (who has gone by sleigh to Meryton) assures us that he is still there, and I cannot wait to remind him of his promise. The lanes are still icy and treacherous and black with mud, but none of us cares a fig. There are new books at the library, Mary says, that she is desperate to read. There is fresh gossip to be had from Harriet Forster that Kitty is longing to hear. There is a fur tippet in
Savill's I have had my eye on since before Christmas, which now, thanks to the money my aunt and uncle Gardiner have given me, I can finally afford.

Tomorrow, come rain or shine, we walk to Meryton.