A Summer in Brighton (Pride and Prejudice Mishaps #9)

Chapter One A Change of Plans

Elizabeth Bennet stood at the summit of Oakham Mount and considered whether it would be inappropriate to scream into the wind until her lungs ached.

She held her aunt Gardiner’s letter in her gloved hand. The elegant, crossed script delivered the worst possible news a young woman in her position could receive. Mr Gardiner was detained by business. The summer tour to the Lakes was cancelled.

A robin landed on a nearby branch and began to chirp with offensive cheerfulness.

Elizabeth glared at the small creature. She did not feel cheerful. She felt as though the universe had personally singled her out for a spectacular sequence of disappointments.

First, a disastrous proposal from the most infuriating man in England.

Then, a letter from said infuriating man, dismantling her understanding of the world, her sister’s suitor, and the purportedly charming Mr Wickham.

And now, no escape to the Lakes. She was to be trapped in Longbourn for the entirety of the summer.

The robin chirped louder, mocking her.

Elizabeth turned her back on the bird and began the walk down the hill. She needed a moment of peace to compose her features into a mask of acceptable filial piety before facing her family.

Naturally, peace was the one commodity Longbourn strictly prohibited.

Even from the gravel driveway, the noise was remarkable. It sounded as though a flock of very distressed geese had invaded and settled in for breakfast.

Elizabeth pushed open the door.

Hill, the housekeeper, stood in the hallway. She caught Elizabeth’s eye, released a sigh, and shook her head with weariness. The poor woman had seen too much in that household.

Elizabeth stepped into the breakfast parlour, which in her private estimation presented a tableau of domestic chaos so complete it bordered on artistic.

It was not the room’s fault. The morning sun shone through the windows, the tea was hot, and the toast was crisp.

No, the fault lay with the inhabitants, who approached every minor inconvenience with the dramatic intensity of a Shakespearean climax.

On this particular morning, however, the eggs had scarcely been consumed before Lydia announced, with great feeling, that she was dying of boredom.

“You cannot imagine,” she declared, collapsing into her chair with theatrical despair, “how insufferable it is to live in a neighbourhood where nothing ever happens.”

Kitty, who had only just begun her breakfast, looked alarmed at the suggestion that life might be insufferable before ten o’clock.

“I think something might happen,” she offered hopefully. “There is always something.”

“There is not,” Lydia returned with certainty, as if she had examined the matter thoroughly. “Nothing of consequence, at least. No officers any more, no assemblies worth attending, no excitement whatsoever. There is nothing to do, and I am quite convinced I shall waste away before Michaelmas.”

Mary lowered her book. “Idleness is the enemy of the mind.”

Lydia gave her a look of deep injury. “Then your mind must be very safe, Mary.”

Mr Bennet turned a page of his newspaper. “A sound conclusion, Lydia. Not elegant, perhaps, but sound.”

Mrs Bennet, who had been vigorously buttering her toast, set down the knife. “You will do no such thing,” she exclaimed. “You are in excellent health, and I will not have you talking of wasting away when there are perfectly good eggs before you.”

“They are not exciting eggs,” Lydia moaned.

Hill entered, carrying a tray with the morning post. She handed over most of the missives to Mr Bennet, one to Mary, and one to Lydia.

Lydia wasted no time, tearing it open, her eyes darting through the letter.

Her eyes grew round, she clutched the letter to her chest as if it were the Crown Jewels, and her face flushed with triumph.

“I am to go to Brighton!” She spun in a circle, her skirts knocking dangerously against a side table. “Mrs Forster has invited me! Oh, the officers! The sea air! The assemblies!”

Kitty blinked, then her eyes widened in despair, presenting a picture of complete tragedy. “What? It is unfair! Mamma, it is unfair! I am older by two years. I ought to go to Brighton. I like officers just as much as Lydia does.”

“But Mrs Forster is my particular friend.” Lydia executed another triumphant spin. “She prefers my company. You would only complain about the salt in the air and cough all the time.”

Mary drew herself up. “You are both too young to understand the dangers of levity.”

Lydia turned on her. “Mary, you would not understand the concept of levity if it hit you in the shin!”

Mr Bennet gave a soft cough which might, in a less disciplined man, have become laughter.

“Oh, my dear, wonderful Lydia!” Mrs Bennet beamed at her youngest daughter. “Brighton! You will be the belle of the seaside. You will dance every dance. You will have all the young men at your feet.”

Mr Bennet’s eyebrows rose to his hairline as he surveyed the madness.

“I have no doubt our Lydia will exhaust the entire town.” Mr Bennet folded a crease in his paper. “The local merchants will need to worry about their stock. Brighton will be depleted of ribbons within the week.”

Lydia missed the sarcasm.

“Exactly, Papa!” She clapped her hands together.

Elizabeth’s eyes landed on Jane, who was oblivious to the noise and wore a soft, dreamy smile that had only returned to her face in the last fortnight.

Mr Bingley had reopened Netherfield, and had called three times in the last week. Jane was existing in a realm composed of romance and hope, deaf to the noise of her younger sisters.

Lydia was now attempting to demonstrate a new dance step while Kitty wept louder. Mrs Bennet was compiling a list of lace required for a seaside wardrobe. Mary was reading a passage about vanity aloud to the wall.

Elizabeth turned her thoughts back to the letter still clutched in Lydia’s hand. Brighton. A town overflowing with idle young men, and seaside attractions.

And Mr Wickham would be there.

The memory of Mr Darcy’s letter burned in her mind. The stark, undeniable truth about Wickham’s true character, his gambling debts, his attempted elopement with a fifteen-year-old girl.

Lydia was sixteen. Not only that, but she was lacking in judgment, and utterly fascinated by red coats.

Elizabeth felt a cold prickle of alarm at the base of her neck. She could not let Lydia go to Brighton alone. It was a recipe for disaster.

She stood and stepped forward, placing herself directly in the centre of the room.

“I believe I should like to see the sea.” Elizabeth smoothed her skirts.

Everyone fell silent. Even Kitty stopped sobbing and coughing.

Mr Bennet lowered his newspaper.

“I beg your pardon, Lizzy?”

“The sea, Papa.” Elizabeth clasped her hands together, presenting a picture of rational desire. “Since my tour to the Lakes is cancelled, I find myself longing for the restorative properties of the coast. I shall accompany Lydia to Brighton.”

Mrs Bennet dropped her toast.

“You?” Mrs Bennet sounded befuddled. “But you do not even care for officers! You will only sit in a corner and judge everyone, and ruin Lydia’s fun with your sensible remarks.”

“I shall be the very soul of discretion, Mamma.” Elizabeth offered a tight smile.

Lydia looked horrified.

“You cannot come!” She stomped her foot. “Mrs Forster invited me. You are too serious for Brighton, Lizzy. You will make us read books.”

“I promise to leave philosophy in Meryton.” Elizabeth met her father’s gaze. “Papa, surely you agree that a chaperone from her own family would be a wise addition to the party, do you not?”

Mr Bennet studied his second eldest daughter. He saw the tension in her jaw, the sharpness in her eyes. He did not know her exact reasons, but he recognised her determination.

“You are not qualified for chaperoning, Lizzy. You are young and unmarried, but I find it a capital idea.” Mr Bennet raised his paper again. “Lydia shall have her entertainment, and you shall have your sea air. Perhaps it will improve everyone’s disposition. You may go as her companion.”

Lydia groaned loudly.

Kitty began to wail again, now even more upset that both her sisters were going.

Mary did not seem to have heard at all.

“Two daughters at Brighton.” Mrs Bennet calculated the mathematics of this new arrangement.

Her eyes widened, her mind leaping directly to double weddings and matching carriages.

“Two daughters among the militia! Why, it is a campaign! It is a siege! We shall need more ribbons and new parasols. You cannot lay siege to a regiment with last year’s parasols. ”

“But, Mamma! What about me? I could go to chaperone Lydia and Lizzy!” Kitty shouted, and even the teaspoons rattled at the absurdity.

“Kitty, that is out of the question. You were not invited, and if Lizzy is to go as a companion, we cannot impose three of you on the Forsters’ household,” Mrs Bennet spoke reasonably for once.

Kitty huffed again, and Mary patted her hand, offering courage, inwardly planning to have her sister as an audience to her pianoforte practice the entire summer. Kitty’s eyes filled with tears of despair.

Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, offering silent support.

Elizabeth took a deep breath, ignoring the fresh wave of noise her announcement had provoked. Brighton awaited. She was going to wrangle Lydia, thwart Mr Wickham, and attempt to preserve her family’s respectability.

No pressure at all.

Twelve hours inside a confined wooden box with Lydia Bennet was a test of endurance worthy of a saint. Twelve hours with Lydia Bennet and Winslow was a punishment reserved for the particularly wicked.

The journey from Hertfordshire to the Sussex coast was an exercise in systematic torture.

The hired carriage aimed at every stone and rut between Meryton and London, and then over every rut and stone between London and Brighton.

The air inside the carriage was thick with the smell of road dust, lavender water, and impending regret.