Chapter Ten A Midnight Arrangement
The Castle Tavern Assembly Rooms in Castle Square stood as the pinnacle of fashionable Brighton society. While the Old Ship Inn catered to the lively militia, the Castle Tavern drew the highest echelon of London’s bon ton seeking the sea air. It was majestic, glittering, and perfect.
Lydia Bennet fully intended to conquer it.
The preparation for such a conquest, however, required significant strategic effort. The small bedchamber in Mrs Forster’s lodgings was a battlefield of muslin and scented powder.
Harriet Forster clutched a small pot of rouge in her left hand and waved a hot curling tong in her right.
“Sally, you must attend to my fringe this very instant.” Harriet stamped her satin slipper upon the wooden floorboards. “The Colonel is waiting in the parlour, and my hair resembles a collapsed nest.”
Lydia snatched the curling tong directly from her hostess’s hand.
“Your fringe is fine, Harriet.” Lydia presented her own head to the overworked maid. “My ringlets are a disaster. I cannot possibly appear before the militia looking like a damp spaniel. Sally, pin this back.”
“We must send the maid to your sister.” Harriet adjusted the neckline of her gown a bit lower. “Miss Elizabeth cannot attend an assembly looking like a country spinster.”
Lydia shoved the curling tong back into the maid’s hands and marched into the adjoining room to inspect the damage.
She stopped dead in the doorway.
Elizabeth sat before a small dressing glass, not looking like a country spinster at all. She was magnificent. Her hair was swept up into an intricate, flawless arrangement of braids and curls, intertwined with a delicate string of pearls.
Standing behind her, wielding a tortoiseshell comb with the precision of a master artist, was Winslow.
“Winslow!” Lydia gaped at the elderly, supposedly useless servant. “You are doing hair.”
Winslow did not look up from her work. She secured a final pearl with a thrust of a hairpin.
Lydia felt a sudden prick of jealousy. She wanted pearls in her hair. She wanted her curls to look effortlessly elegant instead of desperately pinned.
She stared at her sister’s reflection in the glass. Elizabeth smiled at her.
The jealousy evaporated instantly. Lydia loved her sister. She frequently found Elizabeth’s strict adherence to proper conduct vexing, but she loved her fiercely all the same, and she wanted Elizabeth to be beautiful at the assembly.
“Your hair is very fine, Lizzy.” Lydia fluffed her own somewhat untamed ringlets. “Though I do not understand why you require such elegance merely to scowl at everyone. You have been so grumpy since we arrived.”
“I am not grumpy.” Elizabeth stood up and smoothed her silk skirts. “I am observant.”
“You are observant of Mr Wickham in the most disagreeable manner.” Lydia followed her sister with her eyes. “You used to like him in Meryton. You thought his stories were wonderful, but now you look at him as though he were a bad pudding. I do not understand it.”
She paused. It was a genuine mystery. Wickham was the most handsome, charming man in the militia. He had a red coat and a tragic history. What more could a woman possibly require? Something must have occurred in Kent to change her sister’s mind so drastically.
Lydia opened her mouth to inquire further, but at that moment, her gaze landed on a long, incredibly vibrant pink ostrich feather resting upon the dressing table.
“Oh, Harriet!” Lydia seized the feather with both hands. “You did not tell me you purchased the pink plume! I must wear it. I must.”
The mystery of Elizabeth’s inexplicable dislike of Mr Wickham was forgotten.
An hour later, Colonel Forster escorted the three ladies into the Castle Tavern Assembly Rooms.
The ballroom was breathtaking. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the painted ceiling, casting a brilliant, warm light over the gathered crowd.
The orchestra played a lively country dance from the gallery above.
The room was packed with glittering jewels, expensive silk, and the very best society London had to offer.
Lydia breathed in the scent of hot wax and perfume. She intended to dance every single set, to drink several glasses of punch, and to live every moment of it.
“Colonel Forster.”
The smooth, low baritone cut through the noise of the crowd.
George Wickham appeared beside their group, wearing his red coat with his usual careless perfection. He offered a flawless, sweeping bow to the commanding officer, and exchanged three sentences of polite, meaningless military observation with the Colonel.
Wickham then turned his brilliant smile upon the ladies.
“Mrs Forster. Miss Elizabeth. Miss Lydia.” Wickham bowed again, including them all in his warm gaze. “The Castle Tavern is infinitely brighter for your arrival. May I have the honour of claiming a dance from each of you this evening?”
Mrs Forster giggled behind her fan. “You may certainly claim the next set, Mr Wickham.”
“And I shall take the one after that.” Lydia stepped forward eagerly.
Wickham turned his attention to the second eldest Miss Bennet.
“I must decline your kind offer, Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth offered a look of fabricated agony. “My right toe is severely bruised. I fear I stubbed it upon a loose floorboard this afternoon. I could not possibly manage the steps of a country dance.”
Lydia stared at her sister.
Elizabeth had sprinted down two flights of narrow stairs exactly twenty minutes ago, moving with the speed and agility of a gazelle. Her toes were in perfect, athletic working order.
Lydia opened her mouth to point out this glaring inconsistency.
Elizabeth turned her head and delivered a glare that promised total sisterly retribution.
Lydia snapped her mouth shut. She had a great deal of vanity, but she also had basic survival instincts. She would not betray her sister over a bruised toe, even a fictitious one.
“What a terrible tragedy.” Wickham offered a sympathetic, though disingenuous, smile. “I hope you recover swiftly, Miss Elizabeth. Come, Mrs Forster. The set is forming.”
Wickham offered his arm to Harriet. They walked away to the centre of the ballroom, leaving Lydia standing with her sister and the Colonel.
Lydia turned to ask Elizabeth why she had lied, only to find that she was gone. She had vanished into the dense crowd with the stealth of a spy.
“Well.” Lydia tapped her foot in time with the music. “It appears I am left to entertain you, Colonel. Do you think they will serve lobster patties at supper?”
Colonel Forster smiled his mild, exhausted smile. “I am certain the supper will be excellent, Miss Lydia.”
Lydia looked out across the sea of dancing couples, searching for the familiar pale silk of her sister’s gown. She did not see her anywhere near the refreshment tables.
Lydia suspected she knew exactly where Elizabeth had gone. She had undoubtedly gone to seek out the company of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She sniffed softly.
Lydia had once considered Mr Darcy to be the most disagreeable, arrogant man in existence. He was far too tall, far too rich, never danced, and he rarely smiled. However, her opinion had recently undergone a significant revision.
Mr Darcy had approached her in the circulating library, bypassed the scholars, ignored the matrons, and asked her about a matter of philosophy.
The man clearly possessed exceptional taste.
Lydia smoothed her gloves. A gentleman who recognised true intellect when he saw it could not be that bad. If Elizabeth wished to spend her evening conversing with a man of such obvious refinement, Lydia would certainly not stand in her way.
She lifted her chin and watched Harriet dance with Mr Wickham, content to wait her turn. She was in Brighton, she was wearing a wonderful pink feather, and she was an acknowledged philosophical authority.
It was turning out to be a truly spectacular summer.
The Castle Tavern Assembly Rooms were beautiful, but George Wickham’s smile was significantly brighter than the crystal chandeliers.
Lydia watched him escorting Harriet back to the edge of the dance floor. Harriet’s cheeks were flushed an alarming shade of crimson, and she fanned herself with jerky motions of her painted silk fan.
Lydia shifted her weight from one satin slipper to the other, anticipation overcoming her. It was finally her turn.
Mr Wickham approached and offered a bow that was infinitely deeper and more elegant than any he had ever bestowed upon Colonel Forster.
“Miss Lydia.” His voice was pitched low, cutting through the noise of the assembly room like a warm knife through fresh butter. “I have anticipated this moment for the entirety of the evening.”
Lydia beamed. She tilted her chin upward, ensuring the magnificent pink feather caught the light. “I am certain you have, Mr Wickham. Have you enjoyed the dancing? Harriet has a lively step, though she occasionally confuses the timing during the turn.”
“I confess, I noticed neither the music nor the steps.” Wickham offered his arm. “My attention was consumed by the prospect of this set with you.”
Lydia tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, a thrill racing through her body. He was so handsome, and he singled her out every time.
The orchestra struck up a new, slower melody, not a cotillion this time, but a dance that permitted conversation. It was exactly what Lydia required, because she was determined to know more about this man.
They took their places on the floor, among the numerous couples. The initial steps were complicated, requiring full concentration, but the pattern soon settled into a rhythmic sway that allowed partners to draw closer.
Mr Wickham leaned forward conversationally, but he did not speak of the weather or of the music.
“Miss Lydia.” He lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper. “I must speak with absolute honesty. My heart can no longer bear the burden of silence.”