Chapter Ten A Midnight Arrangement #2
Lydia blinked. She stumbled slightly over a relatively simple step, but she recovered her footing instantly. “A burden, Mr Wickham? Have you caught a chill from the sea air?”
“It is a chill of the soul.” Mr Wickham’s eyes locked onto hers with tragic intensity. “I am hopelessly captivated by you. I have been since Meryton, though I dared not speak of it.”
Lydia’s heart gave a hard thump.
He loved her.
She felt a rush of triumph. She loved him too, of course. He was dashing and tragic and paid her more attention than anyone else.
Though... she also loved Lieutenant Thompson, who had a remarkably clever wit and knew an infinite number of card games. She also harboured a fondness for Ensign Norton, whose ears turned bright red whenever she spoke to him. She found Norton’s blushing quite adorable.
However, neither Thompson nor Norton had ever declared their undying, soul-chilling devotion to her. Therefore, Mr Wickham was clearly the superior choice.
“I am very fond of you as well, Mr Wickham.” Lydia offered her most brilliant smile. “You are more entertaining than the majority of your regiment.”
Mr Wickham’s expression shifted, the melancholy replaced by urgency. He tightened his grip on her hand as the dance required them to separate and rejoin.
“Fondness is not enough, Lydia.” He abandoned the formal title entirely. “I wish to marry you. I wish to make you my wife. Immediately.”
Lydia almost stopped dancing.
Marriage.
It was the ultimate victory. It meant independence from her mother’s nerves. It meant she would have her own establishment, and, most importantly, it meant she would be married before Jane, before Elizabeth, before any of them. The sheer glory of it was overwhelming.
“Marriage?” Lydia gasped. “But I am only sixteen! Papa would say I am too young. Mamma would need at least six months to plan the wedding breakfast alone.”
“Your family will not consent.” Wickham’s face darkened. He looked over her shoulder at the crowd with tense suspicion. “And we face a far greater obstacle than your father’s hesitation.”
“An obstacle?” Lydia frowned. “What possible obstacle could prevent it? I am certain Papa could be persuaded if I cried loudly enough.”
“My mortal enemy resides in Brighton.” Mr Wickham’s voice dropped an octave in dramatic tension. “Fitzwilliam Darcy. You know our past, Lydia. He has treated me abominably, because he is jealous of me and will not allow me to be happy. It is his mission in life.”
Lydia thought of the imposing gentleman who had sought her philosophical advice, and did not find him particularly terrifying. “Mr Darcy? But he was quite pleasant to me at the library. He values my intellect.”
Mr Wickham ignored her observation.
“He is a monster, Lydia. He ruined my prospects and despises my happiness. If he learns of my attachment to you, he will use all his wealth and influence to crush it.” Mr Wickham leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “Furthermore, your sister Elizabeth...”
He let the sentence hang.
“Lizzy?” Lydia prompted. “What about Lizzy? She is merely resting a bruised toe.”
“She has turned against me.” Mr Wickham sighed deeply, a sound of wounded innocence. “Darcy has poisoned her mind. She will never permit our union. She will convince your father to withhold his consent. We are surrounded by enemies, my love.”
Lydia processed this information. It sounded exactly like the plot of a novel. It was thrilling. It was romantic. It was infinitely more exciting than returning to Longbourn to listen to Mary read sermons and eat unexciting eggs for breakfast.
“Then what are we to do?” Lydia whispered the question with dramatic flair.
“We must flee.” Mr Wickham squeezed her hand. “We must not wait for the slow, crushing machinery of proper society. We must travel to Scotland. We must elope to Gretna Green. Tomorrow night.”
Elope.
Lydia’s mind raced. An elopement was scandalous, certainly, but it was also wildly romantic. It meant a midnight carriage ride, outsmarting Lizzy, returning to Hertfordshire as a married woman, draped in triumph and a new pelisse.
She looked at Mr Wickham. He was very handsome, the gold braid on his uniform gleaming in the candlelight, and he was staring at her as though she were his only hope of salvation.
Why not? Lydia thought. He adores me, and I shall be an officer’s wife.
“Yes.” Lydia nodded, the pink feather bobbing emphatically. “Yes, George. We shall elope to Gretna Green.”
George exhaled, a shuddering breath that sounded like relief, the tension vanishing from his posture.
“You have made me the happiest of men.” He pulled her closer for a brief, scandalous second. “The arrangements must be secret, my love. You must not tell a soul.”
“Not even Harriet?” Lydia pouted slightly. “She would be so excited for me.”
“Particularly not Mrs Forster.” His tone turned sharp before instantly softening into honeyed persuasion. “She is the commanding officer’s wife and her loyalty is to the regiment, not to our love. And absolutely not Miss Elizabeth. Your sister would lock you in your bedchamber if she suspected.”
Lydia considered the likelihood of Elizabeth locking her in a room and realised that it was extremely high.
“I shall be silent as a tomb.” Lydia promised.
“Excellent.” George outlined the plan as they executed the final steps of the dance. “A carriage will wait for you at the corner of the street tomorrow night, precisely at midnight. You must wear a dark cloak and conceal your face. We must leave Brighton before Darcy discovers our intentions.”
It all sounded reasonable, the dark cloak adding an excellent layer of mystery to the proceedings.
“Midnight,” Lydia confirmed. “I shall be ready.”
The music swelled to its conclusion and the dancers halted, offering their final bows and curtsies.
George took Lydia’s hand and brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against the lace of her glove.
“Until tomorrow night, my love,” he murmured against her hand.
Lydia felt a flush of intoxicating excitement rush from her toes to the top of her elaborate hairstyle.
George offered his arm to escort her back through the crowd to Colonel Forster and Harriet.
Lydia walked beside him, her head spinning with plans. She needed to pack a trunk, to ensure she had adequate ribbons for Scotland, and to contrive how to slip past Winslow who never slept.
They reached her friends.
“Thank you for the dance, Miss Lydia.” George bowed formally, then turned to Harriet. “Mrs Forster, it has been a delight.”
He did not linger. He executed a final bow to the Colonel and melted into the crowd, moving to the card room.
Lydia stood beside her hostess, and her face split into a wide grin. She was sixteen years of age, standing in the most fashionable assembly room in Brighton, and in twenty-four hours, she would be embarking upon the greatest, most scandalous adventure of her life.
Lydia Bennet smiled again, and her mind drifted to the lobster patties. She sincerely hoped they served them for supper. A future bride required proper nourishment.