Chapter 8 #2
The Pavilion’s exotic domes and minarets rose above the parade ground, white and gleaming in the sunlight, a sight so incongruous that even Lydia fell silent for a moment, staring; a light breeze stirred the flags atop its cupolas.
The lawns before it were already busy: carriages drawing up, gentlemen assisting ladies down, children rolling hoops across the grass, and a knot of officers—bright in scarlet—pausing to watch as a lady in violet silk and an elaborate turban swept past.
Harriet regarded the scene with cautious curiosity. “How very strange it is,” she murmured, “to find an Indian palace here, in England. My mother would declare it quite improper—almost indecent.”
Lydia was enchanted, her previous dismay forgotten. “Oh, Lizzy, do you suppose the Prince Regent is at home? Perhaps we shall see him at his window! Or at least one of his guests—Colonel Forster said his sisters, the princesses, often visit.”
Elizabeth smiled at her sister’s unflagging spirits, though she could not help but feel the unreality of the place.
The Pavilion seemed to her a folly, a dream conjured by some eccentric mind and made solid by sheer force of royal will.
Yet its strangeness was oddly comforting; it made her own sense of displacement less acute, her earlier vision less threatening, as if, in a town so given over to spectacle and invention, anything unusual might be explained away.
They joined the flow of promenaders, Lydia craning her neck for a glimpse of any notable face.
Harriet, more reserved, clung to Elizabeth’s arm, surveying the company with wide eyes.
The society of Brighton, Elizabeth observed, was a curious mixture.
There were elderly dowagers in heavy satins, their bonnets bristling with ostrich plumes; young ladies in the newest fashions, whispering behind their fans; officers and gentlemen in fine coats, their boots polished to a mirror shine.
A pair of street musicians played a lively tune on flute and violin, and a seller of ices did a brisk trade among the carriages.
As they walked, Elizabeth felt the tension in her chest ease.
The sun was warm, the sea breeze brisk, and the crowd—so absorbed in their own amusements—paid them little heed.
She found herself able, at last, to laugh at Lydia’s wild speculations and Harriet’s shy exclamations, and to allow the thoughts and futures of those around her to diminish into the background.
* * *
The sun was just beginning its slow descent as the three women made their way along North Street, turning onto Marlborough Road to the infantry barracks.
The officers’ mess was housed in a broad, grey-flint building, its windows thrown open to admit the sea breeze and the murmur of the town outside.
Inside, the rooms were already alive with voices, the clink of glass, the flash of red and gold uniforms—interspersed with the occasional dark green of a rifleman—clustered in the vestibule.
Colonel Forster greeted them at the entrance, his face bright with pride. “My dears! You are a vision—I shall be the envy of every man here tonight.”
Harriet slipped her arm through his, her laugh light and easy. Lydia curtseyed, and Elizabeth—finding herself suddenly shy—managed a smile and a nod. Within moments, they were ushered into the principal room, and all eyes seemed to turn their way.
Admiration, Elizabeth found, could be a tangible thing.
It sat on her shoulders, a little unsettling, as the officers vied to be introduced.
Lydia, predictably, was flushed with excitement, but even she seemed overawed by the attention they were getting and clung to Elizabeth’s arm.
Harriet, more reserved but no less charming, held court with the married officers, asking after their wives and children, making them laugh with sly jokes.
Certainly, she had met many of them before.
But so different in her role as the Colonel’s wife, than as Lydia’s special friend.
Elizabeth, for her part, found herself drawn into conversation with a captain whose name she immediately forgot, but whose attention was a little exhausting.
The room was noisy, the air thick with the scents of unwashed bodies and cigar smoke.
For a moment, she longed for the peace of Longbourn and the quiet of her father’s library.
As persistent as a rising tide, she felt the memories of the officers and their wives push against her.
As the meal was announced, a familiar voice cut through the din. “Miss Bennet, is it truly you?”
Elizabeth turned, her heart giving a small, surprised leap. There, framed in the doorway, was Colonel Fitzwilliam—tall, genial, his face alight with genuine pleasure. She had not seen him for several months, not since Meryton.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam!” she exclaimed, stepping forward. “I had no idea you were in Brighton.”
He bowed, his eyes twinkling. “I have been here several weeks; yet, your presence improves the place infinitely, I assure you. You have come with Colonel Forster, I believe. Ah, Miss Lydia, what a delight to see you again. If I remember correctly, you promised to dance with me at Sir William Lucas’s, but then jilted me for a mere ensign. ”
Lydia blushed, and gave the Colonel a shy smile. “Colonel, you have me at a great disadvantage. Do they dance in the mess? If so, I shall certainly redeem my discourtesy.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Of course, with my sister’s permission.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed. “I see, Miss Bennet, that you are still charged with caring for the wayward young. Later—perhaps—I have some news that may interest you. But for now, if you and Miss Lydia will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you, Colonel Forster has invited me to his table.” They ascended the stairs to the dining area, and were shown to their table, placed near the open doors of a well-lit balcony.
“Do you find Brighton to your liking?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, as they took their places.
Elizabeth smiled, now more at ease. “It is lively, certainly. One cannot be bored here, though I confess I sometimes long for a moment’s quiet.”
He laughed. “You and I are alike, Miss Bennet. I find these gatherings both delightful and somewhat confining. But it is a pleasure, at least, to encounter a familiar face among so many strangers.”
They spoke for several minutes—of Brighton, of mutual acquaintances, even, briefly, of Meryton, but of the Darcys, he made no mention.
Perhaps, thought Elizabeth, they have returned to Derbyshire, for it was certain Miss Darcy, Georgiana, needed time to settle herself after her misfortune.
As the evening wore on, Elizabeth felt old anxieties slip away, replaced by the comfort of easy conversation.
She wondered, not for the first time, if her affections might become engaged by the Colonel—someone so amiable, so unburdened by pride.
Nearby, Lydia’s laughter rang out, drawing the attention of several officers.
Elizabeth glanced over to see her sister deep in conversation with a lieutenant, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining.
Harriet, too, seemed transformed—her reserve replaced by a bright confidence as she presided over the head of the table.
The meal was abundant but rustic in nature: pease soup, a joint of beef, boiled pudding dripping with brandy.
Toasts were made, songs sung, and the officers—predictably—competed to offer the ladies the sweetest, if often slightly vulgar, compliments.
Elizabeth found herself less averse to their admiration as the evening wore on.
Yet, once, a smartly attired orderly, serving her wine, brushed close to her shoulder.
She froze, taking a deep breath, calming herself as his thoughts pressed against her.
She willed the memory away; the moment passed.
“Miss Bennet, are you well?” Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke softly, noting her pale face, the tension in her shoulders.
“While the company is enjoyable, Colonel,” she replied, “I find I am being pressed by too many thoughts and future memories, as I have spoken of previously. If you would be so kind as to escort me—perhaps to the balcony—while it is a little improper, I am in great need of cool evening air.”
He assisted her from her chair, spoke quietly to Colonel Forster, and escorted Elizabeth from the dining area, leaving the door to the balcony open. It was a beautiful night; beyond the Pavilion they could see moonlight ripple across the water, the faint crash of waves upon the shore.
“Thank you, sir. I fear it was a mistake to visit Brighton. There are far too many young men who may not return from fighting the tyrant. Even if I do not see their fate, I feel their fortunes—and misfortunes—pull at me.”
“A burden, indeed, Miss Bennet. Perhaps you should return—if not to Town, then to Longbourn.”
She laughed. “No, sir. That is the coward’s way.
I am here to chaperone Lydia and Harriet, Colonel Forster’s wife.
Lydia, as you know, is too forward and certainly rather impetuous in her affections.
Harriet is, by all accounts, a fine young lady; but her husband, I fear, is rather jealous of her many admirers, and wishes to keep her close.
Truly, I cannot blame him, for in company she is quite the life of the party. ”
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned against the stone balustrade, his expression thoughtful in the moonlight. “It is a strange thing, to be surrounded by merriment and yet feel the shadow of war always at one’s shoulder. You bear it with more grace than most, Miss Bennet.”
She shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “I hardly think so. I sometimes believe I am ill-suited to gaiety. As you have seen this evening, I am hardly good company.”
He regarded her with a kind and steady gaze. “You are too modest. But I do understand—there are burdens one learns to carry, even in the midst of laughter.” He paused, the silence stretching companionably between them.
Elizabeth drew her shawl tighter. “You said earlier that you had news?”
His face brightened. “Ah, yes. I have had a letter from my cousin Darcy. He is well—indeed, he writes with more warmth than I have known from him in years. He and Miss Darcy are to come to Brighton within the week. Though Darcy is still a curmudgeon, I believe Georgiana will be very pleased to see you. Would you allow me to introduce her to Miss Lydia, for she very much lacks company of her own age?”
“Of course, Colonel. I believe Lydia would also welcome the introduction. While Harriet is a dear friend, she also is a colonel’s wife, and has many duties other than promenading along the Steyne or the Marine Parade.
And, while she will not admit it, Lydia sees me as her gaoler, determined to prevent her enjoying herself.
Perhaps if you sent a note, I can ensure we ladies are at home to receive her. ”
* * *