Chapter Six
Lydia slept not a wink, just lay awake and stared at the ceiling until the room lightened with the coming of dawn.
Still she lay there, wondering how she could have been so foolish.
How many times had Mama impressed on her that Gretna Green was not something that should ever be considered, that girls who ran off to Scotland to marry never ended up happy.
“Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” was one of Mrs Bennet’s favoured sayings. “If a man will not wait a month for the banns to be called, only imagine how impatient he will prove to be when you are married!”
Not only that, but a girl who ran off to marry would forever be considered ‘fast’, and her sisters would suffer for it.
Lydia thought guiltily of Kitty, undoubtedly her favourite sister, and the damage Kitty’s reputation would have suffered if Lydia had indeed run off to Scotland with Wickham.
Why, Kitty might never have married at all; the damage might even be done already.
Whispers about Lydia being abroad at two in the morning were undoubtedly already circulating in Brighton, and she knew some of the officers were on good terms with the young men of Meryton.
What if Lieutenant Denny heard the whispers and wrote to John Lucas, for example?
Perhaps those who knew her best might wonder at Lydia seeing the consequences of her actions so clearly after a single night of introspection.
Elizabeth, certainly, would ask cynically when she became so wise.
The only answer Lydia would have been able to give her was that it was as though a bolt of lightning struck, illuminating in stark relief all of her foolish and juvenile actions, when she saw the look of disappointment on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face as she admitted her plan to run away with Wickham.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw again that expression on his handsome face; pity, sorrow and more than a tinge of contempt.
She never, ever wanted to see that look directed at her again.
That was, if she ever saw him again; she rather thought she would be packed off post-haste to Hertfordshire that very day, and never let out of Longbourn again.
Which was, she admitted to herself, probably the punishment she deserved.
“Lydiaaaaa!” Harriet’s shrill voice echoed up the stairs. “Lydia, are you still abed? Get up, you lazybones; I wish to visit the milliner’s today!”
Lydia made no answer, and shortly heard Harriet’s footsteps clomping up the stairs. Mrs Forster was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer and it showed in her heavy gait, even in light house slippers.
“Lydia!” Harriet exclaimed, shoving the door open and seeing Lydia still in bed. “Whatever are you about?”
Mindful of General Lewes’ edict, Lydia squeezed her eyes closed and whimpered “Quietly, Harriet, please. I have the most dreadful sick headache.”
“Oh!”
For a moment, Lydia thought Harriet was going to reproach her and stamp out, but instead the edge of the bed sank under Harriet’s weight and a cool, gentle hand pressed lightly against her brow.
“My mama used to get terrible megrims,” Harriet said in a soft voice quite unlike her usual shrill tones.
“I’ll get you a cool cloth to put on your brow, and make some chamomile tea.
Dear Forster has been called away, some unfortunate business with one of his junior officers he must attend to, so I am quite free to take care of you. ”
A tear leaked from beneath Lydia’s eyelids at Harriet’s unexpected kindness, today of all days. She felt utterly undeserving of it, especially since she didn’t really have a sick headache.
Well... that wasn’t precisely true, she realised as Harriet left the room far more quietly than she had entered. With no sleep the night before and the guilt eating away at her, she was beginning to feel really quite nauseous.
Harriet was back in just a few minutes with a cloth in a jug of cool water, the housemaid following with a pot of chamomile tea and a plate with a few plain biscuits.
“Now I am sure you don’t feel like it, but if you can just sit up for a few minutes and nibble on a biscuit while you drink this tea, you will feel ever so much better,” Harriet coaxed, and Lydia dissolved into tears of misery and self-hatred.
“Don’t, oh don’t,” she sobbed on a startled Harriet’s shoulder. “I don’t in the least deserve your kindness, you will despise me when you know how foolish and ungrateful I have been!”
“Lydia!” Harriet Forster was only sixteen herself, and she really hadn’t the slightest idea what to do.
Lydia Bennet was the only lady of the gentry in Meryton who had truly made an effort to befriend her, and Harriet had been quite desperate for Lydia’s company in Brighton, afraid she would find no friends among the wives of other officers.
No matter what Lydia had done, Harriet had no intention of cutting her off for it.
“That is quite enough of that sort of talk.” She did her best to imitate her mother at her most bracing.
“You are overwrought and unwell. Now, wipe your eyes and drink this tea.”
Surprised into compliance by Harriet’s unexpectedly firm manner, Lydia took the offered handkerchief and gave her nose a rather unladylike honk.
She’d just managed to swallow the last crumbs of a biscuit and drained a cup of chamomile tea when the door knocker sounded downstairs.
“Oh, no!”
The cup shook in Lydia’s hand, her face draining of all colour, and Harriet prudently took the cup away.
“Whoever that is, they can wait. Polly will tell them I am not receiving visitors this morning.”
“I’m afraid it may be someone for me,” Lydia whimpered, her throat tight. She half-expected General Lewes to barge in and order her dragged from the house, a fallen woman unfit for polite company.
Harriet looked at her queerly before standing and smoothing down her skirts. “Whatever is going on, Lydia, I hope you will feel able to trust me enough to tell me everything soon,” she said evenly. “I shall go and see who that is.”
Lydia gave in to a few more distraught tears when Harriet left the room, but after a few moments realised she was doing no good by keeping General Lewes, if it was indeed he, waiting.
Scrambling out of bed, she tugged on a simple gown and pulled her hair back into a hasty braid, coiling and pinning it at the nape of her neck.
She met Harriet at the door of her room, her expression curious.
“It is General Lewes, Lydia, and he says you are expecting him.”
Lydia nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Reaching for Harriet’s hand, she squeezed it tightly.
“Can you tell me what is going on?” Harriet begged. “I cannot imagine what happened at the ball last night to cause you to be in such a state and General Lewes to be on our doorstep this morning; he was not even in attendance last night!”
“Oh, Harriet,” Lydia burst out. “I wish I could tell you, for of all people you might understand, but I have been ordered not to discuss it with anyone. Please, I must talk with the General alone.”
Harriet looked at her queerly again, but shrugged. “Of course, if that is what you wish.”
As they made their way downstairs together, Harriet said quietly “Although General Lewes is very senior, Forster is not without friends, you know. I know your preference is for a younger man, so you must not feel pressured to accept him if you do not wish to.”
It took Lydia a moment to realise Harriet had jumped to an entirely incorrect conclusion... though not an illogical one considering the information she had.
Lydia chuckled mirthlessly, shaking her head, but they had reached the parlour door and she had no time to enlighten Harriet. Instead, she turned to hug her friend one last time.