Chapter Thirty-Six
S he had used a few of her precious coins to board the stage at Grantham, happy in the new knowledge gleaned from the ticket man that it departed only once a day and thus Mr. Wickham would first have to establish where she had gone in order to follow her. It was a pity, she reasoned, that he knew she wished to go to London. Part of her had wondered, as she followed the path that Bess had pointed out to her, if it would be better to confuse him by trying to reach home instead .
If Lydia Bennet could feel regret in having wasted her opportunities to learn, it was then. She did not possess the knowledge necessary to reason if Longbourn was nearer than the Gardiners’ and neither did she know how best to proceed in her difficult situation. Her ignorance hampered her ability to make a good decision that would lead her to safety. She repressed the guilty thought that it was her own actions that had led to where she was to begin with.
“I will not think of that now; I will think on it later. To try to reach home,” she whispered to herself, for comfort as much as anything, “will almost certainly lead to my getting lost, but if I remain on the Great North Road, will it not eventually carry me to London?”
As she walked, she reasoned within herself further, the short-lived pleasure in outwitting Wickham fading fast as she shouldered the bag of shoes and attempted to carry the bandboxes comfortably .
It was true, she concluded, that she was in a strange place with no one she knew nearby who might be trusted. Wickham had clearly been attempting to take her to Gretna Green even as she had told him London must be their destination. He must have believed he could make her wed him once there. Dimly, she realised that girls were forced into marriage for far less than her improper behaviour. Never had she thought she might turn out to be one of those same silly girls Mary and Kitty had derided — their fate had seemed so distant when she was at home with Mama and Papa. It was imperative, she realised, that as much distance should be put between her and Wickham as possible. Having lived her life in the country, she was a healthy girl and used to walking into Meryton with her sisters, but those two miles into Grantham had seemed endlessly long to her, looking back constantly as she did to see if Wickham would be hard on her heels .
No footsteps had been heard behind her, however, and although Lydia had been chilled by the time she reached the town, relief had flooded her. Such mundane things as food and warmth had not occurred in her mind when she had left Longbourn. She regretted that also. Parting with two coins to purchase a cold pie from a butcher, Lydia ate it quickly, hidden behind a low wall in a side street. It was not done, she knew, for ladies to eat on the street. Mama had told her it was common. Hill's pies were far better, and served hot, but she had never enjoyed one of them so much as this one, eaten crouched out of sight in a dirty corner of a town she did not know.
Once she boarded the stage that would only take her so far as Alconbury, given the very limited money she had in her reticule, Lydia wondered if the servants would have noticed her absence yet. She had left no note, having wanted to feel so very clever in sending one from the Gardiners’. The thought of dashing into the post office and spending the money to write home occurred to her now, but the stagecoach, she had been informed by the pie man, waited for no one. People were waiting to board a full five minutes before their time and had not even the luxury of getting down at the frequent stops to refresh themselves. They were famous, he had warned, for valuing punctuality over comfort.
The stagecoach had been full inside and so, fearing to stay in Grantham, Lydia handed her money to the guard and climbed up on the top. It was better thus, she tried to cheer herself, for it was half the price to travel this way. Thus she could be further away from the town, away from Wickham, and consequently nearer safety. She wished she had not spent her money so freely last week, secure in the belief that she would have more next quarter day. Had she been a little more restrained, she might have had the funds to travel further along the road. At two pennies per mile to sit on the top of the stage, she reflected, it was a great pity that she had laid eyes on those lace-edged handkerchiefs last week. How fine and how dainty they had looked — once she had seen them, to own one was essential .
There was a stout lady garbed in black on the top of the coach, along with a few men. It was impossible to tell how old the lady was — the lines on her face might have been put there through age or through hardship. Mama had always seemed old to Lydia, but she had very few wrinkles and a pleasing expression on her face. The woman was not friendly — when Lydia sat on the hard wooden bench beside her, she gave the young girl a piercing look and barely half a nod .
The men talked amongst themselves and Lydia listened. They were not gentlemen and their conversation was far coarser than she had ever heard. Much of it she did not understand. It was plain that the quality of her clothing gave her away as out of place. Lydia was aware that they looked at her with an interest that made her skin prickle with wariness. She wondered what she might do if they approached her. She had not thought until that moment that it would have been better to disguise herself with Bess's shawl and cap before she set off, but she had been unhappy enough at the thought of leaving her lovely bonnet as payment for the help rendered by the maid .
How foolish, she realised, as it began to rain lightly, to have been so determined to keep her pretty things above preserving her safety. A tear trickled down her increasingly cold cheek and she drew the hood of her cloak further over her bonnet .
Forlornly, Lydia thought that she had not been foolish only there . It had been the stupidest thing she had ever done — to leave that delightful fire in her room, with Kitty sleeping soundly in her bed. Kitty would rise shortly and go down to eat a good meal in the breakfast room with their family, warm, safe, and well. She would not leave her home at the dead of night in the name of adventure .
One of the men leered at her and muttered in an accented, gruff voice that she was too far too pretty to be sad. His invitation to draw a little closer to him for comfort made her shake her head and look quickly away from him, her lips pinched. Anger came when he laughed and said something she did not understand but caught the tenor of. Lydia dashed the tears from her face and she glared out at the countryside, breathlessly hoping he would not come near her.
The unfriendly woman beside her shifted in her seat a little closer to Lydia then and uttered a sharp rebuke to the fellow in a similar dialect. He laughed again but turned back to talk to the others. The woman did not smile at her when Lydia whispered her thanks, but nodded stiffly, the only sign that she had heard .
Bravely, Lydia attempted to strike up a conversation. If this sour-faced lady had intervened for her, she must have some kindness in her heart for a young girl. She had not been used to trying to engage a woman's interest in her before. Ordinarily, all that had been in her head was gaining the attention of gentlemen, which was all too easy.
“Are you going far, madam?” she asked quietly .
“My employer sends me so far as Stilton,” answered the woman briefly, then, thawing a little, added, “Not my business what the likes of you is doing on the common stage, but you do better to be off it in my view. Not safe for a young lady.”
Thinking quickly, Lydia shook her head. “I am not a young lady,” she said, “I know you must think I am but these are my mistress's cast-off clothes. She has told me I must travel to London ahead of her.”
“Hmm,” said the stout woman, doubtfully, “suppose she might have sent a manservant wi' a pretty young thing like you, and you wi' your hair done so ladylike too. Well. It is not my business, as I say, but young girls your age ought not to be here on your own. You are not hardy like me and the sort of trouble men might offer you…” she trailed off ominously, her eyes flicking to the men and shaking her head .
“Tell me,” Lydia asked suddenly, all too aware now that ignorance had done her few favours, “how…how ought I keep safe then? I am young and there is no one to help me.”
Pity flashed across the woman's face and she nodded, as though having suspected as much and pleased to have been asked for advice. “You'd be better not in those clothes — a veil may help and darker clothing. Better not to be noticed in my view. That blue you are wearing,” she scoffed, “stands out like a berry on a tree for a hungry bird. If it comes to it and there's no avoiding notice…well, a large hatpin puts most off if you push it in 'em swiftly enough. I made use of my grandmother's more than once when in my younger days.”
Lydia found herself sorry when the older woman got off at Stilton, but grateful that the rough-speaking men climbed down in a great hurry as well. Two more people boarded there, a man and a woman. The woman carried a great food basket that Lydia looked enviously at. It was a bother that she had no veil in her luggage but she had taken the opportunity at the too short pause to rifle through her bandbox and find a dark shawl to lay over her lap, covering the pretty blue of her dress where her cloak cut away. A curious glance was cast toward her from the other passengers but no word was spoken. They were possibly farming folk, Lydia decided at length, listening to them talk between themselves. Marigold, she gathered, was a mischievous cow, who the lady sincerely hoped would have been milked properly that morning by Peter in spite of her having kicked him on numerous occasions before. Lydia wrapped her cloak further about her and tried to be invisible.
It had been necessary to make further use of the stout lady's advice once she reached Alconbury and was obliged to disembark stiffly from the stage. Alconbury was a busy town and on that Saturday there were a good many carriages about. A labourer, seeing she was alone, had offered to help her with her things and at first had seemed kindly. Lydia had left one of her bandboxes behind, too fearful to tussle with him when he grabbed her with his other hand. She had not hesitated, she congratulated herself — one swift movement had removed her hatpin and inserted it deeply into the softest part of his palm. He let out a loud yowl and she was instantly released. His reaction caused enough notice that others about began tutting and scolding him. Lydia slipped away from the crowd and went swiftly down the street, casting anxious glances behind her for the second time that day and then ducking with a sigh into a delicious-smelling bakery .
In spite of the complaint of her stomach, she did not eat the large iced bun she purchased directly, but wrapped it up in her handkerchief to eat later on. She would learn, she vowed, to consider the importance of the future as well as the pleasure of the present.
How was it that she had been so sure of her power over Mr. Wickham, over most men, when it was plain that she had none? Here on her own without Papa's protection, Lydia was aware that she was frighteningly vulnerable. Comprehension began to dawn upon her that women merely believed they held sway over men and they did not realise their error until later on when it was too late.
Thinking of the woman on the stagecoach whose stony heart had evidently been touched by the plight of a girl travelling alone, Lydia surveyed the street before her — in particular those people who looked like they might be willing to help her. Not, she supposed, that one could truly tell from a face. Watching the carriages for a while on the street and seeing a white-haired older gentleman courteously handing his lady up, she contemplated what she might say. It would be disastrous to tell the truth — it had not taken much self-reflection to realise how much to blame she was for her predicament and how quickly she would be shunned if only people knew. Lydia tidied her hair as best she could and gave her face a rub with cold water from the pump before she approached the couple. The elderly man was carefully settling his wife into the carriage as though he had no greater task in all the world than to see her comfortably seated therein .
“Oh sir!” Lydia waited for him to realise he was addressed before continuing. “My poor aged guardian has fallen sick and we have fallen upon hard times. I must get to my widowed aunt in London — she will reward you handsomely if you will only take care of me. Might I sit in your carriage? If I had any other means of leaving town I would not impose upon you for the world.”
Their name was Finchley and they had, after entreaties from the lady, carried her so far as Godmanchester. Mrs. Finchley had an educator's soul and had been appalled when the young lady had asked if Godmanchester was nearer London than Alconbury. Eager to please her, Lydia listened as one enraptured to her brief explanation as to the history and geographical import of Godmanchester. By the time they set her down, the couple had been touched by her story of infectious disease running rampant through the house and not a servant still standing save the loyal housekeeper, whom Lydia had modelled on Hill, and she had packed her out of the house in fear of the young miss getting ill too. Lydia had contemplated making herself a titled lady, thinking it might sound grand, but decided against it. If a mere Miss Bennet of Longbourn ought not be traversing the length of England alone, a Lady Meredith Pharaoh would be even less likely to be in that situation .
It would be better, she decided, not to mention any kind of wealth. The most awkward of the questions from the Finchleys had revolved around the question of why the housekeeper had not hired a private chaise for her if her aunt was so wealthy. By the time she had waved farewell to them she had begun to worry that they disbelieved her tale.
Sunday, when it came, had proven a problem to Lydia. The stagecoach would not travel and helpful passers-by were far fewer. There were only the occasional travellers to church that morning, and they looked askance at the young woman walking by the side of the road. Lydia did not believe that she had hay in her hair from the few hours she had slept in an isolated barn, but she could not help but feel that the merchant and his wife had taken one look at her and assumed every wickedness known to man. It had not been her fault, she believed, that there was not enough money to hire a room at any inn. Fervently she hoped that she would not need to spend another night worrying about rats in the hay ever again. Lydia was not prone to tears, but she had been so cold and tired that she had succumbed to a hearty bout of sobbing once she had spread her cloak over the hay and laid her head down. Her life, she believed, was in every way dreadful at present. Even the knowledge that she had got away from Wickham and survived so many miles on her own did not lift her spirits overly much.
The barn she slept in that night was on the outskirts of Godmanchester. She ate her iced bun with sincere gratitude as she sat on her cloak in the barn she had slept in. It was not a fine adventure to sleep in a barn — in truth she barely slept, so chilled as she was. After she had eaten, she took out her coin purse from her reticule and counted what remained. Not enough for the stage to take her any meaningful distance toward London. She would have to continue to walk, which she doubted she had much more strength for, or continue to rely on the kindness of passers-by who might take pity on her .
A strong desire to eschew further barns and to see her aunt's house with all its comforts spurred her on, and she slowly walked for as long as she could along the road. Occasionally. travellers paused when she waved at them and took her a little way, but largely she was met with suspicion and rejection. The idea of stuffing her very best paisley shawl under her dress came to her, and in order to get to the next town she attained a lift in a trap by spinning another tale.
“I was travelling with my cousin but she fell deathly ill and the doctor said I must not be near her on account of my condition.” Her aunt Gardiner, when she had been in an interesting state, had the habit of lightly resting a hand upon the protrusion from her middle, and Lydia, looking earnestly into the faces of the man and woman who had stopped, emulated this gesture.
Lydia possessed, she came to realise, a fertile imagination and insufficient conscience to prevent her from embellishing her falsehoods. It was a helpful weapon, she found, to add sufficient details to convince the unsuspecting travellers to help her. She kept her gloves on to conceal her ringless finger and spoke in detail of her husband awaiting her at the very town to which the kind clerk and his spinster sister were headed. Basing her imaginary husband on Elizabeth's letter in which she described one of the most scandalous rakes she had waltzed with in London, Lydia entertained the pair of travellers whom she squeezed in beside. A sweeping tale of how this handsome, well-dressed man had thrice begged her, on bended knees, to accept him. She only did so, she confided, because she was deeply concerned that her dear husband might have done himself an injury if she continued to resist .
When they had set her down, the spinster's eyes had shone, so caught up she had been with the story she had been told. Lydia reflected that even if not a jot of it had been true, she had paid the pair of them what she could in amusement and so she did not feel too badly about her deceit. She thought for a moment then at what Jane or Mary might reproachfully say to her if they found she had lied so brazenly. That made her feel terribly low, and so she resolved not to think of her family any more until she could embrace them once again.
A country boy with fair hair that stuck up at all angles had stopped his cart for her before she reached St. Albans, and had not even asked what she was doing on the road in the first place. As little as she resented the effort needed to weave plausible tales, she liked little Freddy best of all the people she had met during her misadventure. He drove spire to spire, he told her simply with a toothy grin, so that he did not get lost. The sheep in the back of the cart were promised to a man living in the outskirts of London and his father had entrusted him with the task of delivering them. He was right glad, he assured her, that he had picked her up, because she could help him get the ewes back in if they jumped out again, and her company would prevent him from falling asleep on the road. Happily, Miss Lydia Bennet was not obliged to go to the lengths of wrestling with a pair of Dorset Horns but was pronounced a good sort of girl when she sacrificed two long lengths of ribbon to tie them to the side of the cart. It was a very good thing that she was not chicken-hearted, she congratulated herself after she had successfully looped the blue satin about the horn of the last sheep and climbed back into the front.
Lydia would, she thought decisively, find a way to reward Freddy if she could when she reached her family. He had revealed to her that it was a fine thing to have to travel so far on his own, because the money he would get from the sale of the sheep would see his family right for a little bit to come. His ma, Freddy said, had a new baby and was in a constant fret over whether or not there would be enough food for them all. Lydia's lips trembled a little when he had said that so simply, as though it were a common thing that she might understand.
It was not a comfortable journey for her and never had she travelled so long in such an inelegant fashion, but she was thankful to him for having cheerfully taken her up for so many miles. Desiring to please him, she asked him as many questions about his sheep as she could think of and saw him visibly puff up with pleasure at knowing so much more than a fancy girl like her. His passenger was, he deemed, exceptionally ignorant regarding the proper keeping of sheep, but he was the boy to enlighten her. An angry ram, she was solemnly informed, was a thing to be avoided.
Just as dusk was falling, they reached the outskirts of London, and Lydia, reading a milestone, felt a moment of triumph. Freddy set her down and beamed at her when she impulsively pressed a coin into his hand, bidding him keep the pretty ribbons for the sheep and suggesting that his mama and new baby sister might like them afterwards. As she watched his cart trundle away, her bright smile faded .
“Perhaps,” she spoke to herself, in as hopeful tones as she could muster, “it is only that I am so weary and hungry that I feel so glum now. I have made it to Town and…and Gracechurch Street cannot be so very far away, I am sure. I will travel from spire to spire as Freddy said he does, and perhaps someone somewhere will direct me. I shall reach the Gardiners’ this very night and then eat a hearty meal, depend upon it.”