Chapter Thirty-Seven
A s she approached the steps of the first church with a towering spire, St. Luke’s, it occurred to her that she did not know the number of the Gardiners' house .
“Foolish!” she whispered harshly to herself yet again, casting her bandbox and bag onto the lowest of the steps and stiffly lowering herself to sit. “Lizzy and Jane wrote letters constantly to Gracechurch Street and I never did. Why should Aunt and Uncle Gardiner take me in for months when I have never made any effort to please them? If… when I return home to Mama and Papa I will go to school as quietly as a lamb, I am sure of it.”
A vicar in a long dark coat emerged from within. He did not observe her to begin with, occupied as he was in locking up the heavy doors of the church. He turned quickly at her polite greeting and was perfectly willing to listen to the young lady’s enquiry, but disclaimed any kind of extraordinary knowledge of the streets she ought to take to reach Cheapside. With a gesture of an expressive hand, however, he demonstrated to her the general direction she should take. She ought, he said seriously, to ensure she did not cross the river, and to his inexpert understanding, be believed that area of town to be not so very far from St. Paul's Cathedral, which he was sure she would know in an instant once she beheld the famous dome. He regarded her wan expression and worried eyes seriously .
“But you speak as a gentlewoman, I believe,” said the vicar in some surprise, watching her rise from the step, “and the light is fading fast. I wonder if I ought to encourage you to accept my hospitality. If you come with me I will introduce you to my good wife. ”
Lydia's hesitation was visible. Wariness was not natural to her but she had learned at last to be cautious. Was it wise to follow a strange man whom she did not know, in these darkening streets? It had been bad enough to go with George Wickham with whom she had been acquainted. Besides which, what would she tell this man of God? Was it not a dreadful thing to lie to a vicar, and yet how could she tell the truth? It was this final thought that clinched the matter in her mind.
“I would not trouble you, sir,” she said eventually, settling upon a reply that was not overtly false, “nor ought I to worry my relatives, who I am sure will be wishful of my return very soon. My thanks for telling me what direction I ought to go in! Farewell. ”
With that, she gathered her things, curtseyed, and went off quickly in the direction he had indicated. The vicar was still frowning in concern as he watched her disappear into the darkness, torn between letting her go and frightening her further by pursuing.
As she walked purposefully down winding streets, she wondered if she regretted her mistrust, but the lessons of recent days had been hard learned. The darkness fell, and very soon she could scarcely make out the spires she had been trying to follow. She tried instead to follow the faint glow ahead of her that seemed to indicate streets that were more brightly lit .
If she had been miserable last night in a barn, she was now truly afraid. Avoiding people as best she could and not wishing to attract any attention, if anyone saw her she turned to go in the opposite direction. If she was particularly noticed by the men lingering in doorways, she tried to move as though she were headed somewhere in particular and in a great hurry, reasoning that any onlookers might believe that she knew exactly what she was doing. Her quick steps became slower, however, as the night closed in yet further, and she stifled her cry at how terribly sore her feet were becoming.
Lydia was not a creature without pity, but she had been a creature without experience. Passing through the streets of London, she beheld poverty as she had never seen it, and encountered young women with desperation in their eyes. So woebegone were they in their own plight, many of them barely registered her existence save a few whose eyes flicked to her bandbox greedily. Lydia wondered why no one ever told her that this was what it was like for other people — some of the girls looked no older than she was. She had a bed at home and comforts that she had never even considered as extraordinary before, but to think of that made her feel ill. She moved on from that street as swiftly as might be, reasoning that the pain in her toes was less important than the potential harm that might befall her if she lingered too long.
Eventually, after wandering for what seemed an interminable time, she came to a more elegant area. Slipping past the watchman in his box on one cobbled street, she observed that most of the buildings’ lamps were lit. A sign swung above the door of a tall brick edifice with the words 'Old Monty's' inscribed upon it .
Withdrawing into the shadows for a moment's rest, but feeling marginally safer on account of the light, Lydia watched silently as the door to the establishment opened and the tall figure of a man exited. She noted that he was a gentleman, first from his bearing and then, when he stepped directly into the circle of light, from his clothing. There was something cultured in his speech as he bade a civil goodnight to whoever was still within Old Monty's .
“No need, Fawntley, I will walk — on such a night like tonight, after the heat of Old Monty's, the cooler air will clear my head.” What luxury, thought Lydia, to have been so warm inside that to come out into the dank night was a relief. The cold made her fingers clumsy.
Deciding that it would not do to remain still for too long, she moved from her concealed place and stepped into the light. The man, whose gait was not precisely steady, did not immediately see her, and as he turned so quickly from the doorway, despite her best efforts they collided. She had thought perhaps he might be drunk, but he enunciated clearly and his reactions were swift. Strong hands shot out and he steadied her, though perhaps he had primarily intended to capture.
“A robber and so soon in the evening — my dull night is looking to become a little more exciting, I think.” He sounded fatigued by the possibility of being set upon and, given Lydia's very great danger of being similarly set upon over the last days, she found this maddening.
Her head, which she had been trying to turn away from the light, shot up at this in indignation.
“I am no robber and will you let me go, sir? You stumbled into me and not the other way around. Release me! I insist.”
Their eyes met, hers glaring balefully at him and his widening a touch before narrowing. He did not release her as she requested but contemplated her a moment before responding to her ire .
“I believe I may be a trifle disguised, my dear, but if you are a footpad you may well be both the prettiest and most ineffectual one I have ever encountered. What are you about to accost me in so brightly lit a part of the city? You would have done much better to wait until I went so far as that particularly shadowy corner, you know, particularly given that a magistrate lives on this very street. I wonder what he will say when I wake him up to turn you in.”
“I have said I am no robber, I have taken nothing. It was a momentary accident, nothing more — let me go immediately . I have done you no harm.”
“And yet I am now quite fascinated as to precisely what you are. You are almost dressed as a lady but that is not a fact corroborated by your presence on this street at this hour of the night.”
Lydia flushed and wrenched her hand away before retreating down the street.
“I am not…I am not that either. Good evening, sir.”
An amused smile played at his mouth and the man followed her, falling into step beside her.
“You are not…not what exactly, my dear? I am unsure what it is you mean.”
Lydia shook her head, recognising the mockery in his tone. It would be better to be done with him. “I see you find amusement at my expense. That is hardly gentlemanly.” Too sweetly she added, “I am sorry to have barged into you, sir and I beg your pardon for it. We part ways now.”
“How can you possibly know that we part ways? For all we know we might need to tread the same path for a while yet,” he asked provocatively. At her silence he continued, “And you did not bump into me, I collided with you — for which I owe restitution, I am sure. Besides this, I am now decidedly curious as to your existence. In what direction do you head?”
“I do not think I will walk with you. You are not even sober and this by your own admission. I am certain you have been drinking in that horrid tavern.”
The studied air of ennui left him and the amusement became more apparent. “Horrid tavern! My good girl, the proprietors would rend their very expensive waistcoats in distress if they heard you describe Old Monty's in such terms.”
Interested despite herself, and half daring to hope he might be persuaded to give some valuable direction to her, Lydia paused. “What is it, then?”
“It is an exclusive club — largely for making very silly and very expensive wagers.”
“Is that what you were doing?” She thought of Freddy, the boy with the cart and how hard he had worked for a little money to help his family. Lydia did not trouble herself to conceal her contempt .
Unfortunately, the gentleman was immune to her derision. “They also have cards. I was recouping some losses I suffered unexpectedly early on in the season. There were, I admit, a few young bucks, including a viscount, indulging in some rather wild dares.” The man seemed now inclined to draw her into conversation. “They will annoy a few people if they attempt to carry them through but perhaps they will learn something from the experience. I wonder if I have seen your face before — your expressions are familiar to me but I cannot currently say where. I ought to have eschewed the punch.”
“I have never laid eyes on you,” Lydia flatly informed him .
He shook his head, doubting this. “Then tell me why you are here on this street with me while most of the polite world sleeps, instead of being at home in your bed like a good little lady.”
With wide, innocent eyes, Lydia replied, “I was sleepwalking — it is a most terrible malady which I have not been cured of. I fell asleep in a chair last evening and am now quite lost. Might you know the way to Gracechurch Street? If not, perhaps tell me if I am near St. Paul's yet.”
“Little liar,” responded the gentleman, although it was evident that he was more amused than angered by her attempt to deceive him .
It was now her turn to shake her head in her annoyance. “This is a…a strange conversation, sir — I had much better leave. I do not think I should walk with you any longer.” She dipped a curtsey and was surprised to see him bow elegantly in return, without any discernible hesitation, before he offered his arm to her. She stared at it, unmoving.
“It might interest you to know that I am generally held to be rather good at cards, my dear. Part of my skill involves being able to spot deceit in a face, and yours is as open as the proverbial book to me. I have been surprised by a female who bluffed me only the once, and you,” he informed her, “are most certainly not that female. Although…” his hand came forth to grasp her chin and he pulled her a little further into the light shed by a lamplit house. Lydia attempted to kick him in the shins and, frightened, dropped her luggage and brought her now free hand to her hatpin, ready to sink it into him if he did not let her go. “Gracechurch Street!” the man said suddenly, releasing her and retiring a step .
His words and the tone of recognition gave her pause as she looked down the empty street, contemplating the wisdom in making a bid for freedom .
“You may put away your weapon, my dear. I claim an acquaintance with your sisters, Miss Bennet .”
The hatpin fell from suddenly nerveless fingers and Lydia released a shaking breath. “How can you possibly know…I mean, who is to say I even have a sister? ”
He laughed and stooped to retrieve the pin. “A resourceful young lady, indeed — I suppose the blood stains already on this miniature rapier indicate your practice in wielding it as a weapon. How many men have already been slain at your hand, I wonder — is this part of the mystery as to what you are doing so far from…from the Gardiners' dwelling, if I am not mistaken? ”
She stared at him, deeply worried but becoming increasingly angry, while he held her gaze, a knowing gleam in his eye. It occurred to her that she ought to deny strongly knowing anyone by the name of Bennet or Gardiner and that she should argue that he was decidedly drunk to boot. Lydia sighed. It was no good — he had evidently pieced together her identity, although how he had done so on a shadowy London street after he had been indulging was beyond anything .
“Very wise, Miss Bennet — I am afraid I would not believe you if you were to deny it.” His smile now was a little more sympathetic than goading and the alteration caused her to drop her ire against him.
“You say you know my sisters and so you must have already met my aunt and uncle? You know then that I am not a thief. Will you tell me how I can get there, please? I…I have fallen into misadventure and although a part of it is due to my own folly,” she told him candidly, “not all of it was. I am very tired and terribly hungry.”
“That is more like the truth, however scant on details. No, my good girl, I will not tell you how you can get to Gracechurch Street — I will take you there myself. If we walk down this street we may hail a cab and I can have you on your aunt's doorstep in twenty minutes.”
Lydia frowned and shook her head. “It is not sound. I have not escaped one fortune hunter only to get into a cab with a man I have never met before.”
The man's eyebrows twitched momentarily downwards and he glanced at the hatpin in his hand .
“I see.” He contemplated the situation, “In which case, Miss Bennet — we will return past Old Monty's, I will retrieve a maid for you and hand you into a cab, which I beg you will permit me to pay for, and you will arrive in a fairly unexceptional way, even if it is at an unusual time of night.”
“That is…that is very gentlemanly of you, sir,” said Lydia, slowly feeling faint with relief, then remembering Bess in Grantham, added, “but what of the maid?”
A shout of surprised laughter sprang from him, making her start, and he shook his head. “It seems you share surprising qualities with your eldest sister, my dear. I congratulate you. What a pity it is you are so young. ”
The non-sequitur barely penetrated her mind, so intent was she now on the fact that her trial looked to be almost over. “Too young? I do not understand you, sir.”
A little regretfully he replied, “Decidedly too young. Come along. You will remain outside while I catch the attention of Fawntley, who will oblige me by fetching a maid and a manservant who will escort said maid back across London in the same cab in which they will take you home.”
“Home sounds simply lovely.” Lydia sounded wistful, even to her ears, and the suddenly near possibility of it filled her eyes with tears. She followed him, reassured, perhaps unwisely, by the manner in which he took charge of her situation and his knowledge of her sisters. She waited wearily while he gave swift commands to the butler of the club he had so recently left .
Her mind, having been so overwrought, seemed now to lose its tension. This mysterious unintroduced stranger whom she had met by the greatest of good fortune was now apparently bent upon returning her to her relatives. Perhaps it was the drink that made him so determined to be helpful. She had more reason to trust the vicar on the steps of a church than she did this dark-haired gentleman who had evidently spent the evening drinking and gambling away his resources. It was inexplicable and almost beyond reason, but she did trust him, and she found herself wholly content to leave the arrangement of all to his care .
“What if…” she began, having contemplated his last words and her feeling of safety as they waited for the maid and the manservant. Now smiling slightly, he returned to stand with her in the deserted street. “What if I will one day not be too young? ”
His expression was intent as he turned to look directly at her. “In five years’ time, Miss Bennet, if you have not been thrown into Newgate or deported for murder by means of hatpin, I will knock on your door to see if perhaps I am not too old.”
The Lydia of last week might have coyly encouraged him. Now all she said was, “I suppose if you have not been put in the stocks for barging into young ladies, you will go about rescuing silly girls as much as you please. I suppose if they are over twenty, you will even flirt with them outrageously.”
He bowed again and his eyes met hers, their expression surprisingly serious. “I imagine you will do likewise with adoring young fops.”
Lydia smiled then, and she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “When you have honed your charm with the old maids and wallflowers — enough to be able to flirt well with me — you may call. I am sure that the practice will do you the world of good.”
Again surprised laughter came forth from him and Lydia felt yet more of the tension she had been carrying melt from her.
“I had thought, yesterday, that I would know no rest until I was back in the home of dear relatives, sir. It is curious that I should feel so comfortable now. Perhaps it is because I trust this adventure will come to an end. It is no longer only a possibility.”
“You may trust me to see you put safely back where you belong. Tell me — you said you had fallen into misadventure. Does the one who obliged you to defend yourself using that hatpin still roam free, or may I serve you by removing a cadaver?”
“He is free and alive, but hopefully in possession of a sore hand. Let him be — he has been taught not to assume a young lady is as defenceless as he may have hoped. Ah, here are the promised maid and manservant. ”
“Come, we will go down the street to hail a cab.” He addressed the servants. “You may carry this young lady's bandboxes and her bag,” he ordered, handing the items over. “I suppose there are shoes in this one?”
“Yes, although I think perhaps I did not need so many — I have mostly worn my half-boots, you know. I did have another bandbox but I am afraid I was obliged to leave that in Alconbury after I injured that man. How long ago it seems that I was there now! It must now be Monday morning. ”
Had it been broad daylight, the group walking down the street would have made a respectable scene — the young lady on a gentleman's arm, followed sedately by two discreet servants who were well enough trained to look anywhere but at the pair in front of them .
The gentleman had little difficulty in flagging down the first cab that went by, and gave firm instructions to the driver before handing the young lady up inside. He did not immediately release her hand, but held it a moment before bowing and withdrawing. “I bid you farewell for now, my dear, and I wish you a restful morrow.”
Lydia bit her lip. “I shall likely be scolded dreadfully but I will try to be very good and not mind it so much.” Her hand reached out before her toward him and then dropped. “I find that I do not know how to thank you adequately, sir. I find myself trusting you when only this morning I thought I should never trust a man ever again.”
“You may thank me, my dear, by continuing in that same vein for five more years. Trust no man but me and I am amply rewarded. Good night! ”
The houses on Gracechurch Street were all in darkness, and the manservant offered to rap loudly on the door to wake the servants up once they reached the Gardiner residence. Lydia, still cold and hungry and feeling it rather acutely now that safety was so near, shook her head. She thought seriously for the first time of her reputation and that of her sisters. Servants, Jane and Lizzy had often told her, were prone to talking. It had not mattered a jot to her, of course, but she reflected now that perhaps it ought to have done. If the household were to be roused now, it would cause more uproar than if she could contrive to slip in somehow and speak to Aunt Gardiner quietly .
The likelihood that her departure from Longbourn in George Wickham's company could be kept quiet was very low but if it could be done, perhaps once those five years had elapsed he — her rescuer — would be more likely to think well of her than if the story got out .
“There is no need to wake everyone. I know a better way in which I can go in quietly,” she lied to the servants. “You may go. I am sure you will wish to find your own beds. ”
She stood on the step and watched the cab drive away. The park opposite the house was in darkness, and by her reckoning, half the night had gone by. The servants would rise in a few more hours when the sun came up .
It was uncomfortable being selfless, reflected Lydia, as she made her way into the park, positioning herself against the trunk of a tree so that she could see the front door of her uncle's house. She would wait impatiently for an opportunity to slip inside the house and speak to her aunt. Lydia Bennet was practiced neither in remorse nor apologies — she rarely had to even use the word 'sorry' at home — but she turned over certain phrases in her head, dismissing each possibility in turn.
Carefully waiting and watching, Lydia sighed softly at the eventual sight of a candle being lit at the servants’ bell. It was another half an hour before the front door opened quietly and the downstairs maid slipped out to perform an errand. With heavy footsteps, Lydia ventured into the house, another excuse ready on her tongue to explain her presence should she encounter a servant. She saw no one, however, and made her way with weary limbs up the stairs to a guest bedroom she recalled from the last time she had visited with Mama and Kitty .
Once inside, Lydia heaved a great shattering sob. She pressed the palm of her hand firmly over her mouth to stifle the sound. After looking through her bandbox with numb fingers and slow, aching movements to find her nightgown, she disjointedly began removing her shoes. Getting the stockings off was more difficult, as they had dried onto some of the sores on her feet. Eventually she eased them off, then grimaced at the sight of her feet. It had been a long time since she had slept properly and it was an almost painful pleasure to climb beneath the thick blankets on the bed, stretch out, and lay her head on the soft pillow.
The fact that she was now safe seemed hardly believable. She lay awake staring at the embroidered peach canopy above her. Sleep came to her after a little while of worrying had passed. Her last thought before her eyes closed was of her rescuer, the man who had known her name. He knew Jane and Lizzy and he had helped her.
“Thank you,” she whispered with slurred words into the silent room.
No servant came to disturb her, not having anticipated that anyone was occupying the room, and Lydia slept until she heard the sound of children laughing outside the door. Flinging herself from the bed she made her way to the door and opened it a crack to see her cousins Isobel and Rachel standing in the hall outside .
Isobel squealed in surprise when she saw her, but hushed at a gesture and came quickly inside the room at Lydia's urgent beckoning .
“Cousin!” was all she could say, so great was her amazement.
“Isobel! How glad I am to see you. Will you find your mama for me, please, and tell her that your cousin Lydia is in this room and begs to see her? Hold! What is o'clock? It is Monday, is it not?”
The younger girl nodded. She did not know Lydia so well as she did Lizzy and Jane, but she had once or twice played quoits with her at Longbourn and so liked her well enough .
Five minutes more of listening to the heavy beat of her own heart passed before quick footsteps were heard outside the door and it opened to reveal her aunt .
She could almost, she thought, have enjoyed the gasp of astonishment from her most collected aunt — perhaps had she not lived through the last few days she might have boasted of it. Had she not envisaged such a scene when she left Longbourn? What she had not imagined was the hot feeling of shame that would still her tongue and cause her shoulders to droop at the sight of Mrs. Gardiner.
“ Lydia ! It is true then. I had thought Isobel had overheard us yesterday and was imagining…Lydia, what is it? You must tell me why you weep so terribly, child.”
Her shattered niece could not speak for a full ten minutes. The dam had broken open and a torrent of tears must needs come. All it had taken for her sobs to spill forth were the safe arms of her aunt closing about her and drawing her in with soft affection .
Eventually, when she could, Lydia managed to choke out her words. “Aunt,” she whispered, with far more humility than the boisterous Lydia Bennet of three days ago could have mustered, “I am in grave need of help. I have been every bit as silly and foolish as Papa says I am, but oh, Aunt, I never meant for it to be so bad as it was.”