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Wickham began, “You have
been sea bathing, I take it?”
“Aye.”
“I would say the salt air
heightens your loveliness, but such a thing is impossible - you are perfection
itself.”
“Thank you,” she replied,
blushing prettily. “It was delicious indeed.”
“Have you enjoyed your time
here?”
“Oh, yes - who can ever be
tired of Brighton?”
“I agree, it is a fine
place, but unfortunately I must leave.”
Startled, she gasped.
“What? When? Why?”
“Tonight, at twelve; my
finances are such that I think it prudent to depart town in order to arrange
them.”
He can’t leave me - I adore
him! “Take me with you!” she
blurted out. “I shall be miserable else.”
He stopped, paused, then
said in a tender tone, “Do you care for me?”
“Aye - over the past weeks
I have fallen in love with you.”
“Then come along, dearest;
there is no other lady in Brighton whose society pleases me more than yours.”
“You . . . love me?”
“Yes.”
Her spirits fluttered
wildly, and she leaned in, yearning to kiss him right there on the street, but
he stopped her, glancing at the couples ahead (who were too deep in their own
conversations to observe them).
Gently, he restrained her.
“No, Lydia, not here - no one must know. Wait till tonight.”
She smiled at his use of
her Christian name.
“Very well, George.
Where shall we be married?”
He seemed concerned for a
moment, then answered, “Gretna Green. Don’t pack much - you won’t require a
change of clothes, but bring a book or two to while away the journey.”
“I'll bring Tom Jones
with me; it's been great fun.”
“Excellent. I have no doubt
our marriage will be as happy as that of Tom and Sophia.”
“Indeed!” she laughed.
She excused herself from
attending a ball at the Old Ship Inn with the Forsters, complaining of a
“sudden violent head ache,” and at a quarter past eleven, she was ready, having
stuffed the four books and her journal in her snow-colored silk reticule
embroidered with small yellow and red flowers. She’d then donned her white striped dimity gown, the coral necklace, of course, a new rose-coloured satin spencer, a straw hat trimmed with rose-coloured ribbons, and her
sturdy boots (it was sure to be muddy in Scotland). Now, she decided, I
ought to leave Harriet a letter to tell her where I’m bound - she will surely
be delighted for me!
She giggled at the thought,
then, snatching a piece of paper from the desk nearby, she picked up the quill
and began to scribble hastily, chuckling all the while.
My dear Harriet,
You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and
I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I
am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I
shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and
he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be
off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like
it, for it will make the surprise the greater when I write to them and sign my
name Lydia Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for
laughing.
The pen shook with her mirth; she tightened her grip.
“I had better tell her to apologise to Pratt,” she remarked to herself.
Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my
engagement and dancing with him to night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me
when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet,
with great pleasure.
“And then about my clothes, and that slit I got
in my gown the other night at that assembly when poor Chamberlayne trod on the
hem (he was tipsy, I’m sure) -”
I shall send for my clothes when I get to
Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked
muslin gown before they are packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel
Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.
Your affectionate friend,
Lydia Bennet
No sooner had she crossed the t of her
surname than she heard a carriage stop at the door. Her heart raced as she dropped
the pen, caught up her reticule, and dashed downstairs, out the door, and into
her beloved’s arms, squealing, “My angel!”
She thought she’d surely swoon when his lips met
hers. Once they’d had done, she sighed. “I can’t wait to be your wife, George.
Let us go!”
He smiled. “Of course, darling.”
After helping her into the chaise, he seated
himself next to her and called to the driver, “Make haste!” As the
carriage lurched into motion, George pulled her close and she shut her eyes,
nestling herself under his arm to dream of Scotch anvils for wedding bells.
Image: A screencap from the 1995 miniseries, with Julia Sawalha as Lydia. Source: cap-that.com
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