Lydia looked around for some means of escape, but of course, none presented itself. For half a second, she thought she might start to scream and be hauled away to a mad house, but her stomach growled for the hundredth time that day to remind her of the simple expedient of survival. And so, with a degree of humility she had never shown in all her life, Lydia Bennet began to answer the warden’s questions.
“I am Lydia Bennet, sir.”
“Where were you born then?”
“Longbourn in Hertfordshire, sir.”
“And who were your parents?”
“Mr. Thomas Bennet and Mrs. Frances Bennet of Longbourn, sir.”
“And how old do you think you might be?”
“I am fifteen years old, sir. I will be sixteen come September 5.”
He paused. “How came you to be so well spoken? Have you been sent to school?”
“I never went to school, but my father is a gentleman, and I was taught at home. At Longbourn, sir, an estate near Meryton in Hertfordshire.”
Mr. Perkins solemnly put down his pen and looked at Mrs. Hart with a crooked eyebrow before saying, “You had better tell us how you came to be here, Lydia Bennet.”
Lydia, who had repeatedly relived in her mind just about every moment of her shocking journey, was suddenly at a loss for words. She had not thought to rehearse any kind of altered version of her story, thinking—stupidly, she admitted to herself—that the unvarnished truth would be wholly believed by anybody. Yet so far, no one believed even a word of it, and she had tried with everyone she encountered, even shouting at a decently dressed man sitting on a horse, “I am a gentleman’s daughter! I need your assistance!” from the back of Parch’s wagon.
After a pause of half a minute, Mrs. Hart felt moved to encourage her. “The plain truth, if you please, and no delay about it.”
And so, in a faltering, disjointed manner, laced with the tones of a grossly misused girl who, by rights, was owed a degree of respect, she explained her arrival at the Methodist House.
“You are a fallen woman, then,” Mr. Perkins concluded. He sat forward and began to write on his paper.
This was too much for Lydia. “I am not fallen! I was deceived and betrayed by a man who promised marriage! He tried, but he did not—he did not touch me!”
“You were alone in his company in the night after leaving the protection of a respectable house. That is your tale, Lydia Bennet,” Mrs. Hart said grimly. “You turned your back on respectability and are now enjoying the wages of sin.”
“Amen, Mrs. Hart,” Reverend Perkins said gravely. “We do not always take in women of your kind, but as you claim to read and write, we shall make an exception. You may do the Bible reading before the meal, and after your table work is done, you shall teach the girls their letters. Put her in the ward with the women, Mrs. Hart, when you have made her presentable.”
“But will you not write a letter to my papa, sir? Please?” she begged.
“Surely, you do not expect a gentleman who raised you to recognize you now,” he sniffed. “But you may write to him I suppose.”
“I may? Oh, sir! I thank you. Might I use your ink and paper?”
“You are given five pennies a day for piecework, Lydia Bennet,” he said primly. “Four pennies a day go toward the cost of your ration of meat. You are given a penny alms on Sunday, you will keep a penny every week as your wage, and if you are thrifty, you shall buy the paper you need and eventually amass enough to send your letter by the post.”
“But how cruel!” she cried, bursting into tears. “I cannot wait weeks to write to my family!”
Mrs. Hart looked on the verge of a hard scold, but Mr. Perkins raised his hand placatingly. “I am not a cruel man, Lydia Bennet. You will soon know this to be true. I shall give you a piece of paper in exchange for a single penny when you have been here for one week entire, provided you comport yourself like a Christian. You may write your letter then, here at this very table, and if you continue well for the following week, I shall see your letter put in the penny post myself.”
“That is very generous of you, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Hart. Lydia did not agree. She was weak and lost and vulnerable, and she saw her tormentors through a thick veil of tears.
“You are not required to wear a yellow dress at this house,” he added, as if this were a tremendous boon.
“A—a yellow dress, sir?” she asked with a sniffle.
“You will explain it to her, Mrs. Hart,” he said with a sigh. He rose from his chair and directed Lydia to follow the matron up a dim stairwell.
Chapter 10
The London Road from Brighton…
