By the time they descended, Harriet was waiting in the parlour, sitting at the table by the bay window, a cup of tea at her elbow. She looked up as they entered, her expression a mixture of amusement and resignation. “Lydia has promised to promenade along Marine Parade, which she assures me would show us to the greatest advantage,” she said, “but my aunt recommends a walk on the Steyne. We must buy a guide, for I have no knowledge of the town.”
“Surely we can do both,” replied Elizabeth, pouring tea for Lydia and herself. “The town is less than a mile from east to west—only a little distance, similar to the walk from Longbourn to Meryton.”
Harriet appeared unconvinced, but Lydia declared that no proper tour could begin without at least a glimpse of the Pavilion, and then a walk along Marine Parade. After a hasty breakfast, the three set out onto North Street, lined with grey flint-stone buildings, so different from the dull red brickof Meryton; the streets were clean, evidently swept regularly. Elizabeth could not help but observe, as they walked, how easily Lydia was swept up in the excitement—her arm linked through Harriet’s, her head turning at every passing figure. She felt herself both amused and protective, hoping that Brighton’s amusements would prove harmless and that her sister’s happiness would endure the inevitable disappointments and ennui that would surely come once the novelty of the town wore off.
Just a quarter mile from their lodging, they came across a circular range of neat shops, occupied, as they discovered, by merchants from London for the season. Of course, Lydia went immediately to a haberdasher, whose range of ribbons far exceeded the selection found in Meryton.
“Lydia, please, you must restrain yourself. Do not spend all your money on the first day. Perhaps there are other shops with more variety, maybe at better prices?” Gently, Elizabeth took Lydia’s arm and steered her away from the display.
“Oh, look,” exclaimed Harriet, “the entrance to public gardens. They are beautiful, surrounded by the most magnificent elms. Lydia, the shops can wait another day. Let’s walk in the grounds!”
Elizabeth was grateful for the suggestion, and they passed beneath an ironwork arch into the Promenade Gardens, the lettering proudly displayed on a painted sign. Within, they found a band playing and many people at breakfast, drinking tea and taking other refreshments. The lawns were dotted with little tables and chairs, and a number of ladies in pale muslins sat in companionable circles, talking loudly to be heard above the notes of the band.
Lydia darted ahead, drawing Harriet with her toward the music. Elizabeth followed more slowly, her attention caught by the variety of characters assembled: a pair of elderlygentlemen deep in debate over the merits of sea-bathing; a cluster of children chasing after a small, yapping dog; and a young officer—newly arrived, she surmised by the brightness of his coat—lingering at the edge of the crowd. For a moment, Elizabeth allowed herself to relax, to absorb the novelty and brightness of this place so unlike Hertfordshire. She felt a flicker of anticipation for the day, a sense that perhaps even she might find some diversion amongst the promenaders and amusements.
Lydia returned to her side, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “Lizzy, we must try the lemonade!”
Elizabeth laughed; this was so different from Meryton as to be another world. She had read that seven thousand people lived in Brighton—likely more during the season—but she scarcely felt them pressing upon her.
They moved to a stand where lemonade and other refreshments were being served. As they came near, the young officer also approached, then stepped back to allow Elizabeth, Harriet, and Lydia to take his place in the queue.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat, “I believe you have the advantage over me.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” replied Elizabeth, as she and her companions took a tumbler of lemonade. She turned to walk away, but the small dog chose, at that moment, to run beneath the table, fleeing a child chasing it. Unexpectedly, the dog tangled in her muslin skirt. Swiftly, the officer grasped Elizabeth’s elbow, steadying her; then quickly released her arm.
“My apologies, ma’am, I meant no disrespect.”
“Of course, thank you again,” she began. But a memory—for that was how she could only describe it—saw the young man, his uniform stained with blood, mud, and gunpowder residue—no longer bright red, but worn, faded, torn. He wore a dirtied crimson sash, his grey trousers covered with grime. Butit was his eyes, staring uncomprehending at the carnage that surrounded him. Elizabeth gasped. “Lydia! Please, please—get me away from here!”
Lydia and Harriet exchanged startled glances at Elizabeth’s abruptness, but Lydia immediately seized her sister’s arm and steered her away from the tables. Harriet followed, her brow furrowed with concern. Once they had walked some distance from the bandstand and its swelling music, Elizabeth halted, pressing a hand to her brow. The vividness of the vision—if vision it was—had left her breathless, her heart beating far too quickly.
“Lizzy, whatever is the matter?” Lydia asked in a whisper meant to be discreet but far too loud for privacy. “You have gone quite pale! What have you seen?”
Elizabeth attempted a smile. “It is nothing. Only the heat—or perhaps the excitement of the morning. I am quite well now.” She drew a steadying breath, determined to regain her composure. “Let us walk a little, away from the music.”
Harriet produced a vinaigrette from her reticule and pressed it into Elizabeth’s hand. “You must not faint,” she murmured, “or the whole town will be talking.”
Elizabeth could not help but laugh, faintly. “Thank you, Harriet. I assure you, I am not so delicate as all that.”
They strolled back along the path, the noise of the gardens receding behind them. Elizabeth gradually felt the colour return to her cheeks. She forced herself to focus on the present.
“Oh, I had forgot—that officer…” Lydia grasped Elizabeth’s hand. “But he’s so young, just like my dear Chamberlayne…”
By the time they emerged from the gardens onto the Steyne, Elizabeth was herself again, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief Lydia had discreetly passed to her.
“This is a mistake, Liddy, I should never have come to a town filled with soldiers. No, not just soldiers, but regulars destined to fight the tyrant in the Peninsula; unlike the militia, who spend their days marching endlessly across England, but will never face a Frenchman’s bullet.”
“Does he die?” whispered Lydia, looking with horror at Elizabeth.
“Not now, Lydia, let me believe it is just a dream… My apologies, Harriet,” continued Elizabeth, with forced insouciance, “we are promenading on the Steyne. To think, we are here in Brighton with the very best of fashionable society! Ah, there is the Pavilion!”
The Pavilion’s exotic domes and minarets rose above the parade ground, white and gleaming in the sunlight, a sight so incongruous that even Lydia fell silent for a moment, staring; a light breeze stirred the flags atop its cupolas. The lawns before it were already busy: carriages drawing up, gentlemen assisting ladies down, children rolling hoops across the grass, and a knot of officers—bright in scarlet—pausing to watch as a lady in violet silk and an elaborate turban swept past.
Harriet regarded the scene with cautious curiosity. “How very strange it is,” she murmured, “to find an Indian palace here, in England. My mother would declare it quite improper—almost indecent.”
Lydia was enchanted, her previous dismay forgotten. “Oh, Lizzy, do you suppose the Prince Regent is at home? Perhaps we shall see him at his window! Or at least one of his guests—Colonel Forster said his sisters, the princesses, often visit.”
Elizabeth smiled at her sister’s unflagging spirits, though she could not help but feel the unreality of the place. The Pavilion seemed to her a folly, a dream conjured by some eccentric mind and made solid by sheer force of royal will. Yet its strangeness was oddly comforting; it made her own sense ofdisplacement less acute, her earlier vision less threatening, as if, in a town so given over to spectacle and invention, anything unusual might be explained away.
