Thursday, 30th April

Well, I did not burn the diary – I just shoved it out of sight beneath my mattress and forgot all about it. Hill found it this morning when she decided to turn all the mattresses for airing, and I suppose I may as well write as not.

Life carries on much as it did before Wickham abandoned us for Miss King. Thank goodness the other officers are not so fickle. We walk into town, we visit Savill’s or the library (which has become quite the meeting place since they have taken to serving tea there). Meryton is very elegant these days, and I am glad for all my re-trimmed bonnets. I have embarked on a new exercise for spring, the Revival of Ancient Cloaks. I have found an old one of Mamma’s, parrot green. She was going to give it to the poor, but I rescued it from the basket. I have cut it down to a short and swishy cape, added an ivory satin collar, and am trimming it all round with ribbon of the same colour. It will be quite the smartest thing you ever saw when it is finished, and I cannot wait to show it off. At the library, we drink tea and chat (Mary says flirt) with whomever is about. There is always someone, and it is all tremendously gay. I have bought a coral bracelet, which will look very well with the green cape. I wanted the necklace, but did not have enough. Then when the library closes, we step across the street to Aunt Philips’s, or we call on Mrs. Forster. I am great friends with her now. It makes Kitty cross, because she says she was Harriet’s friend first, but she is always ready for a party or a dance or a game of cards. And then there is dinner, and cards, or we push the furniture back for dancing, and we eat and drink some more. We return late in Uncle’s carriage, or sometimes we even stop at his house for the night, and don’t come home at all. It is all very merry and jolly, and all the more so since Lizzy left. She went into Kent last month to visit Charlotte-the-Husband-Stealer-Collins and the Pig-Faced Clergyman. I am glad she is gone – she only nagged when she was here. “Must you go out again, Lydia?” – “Can you not talk of anything other than uniforms?” – “Mamma, you must tell Lydia to be sensible!” I love Lizzy, I really do, but ever since Wickham deserted us, she is become boringly grown-up.

Of Wickham himself, there is little sign. Miss King the Great Heiress does not attend parties with officers, or dance or drink wine or play cards. Miss King visits a close circle of family friends where doubtless she executes impeccable concertos on the pianoforte, and warbles a few polite songs chosen for her by Mrs. Roberts before retiring early to bed. Wickham, I am told, trots about her like a well-trained lapdog, panting for his ten-thousand-pound reward. When our paths do happen to cross, in the library, in a shop, in the street, I am careful to show him how little I care about his defection. I laugh – God, how I laugh! The first time it happened, I was walking with Carter, who nearly jumped out of his skin with the honk I made! Lord knows what he thought of me, but I don’t really care. He laughed back, that was the main thing, and I am sure that Wickham noticed.

I am the most carefree girl in England.