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still close by. Her wretchedness was excused by declaring that she had a headache. Lydia could not tell them what had happened, she still felt so livid, and although she was convinced that Mr Wickham was entirely at fault in his behaviour, a persistent niggle at the back of her mind prevented her from confiding in her dearest friend. The truth was, Lydia was most unsure of her own feelings. Was she capable of returning the Captain’s affections? Could she honestly believe that she was falling in love with him? She could not answer either question. Of one truth she was certain: how much she hated Mr Wickham. Why could he never leave her alone?
5
    There was such excitement in the town on the following Saturday as word went quickly round that the royal party was due to arrive in the early evening. Every inch of the Steyne was swept, turf replaced, and fences whitewashed. The pagoda-like canopies and vast bow windows of the Marine Pavilion gleamed from the ministrations of many workers, not a blade of grass or flower was out of place, nor a bush or shrub which dared to display an untidy leaf. By midday, the Steyne was strung with ornamental lights and an area in front of the Pavilion roped off for the purposes of a grand firework display to take place as soon as the ball at the Castle Tavern was over. At five, the crowd had already started to congregate; Colonel Forster and the darling officers of the regiment, along with all the other regimental militia, including the Prince’s own dragoons, had taken up positions to salute the royal party as it entered the Steyne. Lydia and Harriet joined the assembly just before six to fight for their place amongst the huge crowd. “Have you ever seen such an enormous number of people?
Everyone is so very eager to have the best view, and I have been pushed three times already,” grumbled Harriet.
    “But there are so many soldiers to gawp at and sigh over,” said Lydia, standing on tiptoe, “that, if anyone told me that I had just died and had arrived at the gates of heaven, I would believe them. I would withstand any amount of pushing for this wondrous sight.”
    At half past six precisely, a trumpeter on horseback announced the Prince and his party, and a magnificent open barouche with postillions carried the royal presence into view. The Prince, accompanied by an Admiral and a Colonel, was conveyed in this first carriage, and a little while after the first tumults had died down, a second carriage appeared, to even greater applause, containing Mrs Fitzherbert and her friend Mrs Creevey.
    “Such elegance,” shouted Harriet above the din. “She is far prettier than I would have expected.”
“And he more handsome, if a little stouter than his portraits allow,” Lydia laughed. The Prince stepped down to greet the troops, several speeches were made, the military band struck up playing “Brighton Camp” or “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and the royal party processed about the crowd, greeting old friends and retainers. There was much shaking of hands, curtseying, and scraping as the crowd cheered and Lydia huzzahed with the rest of them.
All too soon the spectacle was over and the honoured few were swept into the inner sanctum of the Pavilion to refresh themselves before an evening of entertainment. The atmosphere was quietened, the groups of people thronged about were soon broken up and headed off to their various destinations, but the huge majority swarmed like bees over to the Castle Assembly rooms, where they pushed and shoved, intent on securing a position at the head of the queue, fearful that to miss this evening’s ball might result in failing to witness sight of the Prince and Mrs Fitzherbert, who, it was rumoured, were likely to attend the dance later in the evening.
“We will wait here for Henry and the officers or I fear we may lose our lives in the confusion,” said Harriet.
“I wish they would hurry up,” Lydia implored. “I am so afraid we will be turned