Page 11 of What Change Entails

“And if she begs?” Kitty laced her fingers together.

“I shall say, ‘No, Lizzy, you once prevented me from going to Brighton, and now you must remain at Longbourn forever while I attend balls and have a barouche.’”

Kitty clasped her hands together. “Will your colonel have a barouche?”

“He had better.” She rifled through the wardrobe in search of her favorite shawl. It would probably be freezing in the north.

“What if he has nothing but a curricle?”

She shrugged. “Then he must be very handsome.”

This was sufficient to restore them both for nearly half a minute.

Lydia selected her pale blue muslin, considered it, then threw it onto the bed. “I shall take this.”

“For Derbyshire?”

She nodded. “For suffering becomingly.”

Kitty nodded as if such a thing was sensible.

“And the sprigged muslin,” Lydia continued. “And the pink. And the white, if Mama lets me have it altered.”

Kitty’s brows drew together. “But if there are no officers…”

“There may be gentlemen.” I hope.

“In Derbyshire?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Gentlemen must live somewhere, Kitty.”

“Yes, but do they dance there?”

Lydia paused with one hand on the wardrobe door. That question deserved serious attention. “I suppose they must,” she said at last. “People cannot simply exist without dancing. Even in Derbyshire.”

Kitty appeared reassured.

Lydia was less certain. Derbyshire, in her imagination, consisted of steep roads, rain, elderly relations, gloomy inns, and large houses inhabited by people who spoke sensibly about views. Aunt Gardiner would want to walk everywhere. Uncle Gardiner would want to look at trout. Lizzy would be pleased by both. Lydia might be forced to sketch a ruin. She had never in her life been so abused.

“Do you suppose Aunt Gardiner means to make me sketch old buildings?” she asked abruptly.

Kitty’s face fell. “Oh, Lydia.”

“She likes those sorts of things. Looking at landscapes for hours and saying how picturesque everything is.” Lydia shuddered. “I cannot think of anything more miserable unless perhaps it involves poetry.”

“Mary would enjoy it.”

“Mary would enjoy prison if someone allowed her to moralize there.”

Kitty shrieked so hard she fell back against the pillows.

Lydia joined too, because it was funny, and because Kitty’s laughter always made laughter easier. For a little while, the room became almost cheerful again. They began discussing what Lydia ought to wear if she met a handsome stranger upon a mountain path, whether a gentleman who admired waterfalls could be trusted, and whether Derbyshire assemblies might include officers passing through on mysterious military business.

Then Brighton came to her mind again. It rushed in all at once with the image of the sea, promenades, music, officers in bright regimentals, Mrs. Forster whispering scandalous observations behind her fan, and Lydia herself moving through it all as the most admired girl in the place.

Gone. Gone because Lizzy had sat at dinner with serious eyes and spoken of consequences as if consequences were fashionable. Lydia’s laughter faded. She went to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass. The pane had cooled with the evening air. Below, the lawn stretched dim and dull beneath the fading sky. Somewhere in the house Mary began practicing the pianoforte with grim determination, each note plodding after the last until the music itself sounded like a moral lecture.

“I hate being directed and ordered about,” Lydia burst out.