Page 165 of What Change Entails

“How fortunate,” Miss Bingley said, lifting her cup, “that your drive did not overtax you, Miss Eliza. Country lanes may be very rough when one is unused to them.”

Miss Elizabeth methodically smoothed her gown. “I am not so delicate as to be undone by a Derbyshire lane.”

“No, indeed,” Lydia said from the stool. “Lizzy has survived roads, relatives, sermons, and my mother’s nerves. Derbyshire must do better if it hopes to defeat her.”

Mr. Bingley coughed into his tea.

Fitzwilliam crossed the room. “Tea, Mrs. Gardiner?”

Mrs. Gardiner, who had spent the afternoon visiting an old friend and had only recently returned, accepted with thanks and settled more comfortably into her chair. Her presence restored a portion of Georgiana’s usual sense of safety, though Georgiana had begun to suspect that safety and obedience were not the same thing.

That was an uncomfortable thought. Lydia would likely have enjoyed it.

Miss Bingley attempted to insert herself into the conversation. “My dear Georgiana, Mrs. Gardiner prefers only a little sugar, and my brother takes cream with his tea. You must be careful not to confuse everyone’s cups.”

Georgiana had been reaching for the teapot.

Her hand paused.

For years, such a remark would have settled the matter. She would have accepted the correction, though no correction had been asked for. Miss Bingley had a gift for speaking as though decisions had already been made somewhere above Georgiana’s head.

Lydia’s fingers stilled upon Horace’s fur.

Fitzwilliam remained where he sat, unmoving.

Miss Elizabeth lowered herself into a chair near the window, but her attention rested upon Georgiana now. Not pressing nor expectant. Merely present.

Georgiana lifted the teapot.

“I know how everyone takes their tea, Miss Bingley.”

The room did not stop.

That would have been dramatic, and life rarely did Georgiana the courtesy of behaving like a scene in a novel.

Still, several small things happened together. Mr. Bingley’s spoon struck his saucer. Lydia sucked in a breath and disguised it badly by bending over Horace. Fitzwilliam’s gaze shifted from the fire to his sister, his expression unreadable to anyone who did not know him. Miss Elizabeth’s eyes warmed, though her mouth remained serious.

Miss Bingley blinked once.

“Oh.” She recovered with considerable speed. “Of course. I merely meant to be helpful.”

Georgiana poured Mrs. Gardiner’s tea with only a little sugar, handed Mr. Bingley his cup with cream, and passed Lydia’s across without being asked. Finally, she prepared Fitzwilliam’s exactly as he preferred and set it before him.

“You remembered all of us,” Mrs. Gardiner said with a smile.

“I should hope so,” Lydia declared. “Miss Darcy has known Mr. Bingley for years, and I have explained my views on sugar at least six times since our arrival.”

“Seven,” Georgiana said quietly.

Lydia stared at her in delight. “You see? She knows everything.”

Miss Bingley’s smile thinned.

There it was again: the softer cage. If Georgiana obeyed, she was agreeable; if she demonstrated competence, she was merely indulging a harmless talent.

The servant entered then with another plate of cakes, saving everyone from whatever Miss Bingley had intended to say next. Georgiana wrapped both hands around her own cup, the warmth prickling through the porcelain.

She had not yielded.