Page 169 of What Change Entails

The dog sighed with shameless pleasure.

“Horace approves,” Lydia said. “That is the highest judgment in this household.”

“I thought Mrs. Reynolds held that honor.”

“Mrs. Reynolds and Horace govern different departments.”

Georgiana’s laugh escaped too quickly. Miss Bingley looked over. Georgiana’s first impulse was still to lower her voice.

She did not.

She laughed again, softer but unhidden.

Miss Bingley looked away.

The remainder of tea passed with peculiar civility. Miss Bingley spoke less. When she addressed Georgiana, the tone had altered by a fraction, each phrase now edged with caution. Fitzwilliam remained attentive without hovering. Miss Elizabeth was quieter than she had been before the drive, though whenever she and Fitzwilliam exchanged a word, the air around them seemed to gather itself. Georgiana did not know what exactly had happened during their outing.

Lydia plainly believed she did.

Several times Georgiana caught her friend watching them with the eager satisfaction of a general observing troops move exactly as planned.

When Mrs. Hurst proposed returning to her sister’s room before dinner, Miss Bingley accepted the suggestion with a relief she failed to disguise. Mr. Hurst followed on the promise that dinner would come eventually, and Mr. Bingley escorted his sisters out with an expression of divided loyalties.

The room eased after they left.

There was no announcement of it. No one sighed dramatically. Georgiana felt the difference in the way Mrs. Gardiner took up her embroidery, in the way Lydia sprawled halfway onto the rug beside Horace, in the way Fitzwilliam crossed at last to Georgiana’s chair.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked.

Georgiana rose.

Lydia sat up instantly. “Shall I come?”

“No,” Georgiana said, then nearly laughed at Lydia’s wounded face. “I mean, not this time.”

Lydia pressed a hand to her heart. “Cast off after all my devotion.”

“You are never cast off.”

“That is better.”

Fitzwilliam offered Georgiana his arm. She accepted it, and together they left the drawing room for the corridor leading toward the library. They did not go far. Fitzwilliam led her into the small blue parlor overlooking the east lawn, where the afternoon light lay pale across the carpet and the house sounded distant enough for truth.

He closed the door, though not fully. Propriety remained a tyrant even among siblings.

For a moment he said nothing.

Georgiana clasped her hands in front of her. Now that the danger had passed, her courage had begun leaking away, and she felt absurdly close to tears.

Fitzwilliam crossed to the mantel, then faced her before reaching it. “I am proud of you.”

That was all.

The words struck too near.

Georgiana sat abruptly because standing had become difficult.

Fitzwilliam came to the chair opposite hers. “Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.”