Page 178 of What Change Entails

“Thank you,” he said.

Lydia’s face changed. “For the string?”

“No. Not for the string. Never for the string. For caring for my sister.”

Georgiana’s amusement vanished into something softer.

Lydia shifted, suddenly less certain. “Oh. Well. She is worth caring for.”

“Yes,” Darcy said. “She is.”

Georgiana bent to pick up the string. “We shall not trip the footman.”

“I am relieved.”

“We may think of something else,” Lydia warned.

“I have no doubt.”

At dinner, Miss Bingley tried every social maneuver left to her.

First, she attempted to claim the seat beside Darcy. Mrs. Reynolds, with a placid face that betrayed years of managing greater crises than disappointed ladies, directed her to a chair beside Mrs. Hurst and placed Elizabeth near Darcy with such natural authority that no one could object without creating spectacle. Darcy did not know whether to thank his housekeeper or raise her wages.

Possibly both.

Elizabeth sat beside him, untying her gloves beneath the table. Her hand brushed the edge of his napkin. It was absurd. Fascinating. Wonderful.

Miss Bingley saw.

Darcy lifted his wineglass and asked Elizabeth whether she had ever climbed the rocks near Matlock. She had not. That led to a discussion of walking paths, which led to Mr. Gardiner’s interest in fishing water, which led to Bingley offering to fall into any stream required for general amusement. Lydia declared this unnecessary, since he had already proven his willingness to be ridiculous. Georgiana suggested that Horace would assist if called upon.

The dinner became lively in spite of every attempt Miss Bingley made to improve it.

She introduced a London acquaintance. Bingley forgot the name. She praised Italian singing. Georgiana asked Elizabeth whether she preferred simple airs or dramatic pieces. Miss Bingley mentioned the elegance of a certain titled family’s estate. Mrs. Gardiner spoke of Lambton friends with such pleasant specificity that Darcy found himself asking after them in detail, partly from genuine interest and partly because Miss Bingley’s expression sharpened each time trade, local families, or ordinary kindness received notice.

“You are very gracious, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley said at length, “to concern yourself with such minor connections.”

Darcy set down his fork. “Mrs. Gardiner’s friends are not minor to her.”

The table stilled.

Mr. Gardiner looked at him with something close to respect. Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes warmed, though she said nothing.

Miss Bingley lifted her chin. “I spoke of rank.”

“I know.”

That ended the exchange.

Elizabeth’s hand lowered beneath the table. Her fingers brushed the back of his for the briefest instant, hidden by the linen.

Darcy nearly forgot how to breathe.

The rest of dinner passed with Miss Bingley saying less and observing more. That was worse. He had hoped, foolishly, that repeated social failure might persuade her to withdraw. Rather, her eyes moved between him and Elizabeth, between Georgiana and Lydia, between Mrs. Reynolds at the door and Mrs. Gardiner at the table. He could see calculation rebuilding itself with every course.

After the ladies withdrew, Bingley drank half his wine in silence.

Darcy let him.