Page 38 of What Change Entails

No one else had remarked upon it. Georgiana had. She had noticed many things she lacked courage to ask about.

Miss Bingley had filled every silence with herself. She did not mean to be cruel, Georgiana sometimes told herself. Miss Bingley could be attentive. She brought books, praised music, advised on gowns, and spoke warmly of Pemberley in a way that suggested admiration for the house, if not always for the person who lived there. Being near her was like sitting beneath too many candles: excessively bright, uncomfortably warm, and dreadfully exhausting.

When Fitzwilliam had announced he must ride ahead, dread had pressed so hard beneath Georgiana’s ribs that she had nearly pricked her finger before she actually did.

Miss Bingley would have placed her beside her in the carriage. She would have spoken for her at inns. She would have said, “Dear Georgiana is tired,” when Georgiana was merely bored, and “Dear Georgiana is shy,” when Georgiana wished for time to answer.

Then Fitzwilliam had asked.

Would she prefer to come with him? Such a simple thing. A question. A choice placed in her hands even if they were not strong enough to hold it. The memory warmed her even as the mare rounded the side of the house too quickly.

A flash of pale muslin appeared on the path. Georgiana pulled hard on the reins. The mare reared.

For one terrible instant, the world became a blur of tossing mane, sky, and the sharp cry of a stranger below. Georgiana clung with her knees, one hand tight on the reins, the other gripping the saddle as the mare came down with a jolt that rattled through her bones.

The girl on the path had fallen backward into the grass.

Georgiana’s stomach dropped. “Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon!” She fought the reins into order as her mare sidestepped, snorting. “Are you hurt? Pray, say you are not hurt.”

The young lady on the ground pushed herself up on one elbow, her bonnet askew, one glove smeared with dirt. She glared with magnificent outrage.

“Am I hurt? You nearly killed me!”

Georgiana swung down from the saddle too hastily. Her boot struck uneven ground, and a brief twinge ran through her ankle before she caught the reins and steadied herself.

She winced, then hurried forward despite it. “I am so sorry. I was going too fast, and I did not see you until the turn.”

“That is generally the difficulty with running people down,” the girl cried, sitting upright and brushing grass from her sleeve. “One does not see them until they are beneath the horse.”

Georgiana crouched beside her, mortification burning through her face. “Please allow me to help you. Shall I call for someone? Are you able to stand?”

“I am able to stand if I am not trampled again in the attempt.”

The answer should not have been funny. It was not funny. Not exactly. The girl’s bonnet had slipped almost over one ear, and her eyes flashed with such offended life that Georgiana had to press her lips together before any inappropriate sound escaped.

“I promise not to trample you,” Georgiana said, offering both hands.

The stranger eyed her with suspicion, then accepted.

Georgiana helped pull her up. The girl stumbled once, caught Georgiana’s arm, then straightened and shook out her skirts with brisk indignation.

“There. I am not dead. Though it is no thanks to you.”

“No,” Georgiana said. “It is not.”

The girl stared up, perhaps surprised by the agreement. She was young. Near Georgiana’s own age, though there was nothing hesitant in the way she stood or spoke. Her cheeks were flushed from the fall, her curls tumbled beneath the crooked bonnet, and her whole person vibrated with motion even when still. Georgiana had never seen anyone be so vigorously injured.

She brushed dirt from her glove, then paused. “I suppose I ought to introduce myself before I continue abusing you. I am Miss Lydia Bennet.”

Bennet.

The name struck through Georgiana’s mind like the note of a bell.

Bennet. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Fitzwilliam’s Miss Elizabeth Bennet, though Georgiana would never dare call her so aloud.

Her fingers tightened involuntarily around her riding crop. “Miss Bennet,” Georgiana repeated.

“Yes.” Lydia adjusted her bonnet, made it worse, and abandoned the attempt. “Of Longbourn in Hertfordshire. Though at present I am being dragged through Derbyshire against my will.”