Page 44 of What Change Entails

“Lydia.” The name came out before Georgiana could think better of using such familiarity.

Lydia beamed, unbothered by the familiar use of her Christian name.

Georgiana drew her arm a little closer, both embarrassed and determined. “We can dispense with formalities. I nearly killed you, after all.” She paused. “I think he does love her. And he has been unhappy.”

Lydia looked speculative. For several steps she said nothing. “Well,” she muttered, “Lizzy has been peculiar too.”

“That may mean she cares for him.”

“It may mean she is annoyed by rocks. People become strange in Derbyshire.”

Georgiana gave a startled laugh.

Lydia’s expression said she was pleased by it, but she sobered again. “If I do my sister a good turn, perhaps she will be more welcoming in the future.”

“At Pemberley?”

Lydia took in the sweep of grounds, the great house rising behind them, the stream flashing through the trees. “It would be very useful to have a sister here.”

Georgiana’s courage almost failed, but Lydia’s arm was warm through the fabric of her sleeve, and the words came more easily than many she had spoken in Miss Bingley’s company.

“I should like that,” she said. “I like you very much.”

Lydia stopped in the path and stared. “You like me?”

“Yes.”

“You do not think me too improper?”

Georgiana considered the girl before her: grass still caught in one curl, bonnet crooked despite repeated adjustment, eyes bright with mischief and hurt and energy. Improper? Perhaps. A little. Sometimes. But no one had ever made Georgiana feel so abruptly included in anything before.

“You are very different from anyone I usually know,” Georgiana admitted. “I think I should like to know you better.”

Lydia gaped for one more second. Then she looped their arms together more firmly and began walking again. “Miss Darcy, I believe we shall become excellent friends.”

She secured her hold on Lydia’s arm.

“I hope so. And call me Georgiana.”

Lydia giggled, soft but irrepressible. “The next few weeks will be quite an adventure indeed.”

Chapter Six

Elizabeth had meant to be sensible. She had intended to see Pemberley, admire what deserved admiration, thank the housekeeper for her civility, and depart with as much composure as could reasonably be expected of a woman who had once refused its master in language sharp enough to furnish several years of mortification.

Instead, Lydia Bennet had been nearly ridden down by Miss Darcy, had made friends with her within minutes, and now passed in front of her and Mr. Darcy, arm in arm with the girl as if they had been acquainted since infancy.

It was difficult to be sensible under such circumstances.

Pemberley itself offered no assistance. The house stood in summer magnificence, softened by use rather than diminished by it. The great sweep of stone rose from its grounds with a naturalness Elizabeth had not expected. Rosings had imposed itself upon the eye. Pemberley seemed to belong to the valley. Its windows stood open to the warm air. Curtains stirred faintly behind glass. Somewhere within, a dog barked, and another answered from the stable yard. Servants moved with purpose near the side entrance, not with the stiff ceremony of display but with the ordinary confidence of a household long accustomed to being well ordered.

Roses climbed along a lower wall near the terrace, their scent carried by the breeze whenever the path curved toward the house. Beyond the lawn the stream flashed between stones, running clear and lively beneath the trees. Sunlight touched everything in broken pieces: the gravel path, the slope of grass, the pale face of the house, Miss Darcy’s loosened ribbon, Lydia’s crooked bonnet.

Elizabeth had imagined Pemberley—and its master—too often for her own peace, though never with accuracy.

It was worse than she had feared. It was grand, certainly, and impressive in ways Elizabeth had expected. None of that disturbed her half so much as the spirit of it.

Rosings had announced itself at every turn. Rank, wealth, consequence—one could hardly cross a room without being reminded of them. Pemberley, by contrast, felt inhabited. A garden boy hurried past carrying a basket of cut flowers and nearly stumbled when he saw the master walking with visitors, but Mr. Darcy asked whether Mrs. Reynolds had ordered the roses for the blue parlor. The boy blushed, answered that she had, sir, and went on with greater speed.