Page 46 of What Change Entails

“I saw that,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “She has the air of a woman who tolerates masters merely because someone must sign the accounts.”

Darcy gave a short laugh. “That is remarkably near the truth.”

Elizabeth studied him then, surprised by the sound. He met her eyes, and for one brief, inconvenient instant she forgot what answer might be expected. The amusement lingered a moment before he checked it

He nodded toward the stream. “The bridge is just ahead.”

The bridge deserved Lydia’s praise, though Elizabeth did not say so in those words. It crossed the water at a natural narrowing, made of pale stone warmed by sunlight. The stream ran beneath it over a shallow bed, catching light in a thousand quick flashes. Ferns grew along the bank. A great dog, shaggy and brown, came bounding from somewhere near the trees, stopped short at the sight of strangers, and then proceeded directly to Mr. Darcy with the confidence of an old friend.

“Horace,” Mr. Darcy said, bracing one hand against the dog’s enthusiastic greeting. “You are not invited to knock anyone into the stream.”

The dog ignored this prohibition and attempted to place his head beneath Darcy’s hand.

Lydia gasped. “Oh, what a creature!”

Miss Darcy bent to stroke the dog’s neck. “Horace belongs more to the house than to us, I think. He goes wherever he likes.”

“He is enormous.” Lydia approached with a degree of caution Elizabeth rarely saw in her. “Does he bite?”

“Indeed: bread, gloves, and the occasional cushion,” Miss Darcy answered.

Lydia held out her hand. Horace sniffed it, approved her, and leaned his considerable weight against her skirts.

“Oh!” Lydia staggered and seized Miss Darcy’s arm. “He has no manners.”

“Then you have something in common,” Elizabeth said.

Lydia shot her a look over the dog’s head. “I have excellent manners when I choose to employ them.”

“Do you keep them packed away for special occasions?” Elizabeth bit her tongue, dismayed by her display of impertinence in front of Mr. Darcy.

Miss Darcy covered a laugh with her glove.

Lydia was delighted rather than offended. “There, Miss Darcy. You see how she abuses me.”

“I begin to understand,” Miss Darcy said, still stroking the dog’s ear.

Elizabeth watched the pair and found her irritation softening despite herself. Lydia had attached herself to Miss Darcy with astonishing speed, but the attachment was not wholly one-sided. Georgiana Darcy, whom Elizabeth had imagined proud and fashionable under the influence of her connections, was almost shyly happy. Her manner was subdued compared to Lydia’s, yet she did not retreat from it. Lydia spoke; Miss Darcy listened. Miss Darcy answered; Lydia leaned closer as if every word mattered.

It was an odd pairing.

It was also, Elizabeth admitted, rather charming.

Mr. Darcy stood beside her, watching them too.

“I owe your sister an apology,” Elizabeth said before she could decide against it.

He paused. “For what?”

“For judging her before I knew her.” Elizabeth indicated Miss Darcy, who was now attempting to persuade Horace not to sit upon Lydia’s foot. “I had allowed myself to form expectations from very poor materials.”

Darcy’s gloved hand closed hard upon the rail of the bridge. “She has been much misrepresented.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth forced herself to look at him. “I know.”

His face changed, though not dramatically. A faint withdrawal, a shuttered pain.

She had not meant Wickham. Or perhaps she had. Everything between them touched upon Wickham, however they stood apart from his name.