Page 65 of What Change Entails

“Because my sister belongs here better than she does?”

Georgiana glanced up abruptly.

“Oh, do not stare so astonished,” Lydia said. “Everyone sees it except Lizzy.”

It was all Georgiana could do not to laugh.

The following morning, Lydia escaped Miss Bingley before breakfast had concluded.

This required strategy.

Miss Bingley had developed a habit of capturing Georgiana directly after the meal and steering her toward whichever room best displayed refinement at eleven o’clock in the morning. Yesterday it had been the music room. The day before, the small morning parlor where watercolor portfolios lay arranged upon tables no one genuinely used. Lydia suspected Miss Bingley selected rooms with alarming strategy.

Lydia chose hers differently. She waited until Miss Bingley began explaining the superiority of Italian instruction over English masters. Then Lydia dropped her napkin deliberately beneath the table, kicked it farther beneath her chair while retrieving it, and whispered, “Run,” to Georgiana before anybody understood what had occurred.

Georgiana stared at her. Lydia darted from the room. Three seconds later footsteps hurried behind her.

By the time Miss Bingley reached the doorway calling, “Georgiana, my dear—” they were already halfway down the corridor laughing breathlessly like schoolgirls fleeing punishment.

“I cannot believe we did that,” Georgiana gasped.

“I can.” Lydia seized her hand and pulled her faster toward the terrace doors. “Quickly. Before she organizes us.”

Sunlight flooded the lawns outside. The morning still carried traces of dew beneath the trees. Somewhere near the stables a groom shouted good-naturedly at an impatient horse. Horace came bounding around the side of the house with enough enthusiasm to suggest he had escaped discipline himself.

“There,” Lydia declared triumphantly. “We are safe now.”

“Miss Bingley will be offended.”

Lydia snorted. “She is offended by weather and breathing. We cannot help her.”

Georgiana pressed her fingers against her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to conceal laughter.

Lydia liked that laugh.

It never carried the air of performance. Many ladies treated amusement the way they arranged flowers, with attention to posture and audience alike. Georgiana’s delight arrived without warning, sudden enough that she occasionally appeared startled by it herself.

They crossed toward the rose gardens while Horace bounded ahead between the gravel paths, nosing enthusiastically at every hedge he passed.

The dog vanished into shrubbery and emerged carrying a gardener’s glove in his mouth.

“Oh dear,” Georgiana murmured.

Lydia folded her arms. “I support his criminal career fully.”

A gardener appeared around the hedge moments later looking exasperated but resigned. “Horace, you great brute. Bring that back.”

Horace ignored him.

Lydia whistled sharply. “Come here, beast.”

To Georgiana’s astonishment, Horace obeyed.

“Well,” Lydia said smugly while reclaiming the glove, “someone in this household possesses authority.”

The gardener accepted the glove with a grin. “Thank you, miss. Mr. Darcy spoils him shamefully.”

“He deserves spoiling,” Lydia replied. “Look at his face.”