Page 68 of What Change Entails

“Besides, I am not yet out.” Georgiana lowered herself onto the pianoforte bench slowly, arranging several pages of music beside her.

“I do not know how to explain it.” She traced one finger absently along the edge of the keys. “The thought of large parties—though I have yet to attend one—terrifies me. There, everyone wishes you to become whatever pleases them most. If you are shy, they speak for you. If you speak suddenly, they look startled. If you dislike dancing three hours consecutively, someone insists you must continue because young ladies ought to enjoy balls.”

“You could simply refuse.”

Georgiana gave her a look of genuine confusion. “Could I?”

“Yes.” She had. Lydia had even continued dancing once after such a refusal, much to Elizabeth’s dismay.

“That sounds terrifying.”

Lydia stared. “You are serious.”

“Entirely.”

Her confusion mounted. “But… if you dislike something, why endure it?”

Georgiana giggled at that. “Because refusing people becomes difficult once they expect compliance.”

She shook her head. “That is absurd.”

“Perhaps.”

Lydia tossed the music pages aside and sat upright. “No wonder Miss Bingley orders you about constantly. Everyone permits it.”

Georgiana’s fingers stilled upon the keys. “She means it kindly most of the time.”

“She means to arrange your entire existence.” There was nothing kind about Miss Bingley’s behavior. She meant to control.

“That is not wholly unfair.” Georgiana hesitated. “People often assume I require guidance.”

“You do not.”

Georgiana regarded her oddly for a moment, uncertain whether to laugh or object.

Lydia continued before the moment could grow uncomfortable. “Lizzy orders me sometimes too,” she admitted. “Though generally because I deserve it.”

“I do not think you enjoy obedience.”

Most assuredly not. “I despise it.”

“That was already apparent.” Georgiana giggled.

Lydia scoffed loudly enough to startle Horace awake beneath the window. The dog groaned and changed position without opening his eyes.

“Then why,” Lydia demanded, “do you not simply tell Miss Bingley to leave you alone?”

Georgiana’s fingers drifted to the edge of the pianoforte. The answer took time coming. “She was very attentive to me after Ramsgate, even though she did not know the cause of my melancholy.”

Lydia frowned. “Ramsgate?”

Georgiana hesitated again.

“You need not tell me anything distasteful,” Lydia said more gently, even though she was dying of curiosity.

“No. I…” Georgiana rearranged the sheet music unnecessarily. She had not intended to speak of it. Lydia had praised Wickham more than once, and the thought of allowing her to continue admiring him had become intolerable.

“You should know, perhaps. Maybe then you will understand I am not as sweet or as angelic. My brother said Mr. Wickham was in Hertfordshire.”