Page 76 of What Change Entails

“No? Well, you should have. I would have believed you after this.”

Bingley laughed again.

Darcy looked away before Miss Bingley could see his face.

The party broke apart then, partly because Lydia required rescue from mud and partly because the fish had almost certainly fled the entire neighborhood. Mrs. Gardiner escorted Lydia and Georgiana toward the house. Elizabeth followed, though she turned once to look back at the stream, her bonnet ribbons stirring in the breeze.

Darcy remained with Bingley and Mr. Gardiner to untangle the ruined line.

Bingley watched the ladies depart with evident satisfaction. “That was the best morning we have had in years.”

“You did not fall in mud.”

“No, but I appreciate the sacrifice of others.”

Mr. Gardiner chuckled. “Miss Lydia has improved the sport beyond recognition.”

“She improves many things beyond recognition,” Darcy said before considering the words.

Bingley regarded him with interest.

Darcy focused on the line.

Mr. Gardiner, more tactful, busied himself with the rods.

A few minutes later, when the equipment had been gathered and the stream abandoned to peace, Darcy walked back toward the house more slowly. The lawn bore signs of the battle: muddied grass near the bank, footprints crossing toward the shrub, one trampled patch of flowers that would alarm the gardener, and Horace’s paw marks leading proudly toward the kitchens.

He should have been annoyed.

He was not.

That too had become an increasingly common discomfort at Pemberley.

He was less annoyed than he ought to be by disorder. Less offended by Lydia’s improprieties. Less capable of pretending Miss Bingley’s barbs were harmless. Less able to maintain distance from Elizabeth when she smiled at him with sunlight on her face and laughter still warming her voice.

The morning had undone him in some small public way.

Elizabeth had seen it.

Miss Bingley had seen it too.

He entered the house through the side door and nearly collided with Mrs. Reynolds, who held a bundle of towels and wore the expression of a woman already informed of disaster.

“Miss Lydia is in the blue passage, sir,” she said. “Covered in mud and blaming Horace.”

“Accurately?”

“In part.”

“Is she injured?”

“Merely in pride and muslin.”

Darcy took the towels from her. “I will send a footman.”

Mrs. Reynolds’s eyes moved over his face with the familiarity of long service. “You are in good spirits, sir.”

He nodded toward the passage where Lydia’s voice could be heard protesting that mud ought to wash out if everyone would stop being tragic about it.