Page 78 of What Change Entails

His attention drifted back to the view beyond the window. Lydia had taken Georgiana’s arm and was marching her toward the stables with the air of a commander leading troops. Georgiana went willingly.

Miss Bingley would not stop. The morning’s laughter had offended more than her dignity. It had shown her a Pemberley in which she did not govern Georgiana, did not command Darcy’s notice, and did not define who belonged.

She would not forgive that easily.

Bingley rose. “Shall I speak to her?”

“Not yet.”

“You seem grim.”

“I am considering whether patience remains useful.”

Bingley’s brows rose. “With Caroline?”

“With myself, primarily.”

“That sounds dreadful. I avoid such exercises.”

Then, from outside, Lydia’s voice carried faintly through the open window.

“Horace, if you steal bait again, I shall demand compensation!”

Bingley grinned. “I maintain it was the best morning in years.”

Darcy’s attention settled upon the lawn, where Elizabeth had reappeared at the edge of the garden, laughing at something Mrs. Gardiner said.

“Yes,” he replied. “It was.”

That evening, Darcy saw it happen three times before the tea tray had been removed.

The first occurred when Georgiana sat beside Miss Lydia near the pianoforte, both girls bent over a sheet of music with their heads close together. Lydia’s curls had just survived the efforts of Miss Darcy’s maid after the fishing disaster, and one stubborn lock continued to fall over her cheek no matter how often she pushed it away. Georgiana was laughing under her breath at something written in the margin.

Then Miss Bingley crossed the room.

“My dear Georgiana,” she said, resting one hand lightly upon the back of the chair, “surely you do not mean to puzzle over Scotch airs all evening. Mr. Darcy prefers Italian music, do you not, sir?”

Darcy raised his head from his conversation with Mr. Gardiner. He had not the least desire to be drawn in, but Miss Bingley had already directed every face in his direction.

Before he could answer, Lydia rose so abruptly the music slid from her lap onto the carpet.

“Oh! Then he shall be disappointed in me forever,” she declared, stooping to gather the pages. “I cannot sing unless someone desires to hear a cat with a sore throat.”

Mr. Hurst choked on his wine.

Bingley was vastly amused. Georgiana’s hand, which had been inching back from the music, stilled.

Darcy observed Lydia thrust the pages into Georgiana’s hands again. “You must teach me the Scotch one,” Lydia insisted. “It sounds the least likely to expose my ignorance.”

Miss Bingley’s smile remained, but her fingers gripped the chair back.

Darcy returned his attention to Mr. Gardiner without answering her question.

The second attempt came during cards.

Miss Bingley arranged the table neatly, with all the appearance of chance and none of its reality. Georgiana was directed toward Miss Bingley’s side. Elizabeth, by some miracle of strategy, was placed as far from Darcy as the room permitted. Lydia stood behind her aunt’s chair eating sugared almonds one at a time, plainly aware of every movement.

“You will sit here, dearest,” Miss Bingley told Georgiana, indicating the chair beside her. “I shall guide you through the play if you are uncertain.”