Page 80 of What Change Entails

He had been blind to many things, but not this. Not now.

Near eleven, the ladies rose. Mrs. Gardiner wished everyone good night first. Elizabeth followed after her aunt, pausing long enough to make sure Lydia had not abandoned her shawl again. Miss Bingley lingered near Darcy with some remark about tomorrow’s breakfast arrangements, but Bingley unintentionally rescued him by asking whether the fish in the stream were always so intelligent or had merely been warned by Horace.

When Darcy had answered, Miss Bingley had no choice but to leave.

Lydia was last in the hall.

She carried a candle in one hand and a book in the other, though Darcy suspected the book belonged to Georgiana. Her expression held the satisfied fatigue of a person who had fought several battles without acknowledging any of them.

“Miss Lydia,” Darcy said.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs and faced him with instant suspicion. “If this concerns the footstool, I maintain the dog looked guilty earlier.”

“Horace was in the kitchens.”

“That is what made him clever.”

Darcy came close to smiling, then remembered what he meant to say. “It does not concern the footstool.”

Lydia shifted the candle to her other hand. “Then have I done something else?”

“Several things.”

Her chin jutted out. “That sounds ominous.”

“I wished to thank you.”

That quieted her more thoroughly than any rebuke might have done.

The candle flame bent slightly in a draft from the corridor. Lydia tipped her head toward the stairs, then gave him her full attention. “For what?”

“For my sister.”

Her grip grew more firm around the book.

Darcy lowered his voice, though no one remained near enough to overhear. “You have observed Miss Bingley’s effect upon her.”

Lydia’s face changed in a flash: defensiveness first, then something fiercer. “Miss Bingley likes arranging people.”

“Yes.”

“She makes Georgiana smaller.”

The plainness of it struck him.

Darcy studied the darkened drawing room where Miss Bingley had held court half the evening. “I fear she has been permitted to do so too long.”

“Well,” Lydia said, too quickly, “I am not permitting it.”

“No. You are not.”

For a heartbeat she seemed uncertain what to do with praise. Her attention dropped to the book before she tucked it more securely against her side.

“I do not do it very elegantly,” she admitted.

“Elegance is not always the chief requirement.”

Lydia stared at him, then gave a small snort. “Miss Bingley would expire if she heard you say so.”