Page 85 of What Change Entails

Still, Georgiana lingered near Elizabeth with the unconscious ease she had once reserved for him. Lydia sprawled across the arm of Georgiana’s chair moments later and disrupted Miss Bingley’s attempt to reclaim the conversation by demanding Bingley explain why gentlemen in novels always inherited gloomy estates and emotional suffering together.

“Economy,” Bingley replied.

“Cruel economy.”

Rain hammered harder against the windows.

Hours indoors at Pemberley slipped by swiftly during storms. The household settled into its new rhythms. Servants moved over carpets thick enough to swallow sound. Fires snapped steadily in distant rooms. Wind wandered through chimneys and corridors with mournful little voices.

Darcy spent much of the afternoon trying unsuccessfully to remain detached from Elizabeth’s presence.

Everywhere he went, she was there.

At the pianoforte turning Georgiana’s music pages. Near the fire laughing at Lydia’s outrageous theories on literature. Standing beside the shelves selecting books for Mrs. Gardiner. Crossing the room carrying tea while candlelight flickered along the edge of her gown.

Once, passing behind her chair, he caught the scent of rainwater lingering faintly in her hair from the morning.

It disturbed his composure absurdly.

Music occupied the evening after dinner.

Not formal performance, thank heavens.

Lydia insisted solemn concerts were fatal during storms. Georgiana therefore played whatever pleased her rather than what impressed company. Scottish airs appeared again. Bingley attempted singing and was forbidden to continue by universal agreement.

Darcy stood near the fireplace speaking with Mr. Gardiner while Elizabeth remained beside the pianoforte turning pages.

Every so often Georgiana glanced toward her brother.

Darcy understood why eventually.

Elizabeth smiled differently during music, ardently enough that the entire room warmed around it.

Miss Bingley saw that too.

Darcy caught her watching Elizabeth more than once throughout the evening. Not with simple jealousy anymore. With concern.

That realization unsettled him.

Miss Bingley had long assumed eventual triumph. Now she had begun recognizing genuine danger.

The storm worsened near ten.

Thunder rolled across the hills with enough force to rattle the windows. Lydia demanded ghost stories afterward. Mrs. Hurst refused them. Bingley supported them enthusiastically. Georgiana admitted she disliked frightening stories but volunteered to remain if Lydia promised not to scream dramatically.

“I never scream dramatically.”

Everyone regarded her.

“Well,” Lydia amended, “not constantly.”

The stories became ridiculous within moments.

Mr. Gardiner told one involving smugglers and hidden silver. Bingley attempted suspense but forgot important details midway through. Lydia improved every tale by adding unnecessary deaths. Georgiana laughed so hard during one particularly dreadful story involving a haunted goat that she could not finish her tea safely.

Miss Bingley withdrew gradually from participation.

Darcy observed it without satisfaction.