Page 9 of What Change Entails

“And sheep.” She hated the stinky, smelly animals.

“I suppose there may be sheep.”

“There will certainly be sheep,” Lydia said darkly. “Thousands of sheep. Endless sheep. Horrid, staring, stupid sheep. Aunt Gardiner will wish to admire waterfalls and old stones and dreadful ancient things while I die slowly of boredom.”

Kitty attempted sympathy. “I do hate old stones.”

“So do I. They are always damp, and someone is always saying they are picturesque.” A pile of rocks could hardly be a sight to be seen, in her opinion.

“Mary would like them.”

Lydia scoffed. “Mary would like anything if it were dull enough.”

With a furtive, guilty laugh, Kitty watched the door, anticipating Mary’s potential appearance with a sermon.

She cast one arm across her eyes. “Brighton was settled. Fully settled. Mrs. Forster already promised we would attend musicales and dinners, and perhaps General Wellington himself might have appeared later in the season.”

Kitty brightened. “Do you truly think so?”

“I know it.” Lydia had no evidence for this beyond a fervent wish but wishes often felt more reliable than facts. “Officers go everywhere worth going. Brighton is full of them. That is why it is Brighton.”

Kitty nodded, accepting this reasoning.

“And now,” Lydia continued, pressing the back of her hand against her forehead in what she hoped was a tragic manner, “Lizzy has ruined everything because she cannot endure seeing anyone enjoy themselves.”

Kitty hesitated. “I do not think she meant—”

“Oh, do not defend her.” Lydia snatched up a pillow and hugged it fiercely against her chest. “She has always thought herself wiser than everyone else. Forever lecturing and looking knowing whenever I laugh too loudly or flirt a little.”

“You do flirt a little.”

Of course, she did! That was why the officers preferred her to any other lady. “A girl must do something for amusement in Hertfordshire.”

Kitty could not argue with that.

Lydia slid off the bed and began pacing the room, her slippers scuffing against the floorboards as she crossed from window to fireplace and back again. Her chamber, usually a place of ribbons, discarded gowns, half-finished schemes, and affectionate disorder, now looked insultingly ordinary. Nothing in it understood tragedy. Her blue sash still lay across the chair where she had tossed it that morning. Her bonnet sat on the small table, trimmed with ribbon she had specifically intended to wear at Brighton. Brighton ribbon. Wasted ribbon now.

She seized the bonnet and dropped onto the chair before the mirror. “I was going to wear this upon the Steine,” she said bitterly.

Kitty came to stand behind her. “It is a very becoming bonnet.”

“Of course it is. That is why Lizzy could not bear it.”

Kitty’s eyes widened. “Do you think that is why?”

Lydia swiveled in the chair with immediate interest. “What else can it be? She knows I look well in blue. She knows Mrs. Forster likes me best. She knows officers like lively girls.”

Kitty leaned nearer, now fully engaged in the theory. “And Lizzy has been strange ever since Kent.”

“Exactly.” Lydia tapped one finger against the bonnet brim. “She walks alone and says clever things in that tone of hers and looks at everyone in a manner that says she knows some great secret.”

“Jane says she is tired.”

Lydia doubted that very much. Lizzy had boundless energy. “Jane says kind things because Jane cannot help being angelic at inconvenient times.”

Kitty considered the proposal and deemed it equitable.

Lydia faced the mirror again and adjusted the bonnet experimentally. Even through swollen eyes and temper, she appeared dressed to every advantage. That should have comforted her. It did not. Looking pretty in a bedroom at Longbourn was useless when she had been robbed of the opportunity to be admired.