12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
By the end of their fortnight at Pemberley, breakfast had become a battlefield disguised beneath silver coffee urns and excellent marmalade.
Lydia enjoyed it immensely.
She arrived late enough to create irritation and early enough to secure the seat beside Georgiana before Miss Bingley descended. This required strategy. Lydia congratulated herself upon executing it beautifully.
“You promised ribbons,” she informed Georgiana before anyone else had fully filled their plates. “Blue ones. And perhaps green. Though I am undecided on the green because Mama says green makes me look unruly, which I think is nonsense because I already am unruly and no ribbon could worsen it.”
Georgiana smiled into her teacup.
Across the table Darcy glanced up over the edge of a letter he had been reading. The look lasted scarcely a second, but Lydia had become very good at recognizing when Mr. Darcy attempted not to smile.
“It depends upon the shade,” Georgiana replied. “Soft green would suit you.”
“No soft anything,” Lydia declared. “If I wear green, it ought to be bold enough to alarm people.”
“An admirable philosophy,” Mr. Gardiner murmured.
Elizabeth hid her amusement badly.
Miss Bingley entered then and paused just inside the doorway, no doubt expecting the room to rearrange itself around her presence. Lydia took another spoonful of preserves and continued speaking.
“I mean to buy enough ribbons to force Kitty into despair when she next writes. Perhaps gloves also. Though gloves are dull because one ruins them instantly.”
Miss Bingley seated herself beside Mrs. Hurst with deliberate elegance. “I confess myself surprised by such enthusiasm for Lambton shopping. Rural villages rarely provide anything approaching true fashion.”
Lydia stared at her blankly.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “we are not attempting to impress London.”
Mrs. Hurst coughed into her coffee.
Miss Bingley ignored this. “One must still maintain standards.”
Georgiana’s hand shook lightly as she folded her napkin and set it beside her plate. “Did you not say yesterday that you wished to visit the modiste in Lambton?”
Silence.
Miss Bingley blinked at her.
Lydia nearly kicked Georgiana beneath the table in delight.
“I merely observed,” Miss Bingley replied after a pause, “that for a provincial establishment, it might prove tolerable.”
“Then we ought certainly to go,” Lydia announced. She addressed Darcy once more. “Mr. Darcy, may we?”
Darcy lowered the letter now. “May you what?”
“Invade Lambton and bankrupt ourselves on ribbons.”
“I hardly think Lambton capable of bankrupting anyone.”
“You underestimate me gravely.”
That earned an actual laugh from him, low and brief.
Miss Bingley’s expression cooled another degree.
Elizabeth set down her cup. “I should like to see more of the village myself. We passed through so quickly before accepting Miss Darcy’s invitation.”
“You are all determined upon Lambton, then,” Mr. Bingley said cheerfully. “Excellent. I adore excursions.”
“Of course you do,” Mrs. Hurst muttered.
Darcy addressed Georgiana. “Would you enjoy going?”
Georgiana shot a look once toward Miss Bingley, then back toward her brother. “Very much.”
“Then I see no reason against it.”
Lydia clapped her hands once before propriety could stop her. “Excellent. We shall become very fashionable country ladies before dinner.”
Miss Bingley reached for her coffee with visible restraint. “One trembles to imagine the result.”
Lydia beamed at her. “You will not need to imagine it. You may witness it personally.”
Mr. Bingley grinned.
Darcy took refuge in his coffee.
Miss Bingley abandoned breakfast sooner than usual, claiming a need to prepare herself for public appearance. Lydia watched her leave with open satisfaction.
The instant the door closed, she leaned toward Georgiana.
“You were magnificent.”
Georgiana stared. “I merely repeated what she said.”
“Yes, but politely.” Lydia dropped her voice lower. “That makes it devastating.”
Color rose into Georgiana’s cheeks. “I ought not encourage you.”
“You absolutely ought.”
Darcy resumed reading his correspondence with suspicious concentration.
Lydia ignored him. “Do you suppose she still suspects we arranged the shawl catastrophe?”
“We did arrange the shawl catastrophe.”
“True, but she cannot prove it.”
Georgiana’s lips pressed together helplessly. “No one could have predicted Horace running through the stream.”
“That improved matters.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I begin to fear what encouragement at Pemberley has done to you both.”
“You are welcome,” Lydia informed her serenely.
Georgiana bent closer. “My brother and your sister did look rather…” She hesitated.
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Intimate?”
Georgiana flushed crimson.
“They did,” Lydia whispered triumphantly. “And we must accomplish it again.”
“Lydia!”
“What? We are assisting romance.”
“We are meddling.”
“Just a little.”
Across the table, Darcy lowered his letter very slowly. “I can hear every word.”
Lydia grinned at him without embarrassment. “Then you ought to be grateful.”
His expression suggested he was uncertain whether gratitude or alarm proved more appropriate.
They set out shortly before eleven beneath a sky still heavy from the rain two days’ prior. The roads remained damp in places, and the air carried the rich smell of wet earth and horses.
Miss Bingley maneuvered herself beside Darcy before the servants had even finished arranging the carriage steps.
Lydia saw it happen.
So did Georgiana.
The two exchanged a look.
“Oh no,” Lydia muttered.
Miss Bingley moved to secure Darcy’s arm and was speaking with determination about some acquaintance in London whom nobody cared about in the slightest.
Lydia acted instantly.
“Georgiana,” she announced loudly, “you promised to explain which pastry shop in Lambton sells the little sugared cakes.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
Darcy faced them just as Lydia marched directly toward his carriage and climbed inside without waiting for assistance.
Georgiana followed, trying unsuccessfully to suppress her laughter. She settled onto one seat and left the place beside her empty.
Elizabeth had already entered opposite them beside Mrs. Gardiner, leaving only two places remaining: the seat beside Georgiana and the one beside Elizabeth.
Miss Bingley tightened her hold on Darcy’s arm as they reached the carriage door. For an instant, she hesitated, plainly calculating which arrangement she preferred: to surrender Darcy to his sister or to spend the journey seated opposite him beside Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Lydia, stretched comfortably across the remaining space beside Georgiana, watched with unconcealed interest.
For one glorious moment, she believed Miss Bingley might refuse to enter altogether.
Then propriety conquered fury.
With all the graciousness of a queen accepting imprisonment, Miss Bingley seated herself beside Elizabeth.
Only then did Darcy climb into the carriage and take the vacant place beside Georgiana.
The carriage lurched forward.
Lydia began speaking. It was not intelligent or overtly coherent. She spoke continuously, opting to fill the silence that might have been awkward.
“Georgiana, if you buy blue ribbon, you must buy enough for matching slippers or the effect is tragic. Kitty once attempted yellow slippers with lavender trim and appeared like bruised custard.”
Mr. Bingley barked laughter from the carriage behind them, having apparently overheard Lydia’s loud exclamation.
Georgiana replied gamely, “I had not known custard suffered bruising.”
“It does in Hertfordshire.”
Miss Bingley attempted interruption twice during the first quarter hour and failed both times.
Lydia cut in. She darted from bonnets to dances without pause, condemned Mrs. Forster’s appalling taste in feathers, recounted with great delight the fate of a colonel’s wig that had once blown clear across Meryton in a windstorm, and demanded opinions upon whether a lady ought ever trust a gentleman who wore excessive scent.
Darcy contributed occasionally now, which Miss Bingley clearly found intolerable.
Elizabeth spent much of the journey looking out the carriage window, yet Lydia caught her sister glancing toward Darcy often enough to grow insufferably pleased with herself.
Whenever he spoke to anyone with real animation, Elizabeth’s attention strayed in his direction almost before she appeared aware of it herself.
And he did show amusement more readily now, though the sound continued to surprise Lydia whenever it escaped him. Once a person learned where to look, however, the alteration in him became impossible to miss.
When they finally rolled into Lambton, the streets bustled pleasantly beneath the warm summer sunlight.
Shop signs creaked overhead. Villagers moved steadily along the lane carrying baskets, parcels, bolts of cloth.
A pair of boys raced past the inn pursued by a woman threatening destruction upon both their souls.
Lydia loved it instantly.
Miss Bingley descended from the carriage with immense caution, lifting her skirts several inches above the damp ground.
Lydia watched thoughtfully.
Then she noticed the puddle.
Then she noticed the grubby little boy loitering beside a wagon wheel.
A dreadful idea entered her mind.
Georgiana recognized the look. “Lydia…”
“Hush.”
“You must not.”
“I absolutely must.”
Before Georgiana could interfere, Lydia slipped the boy a penny and murmured quick instructions.
The child grinned.
Two seconds later he charged directly through the puddle beside the curb.
Mud exploded upward magnificently.
Miss Bingley shrieked.
Brown water drenched the hem of her pelisse and splattered across one sleeve.
The street fell silent.
Mrs. Hurst gasped.
Mr. Bingley appeared horrified for approximately half a second before visible struggle overtook him.
Darcy closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Lydia had already arranged her features into innocence so exaggerated it became its own confession.
Lydia pressed both hands against her mouth with heroic insincerity.
“Oh dear,” she managed.