5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Georgiana had not meant to race. She knew better than to press her mare along the approach when the path curved near the east side of the house.
She knew every turn of it, every dip where rain gathered after a storm, every place where grooms sometimes appeared without warning when coming from the stables.
Her brother had reminded her often enough, and usually she obeyed such reminders before he had occasion to speak them.
But Pemberley had appeared between the trees.
After days of travel and weeks of London company before that, the sight of home had risen before her with such force that caution loosened.
The pale stone caught the afternoon light beyond the sweep of lawn, and the windows flashed as the road descended.
The stream shone below, half hidden by summer foliage.
Everything smelled of warm grass, horse, and leaves bruised beneath hooves.
Home.
Her mare gathered herself eagerly beneath her, and Georgiana let her go.
Behind her, Fitzwilliam called her name.
She heard him. She did not stop. For the first time in months, perhaps longer, no one watched her with expectation.
No one asked whether she was tired before she had decided it herself.
No one arranged her shawl, improved her answers, praised her complexion, or spoke of what would suit her.
There was the rushing path, the mare’s stride, and Pemberley growing larger through the trees.
Fitzwilliam would scold her. Not severely. He would draw his brows together and speak of caution and uneven ground. Perhaps he would ask if she intended to break her neck within sight of the house and alarm Mrs. Reynolds beyond repair.
She almost smiled at the thought. That would astonish him. Earlier in the evening he had shown genuine amusement more than once, and she had not expected it after the strange weeks following his return from Kent.
He had come back altered, though Georgiana could not initially have explained why.
Her brother had always been serious. That was hardly remarkable.
Responsibility clung to him as naturally as ease did to Bingley.
After Kent, the gravity in him had deepened into something heavier and more distant.
He would sit with letters open before him and stare at the same page for several minutes together.
His rides lasted longer than before. At dinner, he answered politely enough, then withdrew into himself in a manner that discouraged further conversation.
Even Bingley’s relentless cheerfulness rarely reached him there.
Miss Bingley attributed it to exhaustion and estate concerns.
Georgiana accepted the explanation for a while.
Then small inconsistencies began troubling her.
The shift in his expression whenever Hertfordshire arose in conversation.
The fractional hesitation before he answered any mention of Rosings.
Once in London, Miss Bingley had made some cutting remark regarding the “wildness” of country families, and Fitzwilliam had lowered his glass with such force that the stem struck the table sharply enough to interrupt the entire conversation.
No one else had remarked upon it. Georgiana had. She had noticed many things she lacked courage to ask about.
Miss Bingley had filled every silence with herself.
She did not mean to be cruel, Georgiana sometimes told herself.
Miss Bingley could be attentive. She brought books, praised music, advised on gowns, and spoke warmly of Pemberley in a way that suggested admiration for the house, if not always for the person who lived there.
Being near her was like sitting beneath too many candles: excessively bright, uncomfortably warm, and dreadfully exhausting.
When Fitzwilliam had announced he must ride ahead, dread had pressed so hard beneath Georgiana’s ribs that she had nearly pricked her finger before she actually did.
Miss Bingley would have placed her beside her in the carriage. She would have spoken for her at inns. She would have said, “Dear Georgiana is tired,” when Georgiana was merely bored, and “Dear Georgiana is shy,” when Georgiana wished for time to answer.
Then Fitzwilliam had asked.
Would she prefer to come with him? Such a simple thing. A question. A choice placed in her hands even if they were not strong enough to hold it. The memory warmed her even as the mare rounded the side of the house too quickly.
A flash of pale muslin appeared on the path. Georgiana pulled hard on the reins. The mare reared.
For one terrible instant, the world became a blur of tossing mane, sky, and the sharp cry of a stranger below. Georgiana clung with her knees, one hand tight on the reins, the other gripping the saddle as the mare came down with a jolt that rattled through her bones.
The girl on the path had fallen backward into the grass.
Georgiana’s stomach dropped. “Oh! Oh, I beg your pardon!” She fought the reins into order as her mare sidestepped, snorting. “Are you hurt? Pray, say you are not hurt.”
The young lady on the ground pushed herself up on one elbow, her bonnet askew, one glove smeared with dirt. She glared with magnificent outrage.
“Am I hurt? You nearly killed me!”
Georgiana swung down from the saddle too hastily. Her boot struck uneven ground, and a brief twinge ran through her ankle before she caught the reins and steadied herself.
She winced, then hurried forward despite it. “I am so sorry. I was going too fast, and I did not see you until the turn.”
“That is generally the difficulty with running people down,” the girl cried, sitting upright and brushing grass from her sleeve. “One does not see them until they are beneath the horse.”
Georgiana crouched beside her, mortification burning through her face. “Please allow me to help you. Shall I call for someone? Are you able to stand?”
“I am able to stand if I am not trampled again in the attempt.”
The answer should not have been funny. It was not funny. Not exactly. The girl’s bonnet had slipped almost over one ear, and her eyes flashed with such offended life that Georgiana had to press her lips together before any inappropriate sound escaped.
“I promise not to trample you,” Georgiana said, offering both hands.
The stranger eyed her with suspicion, then accepted.
Georgiana helped pull her up. The girl stumbled once, caught Georgiana’s arm, then straightened and shook out her skirts with brisk indignation.
“There. I am not dead. Though it is no thanks to you.”
“No,” Georgiana said. “It is not.”
The girl stared up, perhaps surprised by the agreement.
She was young. Near Georgiana’s own age, though there was nothing hesitant in the way she stood or spoke.
Her cheeks were flushed from the fall, her curls tumbled beneath the crooked bonnet, and her whole person vibrated with motion even when still.
Georgiana had never seen anyone be so vigorously injured.
She brushed dirt from her glove, then paused. “I suppose I ought to introduce myself before I continue abusing you. I am Miss Lydia Bennet.”
Bennet.
The name struck through Georgiana’s mind like the note of a bell.
Bennet. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Fitzwilliam’s Miss Elizabeth Bennet, though Georgiana would never dare call her so aloud.
Her fingers tightened involuntarily around her riding crop. “Miss Bennet,” Georgiana repeated.
“Yes.” Lydia adjusted her bonnet, made it worse, and abandoned the attempt. “Of Longbourn in Hertfordshire. Though at present I am being dragged through Derbyshire against my will.”
Georgiana scarcely knew what to do with that. She lowered her eyes, then remembered she had not answered with her own name. “I am Miss Darcy.”
Lydia stopped fussing with her bonnet. Every bit of anger vanished from her face, replaced by open astonishment. “Miss Darcy? As in Mr. Darcy’s sister?”
Georgiana’s pleasure vanished almost as quickly as Lydia’s indignation had. She recognized the look. Young ladies often changed around her after learning who her brother was.
She drew herself up a little. “Yes.”
Lydia, however, did not simper or look reverent.
She pointed back toward the house with an expression of delighted recognition.
“We met your brother in Hertfordshire last autumn. Well, I met him. He hardly spoke to anyone, of course, which was excessively disagreeable, though very grand. Lizzy said—” She stopped abruptly, then eyed Georgiana with curiosity. “You are truly his sister?”
“I am.”
“How astonishing. I was nearly killed by Mr. Darcy’s sister.”
Georgiana stared at her.
Lydia then emitted a sound of amusement. Not politely or prettily. Her laughter suggested the event had surpassed its tragic nature, becoming overwhelmingly ludicrous.
Georgiana’s guard lowered by one cautious inch. “I hope,” she said, “that will not be how you describe me to others.”
“Oh, I shall certainly mention it to Kitty.” Lydia bent to retrieve a fallen ribbon from the grass. “She will be vastly entertained. But I shall add that you were very sorry and nearly twisted your own ankle, which makes it less wicked.”
“My ankle is quite well,” Georgiana lied.
Lydia peered down at it. “The way you are standing suggests it is not.”
Georgiana shifted her weight and failed to hide the wince.
“You see?” Lydia said triumphantly. “I am an excellent observer.”
“So, it appears.”
A groom came running from the direction of the stables, his cap in hand and alarm in every line of him. “Miss Darcy! Begging your pardon, miss, I saw the mare rear.”
Georgiana addressed him with relief. “Thomas, take her, please. She was startled but unhurt, I think.”
The groom accepted the reins and ran a practiced hand along the mare’s neck. “Aye, miss, she’s sound enough. Shall I walk her in?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Thomas glanced once toward Lydia, then wisely asked no questions.
Lydia watched him lead the mare away. “You have a great many servants.”
Georgiana considered the house. “Yes.”