8. Chapter Eight #3
“Your brother concerns himself far too much.” Lydia had once considered the man stiff and overbearing. These days, she regarded his protectiveness with considerably more generosity.
Something softened in Georgiana then, affection and exasperation mingling together. “He does indeed.”
Lydia hopped down from the stone edging and caught at a long blade of grass, winding it absently around one finger. “Lizzy claims I possess no judgment whatsoever.”
“You possess enthusiasm.”
“That is merely judgment moving at a dangerous speed.”
The reply drew another bright peal of amusement from Georgiana.
She liked seeing that ease appear.
They reached the small stream beyond the formal gardens where they had walked on their first day. Willow branches trailed low across the water. Horace plunged directly into the shallows without invitation.
“Horace!” Georgiana called.
The dog ignored her entirely and began splashing with criminal joy.
Lydia unlaced and removed her half-boots before Georgiana could protest and stepped into the stream after him.
“You cannot possibly intend—”
“It is only water.” Lydia lifted her skirts carelessly higher. “Come along.”
“I have no wish to soak my stockings.”
“Coward.”
Georgiana stood upon the bank looking scandalized for perhaps ten seconds before removing her own shoes with reluctant dignity.
The dignity lasted until Horace shook water across both their skirts. Lydia shrieked. Georgiana burst into helpless laughter. By the time they reached the house nearly an hour later, Georgiana’s curls had escaped their pins and Lydia carried her boots in one hand.
Miss Bingley waited upon the terrace. “Oh,” she said after a visible pause. “There you are.”
Lydia instantly understood two things. First, Miss Bingley disapproved of damp hems. Second, Georgiana had spent years reacting to that tone. Her friend slowed beside her.
“We walked farther than intended,” she said.
Miss Bingley’s eyes traveled over the disordered curls, muddy slippers, and flushed faces. “I observe that.”
Lydia expected correction next. Or polished disapproval disguised as concern.
Instead, Miss Bingley addressed Georgiana directly.
“My dear, you must change before luncheon. You will catch cold wandering about in such condition.”
“I am perfectly well.”
Miss Bingley shook her head disapprovingly. “You never think of consequences until afterward.”
Georgiana shrank inward again. Lydia disliked it instantly.
“We were enjoying ourselves,” she interrupted.
Miss Bingley kept her attention fixed upon Georgiana. “Enjoyment rarely excuses imprudence.”
Lydia opened her mouth.
Georgiana touched her sleeve lightly before she could speak. Not warning exactly. More plea than warning. Lydia shut her mouth with difficulty.
Miss Bingley continued speaking about dry stockings and proper care of one’s health all the way inside while Lydia walked behind them grinding her teeth.
They ignored Miss Bingley’s lecture but changed as soon as they reached their rooms, agreeing that obedience counted for very little when one refused to appear chastened by it.
At luncheon Darcy asked why their skirts were damp earlier.
Lydia answered cheerfully. “Horace attempted murder.”
Darcy gave his attention to his sister.
Georgiana lowered her gaze to her plate before answering. “We walked by the stream.”
“That explains the condition of the dog,” Darcy replied.
Horace, sprawled beneath the table after stealing cold ham from somewhere, wagged his tail against Lydia’s ankle. He was clean and nearly dry after a servant rubbed him down.
Miss Bingley sighed. “I warned Georgiana she would regret venturing out without proper caution.”
Darcy’s fork paused. “She has walked those grounds since childhood,” he said evenly. “I think she may manage a stream.”
Miss Bingley colored slightly.
Lydia pretended deep fascination with her potatoes.
After luncheon, she and Georgiana escaped again.
This time they hid in the music room. Not the formal one downstairs where Miss Bingley preferred elegant suffering and Italian pieces no one genuinely enjoyed.
The smaller room above the library where sunlight fell unevenly across the pianoforte and shelves overflowed with music in cheerful disorder.
Lydia sprawled sideways upon the window seat turning pages randomly while Georgiana sorted through loose sheets near the instrument.
“You truly dislike large parties?” Lydia asked.
Georgiana’s brow furrowed. “Why do you sound astonished every time?”
“Because you are beautiful and rich and elegant.”
She laughed. “That sounds exhausting when listed together.”
“Well yes, but fashionable ladies generally enjoy admiration.”
“Besides, I am not yet out.” Georgiana lowered herself onto the pianoforte bench slowly, arranging several pages of music beside her.
“I do not know how to explain it.” She traced one finger absently along the edge of the keys.
“The thought of large parties—though I have yet to attend one—terrifies me. There, everyone wishes you to become whatever pleases them most. If you are shy, they speak for you. If you speak suddenly, they look startled. If you dislike dancing three hours consecutively, someone insists you must continue because young ladies ought to enjoy balls.”
“You could simply refuse.”
Georgiana gave her a look of genuine confusion. “Could I?”
“Yes.” She had. Lydia had even continued dancing once after such a refusal, much to Elizabeth’s dismay.
“That sounds terrifying.”
Lydia stared. “You are serious.”
“Entirely.”
Her confusion mounted. “But… if you dislike something, why endure it?”
Georgiana giggled at that. “Because refusing people becomes difficult once they expect compliance.”
She shook her head. “That is absurd.”
“Perhaps.”
Lydia tossed the music pages aside and sat upright. “No wonder Miss Bingley orders you about constantly. Everyone permits it.”
Georgiana’s fingers stilled upon the keys. “She means it kindly most of the time.”
“She means to arrange your entire existence.” There was nothing kind about Miss Bingley’s behavior. She meant to control.
“That is not wholly unfair.” Georgiana hesitated. “People often assume I require guidance.”
“You do not.”
Georgiana regarded her oddly for a moment, uncertain whether to laugh or object.
Lydia continued before the moment could grow uncomfortable. “Lizzy orders me sometimes too,” she admitted. “Though generally because I deserve it.”
“I do not think you enjoy obedience.”
Most assuredly not. “I despise it.”
“That was already apparent.” Georgiana giggled.
Lydia scoffed loudly enough to startle Horace awake beneath the window. The dog groaned and changed position without opening his eyes.
“Then why,” Lydia demanded, “do you not simply tell Miss Bingley to leave you alone?”
Georgiana’s fingers drifted to the edge of the pianoforte. The answer took time coming. “She was very attentive to me after Ramsgate, even though she did not know the cause of my melancholy.”
Lydia frowned. “Ramsgate?”
Georgiana hesitated again.
“You need not tell me anything distasteful,” Lydia said more gently, even though she was dying of curiosity.
“No. I…” Georgiana rearranged the sheet music unnecessarily. She had not intended to speak of it. Lydia had praised Wickham more than once, and the thought of allowing her to continue admiring him had become intolerable.
“You should know, perhaps. Maybe then you will understand I am not as sweet or as angelic. My brother said Mr. Wickham was in Hertfordshire.”
Lydia’s head jerked upward. “Wickham?”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between them, broken by birds outside the open windows and Horace snoring faintly against the wall.
Georgiana spoke without looking directly at Lydia. “My father favored Mr. Wickham greatly when they were boys. He was meant for the church eventually. My father assisted his education and trusted him completely.”
“That sounds exactly like Wickham,” Lydia muttered. “Everyone trusts him.”
Georgiana’s hands wove together. “He persuaded me last summer that my brother wished to separate us unfairly. I was foolish and lonely and very ready to believe someone charming.”
Lydia stopped moving restlessly where she sat.
Georgiana continued, though her voice caught once midway through the sentence. “He wished for me to elope with him.”
Lydia rose so abruptly the window-seat cushion slid sideways beneath her. She stared across the scattered music sheets at Georgiana’s bent head and thought first, absurdly, of red regimentals and laughing officers and Brighton.
Then she pictured Georgiana traveling with him, trusting him. She thought of how she herself had come to admire him without question.
“How old are you?” Lydia asked abruptly.
“Sixteen.”
Lydia’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.
“You are my age.”
“Yes.”
“And he—”
“Is older. Considerably.”
Horace raised his head at the sharpness entering Lydia’s voice.
Georgiana spoke quickly then, perhaps mistaking Lydia’s anger. “Nothing ultimately occurred. My brother found us before—before anything irreparable happened.”