9. Chapter Nine #2
Bingley had nearly doubled over against a tree, one hand pressed to his ribs.
Georgiana’s entire countenance shone with delight.
Mr. Gardiner rested upon his fishing rod and regarded the scene with helpless disbelief while Mrs. Gardiner attempted, unsuccessfully, to conceal her amusement behind a handkerchief.
And Elizabeth—
Elizabeth bent forward with such uncontrollable mirth that tears gathered in her eyes.
Darcy saw her look at him then.
The laughter still remained in her face, but beneath it was surprise. Not ridicule. Not censure. Surprise, and something warmer that he had no right to name.
He held out his hand to Lydia.
“Forgive me.”
Lydia accepted with great dignity for a person seated in mud. “I am injured in my feelings.”
“Your feelings appear resilient.”
“My gown is not.”
“No.”
He pulled her to her feet. Mud clung to one side of her skirt from hip to hem. Lydia inspected the damage with solemn gravity, then pointed at Horace.
“That dog is a villain.”
Horace sat and chewed.
Georgiana reached them, wiping her eyes. “He has always been wicked.”
“You knew this and allowed me to fish near him?”
“I did not know you would hook the dog.”
“I did not hook him. He interfered with destiny.”
Elizabeth joined them at last, still flushed with laughter. “Lydia, you must come inside and change.”
“I shall not be driven from the field by a dog.”
“You have mud in your hair.”
Lydia touched her curls as if betrayed by nature itself. “Horace.”
The dog wagged harder.
Darcy removed the remains of the line from the shrub while Bingley attempted to coax the bait from Horace’s mouth with an offer of bread. Horace rejected this bargain. Mr. Gardiner suggested ham. Horace approved ham instantly.
Miss Bingley remained under the tree.
When Darcy finally gave her his attention, her expression had become smooth and attentive.
She had watched more than Lydia’s accident.
She had seen Georgiana laughing without fear of correction.
She had seen him laughing openly beside Elizabeth Bennet.
She had seen Elizabeth regard him as if he were not the man she had once believed.
Miss Bingley’s fan moved in short, controlled strokes.
Darcy’s laughter faded.
He disliked that he allowed it to.
Elizabeth noticed the change. Her own amusement eased, then retreated into something more cautious.
Lydia, fortunately, cared nothing for social undercurrents when covered in mud. “Miss Bingley!” she called across the grass. “You were quite right. Fishing is not genteel.”
Miss Bingley’s fan paused. “I said nothing of the kind.”
“No? Well, you should have. I would have believed you after this.”
Bingley laughed again.
Darcy looked away before Miss Bingley could see his face.
The party broke apart then, partly because Lydia required rescue from mud and partly because the fish had almost certainly fled the entire neighborhood.
Mrs. Gardiner escorted Lydia and Georgiana toward the house.
Elizabeth followed, though she turned once to look back at the stream, her bonnet ribbons stirring in the breeze.
Darcy remained with Bingley and Mr. Gardiner to untangle the ruined line.
Bingley watched the ladies depart with evident satisfaction. “That was the best morning we have had in years.”
“You did not fall in mud.”
“No, but I appreciate the sacrifice of others.”
Mr. Gardiner chuckled. “Miss Lydia has improved the sport beyond recognition.”
“She improves many things beyond recognition,” Darcy said before considering the words.
Bingley regarded him with interest.
Darcy focused on the line.
Mr. Gardiner, more tactful, busied himself with the rods.
A few minutes later, when the equipment had been gathered and the stream abandoned to peace, Darcy walked back toward the house more slowly.
The lawn bore signs of the battle: muddied grass near the bank, footprints crossing toward the shrub, one trampled patch of flowers that would alarm the gardener, and Horace’s paw marks leading proudly toward the kitchens.
He should have been annoyed.
He was not.
That too had become an increasingly common discomfort at Pemberley.
He was less annoyed than he ought to be by disorder. Less offended by Lydia’s improprieties. Less capable of pretending Miss Bingley’s barbs were harmless. Less able to maintain distance from Elizabeth when she smiled at him with sunlight on her face and laughter still warming her voice.
The morning had undone him in some small public way.
Elizabeth had seen it.
Miss Bingley had seen it too.
He entered the house through the side door and nearly collided with Mrs. Reynolds, who held a bundle of towels and wore the expression of a woman already informed of disaster.
“Miss Lydia is in the blue passage, sir,” she said. “Covered in mud and blaming Horace.”
“Accurately?”
“In part.”
“Is she injured?”
“Merely in pride and muslin.”
Darcy took the towels from her. “I will send a footman.”
Mrs. Reynolds’s eyes moved over his face with the familiarity of long service. “You are in good spirits, sir.”
He nodded toward the passage where Lydia’s voice could be heard protesting that mud ought to wash out if everyone would stop being tragic about it.
“Yes,” he said, surprising himself by not denying it. “I believe I am.”
Mrs. Reynolds took one towel back from him because, apparently, even good spirits did not qualify a master to distribute linens correctly. “Then perhaps you should remain out of the laundry arrangements.”
“Very wise.”
He left her smiling and went toward his study, intending to address estate letters before luncheon.
He did not read the first letter.
Outside the window, Elizabeth crossed the lawn with Mrs. Gardiner.
Lydia must have been handed over to maids, for Elizabeth’s gown remained clean, though she carried one muddy glove pinched between two fingers.
Georgiana trailed behind with Horace, who was wholly unrepentant.
Elizabeth spoke over her shoulder, and Georgiana chuckled again.
She was herself, and perhaps that was the difficulty. Hertfordshire had given him glimpses of her in society, sharpened by wit and guarded by prejudice. Kent had shown him anger, intelligence, and a courage that had left him bleeding in places pride had long protected.
Here he saw all of that joined to kindness. Play. Mischief. Care for her family, even when exasperated by them. Fondness for her aunt and uncle. Patience with Georgiana. Laughter offered without calculation.
He loved her more now than he had when he proposed.
The admission did not arrive as revelation.
It had been present every morning when he found himself listening for her step, every evening when he arranged his place in a room with too much concern for where she sat.
It waited in the library when he selected books she might enjoy and then chastised himself for presumption.
It was there in the foolish satisfaction of seeing her at his breakfast table.
Darcy set down the unopened letter.
This was no passing renewal of attachment. It had deepened while he had been trying to behave well enough that she might one day remember him without contempt.
A knock came at the study door.
“Come,” he said, too quickly.
Bingley entered with his usual absence of ceremony. “There you are. Caroline is in a taking.”
“That is not unusual.”
“No, but this one has direction.” Bingley dropped into the chair opposite the desk. “She says Miss Lydia requires guidance, Miss Elizabeth is encouraging impropriety by laughing at it, and Georgiana ought not to be placed under such influence.”
Darcy’s hand closed around the arm of his chair.
Bingley’s face sobered. “I thought you should know.”
“Did she say this before Georgiana?”
“No. Before Louisa. Louisa told me because she is tired of hearing it.”
Darcy rose and went to the window.
Across the lawn, Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner had disappeared from view. Georgiana stood near the rose garden now, speaking with Lydia, who had evidently changed gowns and recovered enough to gesture dramatically. Horace sat between them, tail sweeping the gravel.
“Miss Bingley is mistaken,” Darcy said.
“Yes, I rather thought so.” Bingley tapped one finger against his knee. “Miss Lydia is lively, to be sure. But Georgiana looks happier than I have seen her in some time.”
“She is happier.”
“And Miss Elizabeth?” Bingley regarded him with unusual steadiness. “I am not blind, Darcy.”
“No,” Darcy said after a moment. “I suppose you are not.”
“Caroline sees it too.” There was a word of caution in Bingley’s tone.
That, Darcy already knew. Miss Bingley had presumed upon a connection for too long, and Darcy had left it unchecked out of respect for his friendship with Bingley. A mistake, he now realized.
His attention drifted back to the view beyond the window. Lydia had taken Georgiana’s arm and was marching her toward the stables with the air of a commander leading troops. Georgiana went willingly.
Miss Bingley would not stop. The morning’s laughter had offended more than her dignity. It had shown her a Pemberley in which she did not govern Georgiana, did not command Darcy’s notice, and did not define who belonged.
She would not forgive that easily.
Bingley rose. “Shall I speak to her?”
“Not yet.”
“You seem grim.”
“I am considering whether patience remains useful.”
Bingley’s brows rose. “With Caroline?”
“With myself, primarily.”
“That sounds dreadful. I avoid such exercises.”
Then, from outside, Lydia’s voice carried faintly through the open window.
“Horace, if you steal bait again, I shall demand compensation!”
Bingley grinned. “I maintain it was the best morning in years.”
Darcy’s attention settled upon the lawn, where Elizabeth had reappeared at the edge of the garden, laughing at something Mrs. Gardiner said.
“Yes,” he replied. “It was.”
That evening, Darcy saw it happen three times before the tea tray had been removed.