9. Chapter Nine #4
She crashed through Miss Bingley’s maneuvers with ribbons, nonsense, abrupt laughter, and appalling questions.
She did not always do it gracefully. Once she interrupted Bingley in the middle of a story merely because Miss Bingley had leaned too near Georgiana.
Twice she spoke too loudly. She also knocked over a footstool and blamed Horace, who was not in the room.
Still, every time Georgiana began to withdraw, Lydia drew the attention elsewhere.
Darcy saw it.
He had been blind to many things, but not this. Not now.
Near eleven, the ladies rose. Mrs. Gardiner wished everyone good night first. Elizabeth followed after her aunt, pausing long enough to make sure Lydia had not abandoned her shawl again.
Miss Bingley lingered near Darcy with some remark about tomorrow’s breakfast arrangements, but Bingley unintentionally rescued him by asking whether the fish in the stream were always so intelligent or had merely been warned by Horace.
When Darcy had answered, Miss Bingley had no choice but to leave.
Lydia was last in the hall.
She carried a candle in one hand and a book in the other, though Darcy suspected the book belonged to Georgiana. Her expression held the satisfied fatigue of a person who had fought several battles without acknowledging any of them.
“Miss Lydia,” Darcy said.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs and faced him with instant suspicion. “If this concerns the footstool, I maintain the dog looked guilty earlier.”
“Horace was in the kitchens.”
“That is what made him clever.”
Darcy came close to smiling, then remembered what he meant to say. “It does not concern the footstool.”
Lydia shifted the candle to her other hand. “Then have I done something else?”
“Several things.”
Her chin jutted out. “That sounds ominous.”
“I wished to thank you.”
That quieted her more thoroughly than any rebuke might have done.
The candle flame bent slightly in a draft from the corridor. Lydia tipped her head toward the stairs, then gave him her full attention. “For what?”
“For my sister.”
Her grip grew more firm around the book.
Darcy lowered his voice, though no one remained near enough to overhear. “You have observed Miss Bingley’s effect upon her.”
Lydia’s face changed in a flash: defensiveness first, then something fiercer. “Miss Bingley likes arranging people.”
“Yes.”
“She makes Georgiana smaller.”
The plainness of it struck him.
Darcy studied the darkened drawing room where Miss Bingley had held court half the evening. “I fear she has been permitted to do so too long.”
“Well,” Lydia said, too quickly, “I am not permitting it.”
“No. You are not.”
For a heartbeat she seemed uncertain what to do with praise. Her attention dropped to the book before she tucked it more securely against her side.
“I do not do it very elegantly,” she admitted.
“Elegance is not always the chief requirement.”
Lydia stared at him, then gave a small snort. “Miss Bingley would expire if she heard you say so.”
“I shall endeavor not to endanger her.”
That won a laugh from her, brief and surprised.
Darcy leaned one hand against the newel post. “Georgiana has been happier since your arrival.”
Lydia’s face warmed with pleasure before she could hide it. “She is easy to like.”
“Not everyone has found it easy to know her.”
“That is because they do all the talking.”
He could not dispute it.
From above, a door opened and Elizabeth’s voice drifted faintly down the stairs. “Lydia?”
Lydia raised her head. “Coming!”
Then she went back, feeling awkward. “I am still angry with Lizzy, you know.”
“I had gathered that.”
“She ruined Brighton.”
“So I understand.”
“But…” Lydia scowled at the candle flame, perhaps for making the moment too serious. “Georgiana should not have to be managed all the time. Nobody likes it. And Miss Bingley is worse than Lizzy because Lizzy at least scolds honestly.”
Darcy pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.
“I shall value the distinction.”
“You should.”
Elizabeth called again, closer now. “Lydia, are you coming to bed or composing an opera in the hall?”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “She has no appreciation for diplomacy.”
Darcy stepped back from the stairs. “Good night, Miss Lydia.”
She held up her candle with a little flourish. “Good night, Mr. Darcy. Do not worry. I shall guard your sister tomorrow as well.”
“I do not doubt it.”
Lydia climbed three steps, then paused. “Though if Miss Bingley says anything about my laugh again, I may become less diplomatic.”
“I shall prepare myself.”
“That would be wise.”
She went up the stairs, slippers tapping against the wood, candlelight bobbing along the wall. At the landing, Elizabeth waited in her dressing gown with a shawl drawn over her shoulders. Her attention shifted from Lydia to Darcy, brows raised.
Lydia said something too low for him to hear.
Elizabeth lowered her gaze to the staircase.
For one moment their eyes met across the dim hall.
Darcy bowed, more because he needed something to do than because ceremony required it at such an hour.
Elizabeth’s mouth twisted with amusement.
Darcy remained below until their candlelight disappeared.
From somewhere deep in the house, Horace barked once, then fell silent.