18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Tea ought to have been a simple affair. Georgiana had never found it so.
Tea at Pemberley involved trays, cups, spoons, servants crossing the carpet with practiced discretion, and guests arranging themselves into little territories of intimacy or influence.
When Miss Bingley was present, it also involved invisible strings.
Georgiana had once submitted to those strings without naming them.
Someone indicated a chair. A hand settled upon her arm.
Then came the suggestion that she pour, followed by another that she play afterward.
Nothing large enough to resent aloud. Nothing unkind enough to protest without appearing ungrateful.
Today, however, Georgiana entered the drawing room knowing far too much and went directly to a chair near Miss Lydia.
Miss Bingley had remained above that morning, but her headache had improved sufficiently to permit attendance at tea.
She sat already near the best light, pale muslin arranged with artistic care, a lace shawl folded over one elbow, her expression languid enough to suggest both suffering and superiority.
Mrs. Hurst occupied the chair beside her, turning a bracelet around her wrist while Mr. Hurst lingered near the sideboard in hopes of encountering cake before conversation.
The Gardiners had returned from Lambton and had yet to join them.
Mr. Bingley stood near the mantel, speaking cheerfully to Fitzwilliam about a horse he admired in the stable.
Lydia sat on a low stool with Horace’s head in her lap, though she had been told twice already that dogs did not belong in the drawing room.
Horace disagreed.
So did Lydia.
The door opened, and the footman admitted Miss Elizabeth. She entered with color in her cheeks from the outdoors and a very determined air of appearing ordinary.
She did not succeed.
Georgiana saw it then.
She saw her brother’s whole manner change.
Not broadly. Fitzwilliam did very little broadly unless horses, tenants, or ledgers required him. His posture eased by some minute degree, his hand shifted against the mantel, and his attention settled upon Miss Elizabeth before returning to the room.
Neither did Fitzwilliam.
Lydia twisted on the stool and stared from one to the other with outrageous interest.
Georgiana nudged her with one slipper.
Lydia caught the warning, widened her eyes in perfect innocence, and stroked Horace’s ears with exaggerated attention. The door opened again, admitting her aunt and uncle Gardiner. They greeted the others amiable and sat together on a settee.
Miss Bingley surveyed Miss Elizabeth, then Fitzwilliam, before returning once more to the ribbons.
“How fortunate,” Miss Bingley said, lifting her cup, “that your drive did not overtax you, Miss Eliza. Country lanes may be very rough when one is unused to them.”
Miss Elizabeth methodically smoothed her gown. “I am not so delicate as to be undone by a Derbyshire lane.”
“No, indeed,” Lydia said from the stool. “Lizzy has survived roads, relatives, sermons, and my mother’s nerves. Derbyshire must do better if it hopes to defeat her.”
Mr. Bingley coughed into his tea.
Fitzwilliam crossed the room. “Tea, Mrs. Gardiner?”
Mrs. Gardiner, who had spent the afternoon visiting an old friend and had only recently returned, accepted with thanks and settled more comfortably into her chair.
Her presence restored a portion of Georgiana’s usual sense of safety, though Georgiana had begun to suspect that safety and obedience were not the same thing.
That was an uncomfortable thought. Lydia would likely have enjoyed it.
Miss Bingley attempted to insert herself into the conversation. “My dear Georgiana, Mrs. Gardiner prefers only a little sugar, and my brother takes cream with his tea. You must be careful not to confuse everyone’s cups.”
Georgiana had been reaching for the teapot.
Her hand paused.
For years, such a remark would have settled the matter. She would have accepted the correction, though no correction had been asked for. Miss Bingley had a gift for speaking as though decisions had already been made somewhere above Georgiana’s head.
Lydia’s fingers stilled upon Horace’s fur.
Fitzwilliam remained where he sat, unmoving.
Miss Elizabeth lowered herself into a chair near the window, but her attention rested upon Georgiana now. Not pressing nor expectant. Merely present.
Georgiana lifted the teapot.
“I know how everyone takes their tea, Miss Bingley.”
The room did not stop.
That would have been dramatic, and life rarely did Georgiana the courtesy of behaving like a scene in a novel.
Still, several small things happened together.
Mr. Bingley’s spoon struck his saucer. Lydia sucked in a breath and disguised it badly by bending over Horace.
Fitzwilliam’s gaze shifted from the fire to his sister, his expression unreadable to anyone who did not know him.
Miss Elizabeth’s eyes warmed, though her mouth remained serious.
Miss Bingley blinked once.
“Oh.” She recovered with considerable speed. “Of course. I merely meant to be helpful.”
Georgiana poured Mrs. Gardiner’s tea with only a little sugar, handed Mr. Bingley his cup with cream, and passed Lydia’s across without being asked. Finally, she prepared Fitzwilliam’s exactly as he preferred and set it before him.
“You remembered all of us,” Mrs. Gardiner said with a smile.
“I should hope so,” Lydia declared. “Miss Darcy has known Mr. Bingley for years, and I have explained my views on sugar at least six times since our arrival.”
“Seven,” Georgiana said quietly.
Lydia stared at her in delight. “You see? She knows everything.”
Miss Bingley’s smile thinned.
There it was again: the softer cage. If Georgiana obeyed, she was agreeable; if she demonstrated competence, she was merely indulging a harmless talent.
The servant entered then with another plate of cakes, saving everyone from whatever Miss Bingley had intended to say next. Georgiana wrapped both hands around her own cup, the warmth prickling through the porcelain.
She had not yielded.
A small no.
A polite no.
Her pulse had no cause to beat so hard.
Miss Bingley did not surrender the field. She never did. After a few minutes of conversation about the weather, the Lambton shops, and Mr. Hurst’s opinion of cheese, she tried again.
“Georgiana, I had meant to ask whether you have written to Lady Catherine. She will expect some account of your summer. I am sure your brother would not wish such family attentions neglected.”
Fitzwilliam’s expression grew displeased at Lady Catherine’s name and at Miss Bingley’s audacity to pretend such familiarity.
Georgiana stirred her tea though she had not taken sugar. “I wrote last week.”
“How dutiful. Did you tell her of all your guests?”
The spoon touched the cup too sharply.
Georgiana stopped stirring.
Miss Bingley’s tone had remained light. Nothing improper had been said. Everyone in the room understood the meaning lying beneath the question. Guests. Connections. The Bennets. The Gardiners. Lydia with Horace’s head in her lap and mud still faintly visible on the hem of one walking dress.
Georgiana had been trained to detect such meanings long before she learned what to do with them.
“I wrote of my brother’s friends,” she said.
Miss Bingley lifted her brows. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
Lydia hugged Horace’s head against her middle with such satisfaction that the dog sneezed.
Miss Bingley twisted her cup in its saucer. “How very open of you. I hope Lady Catherine will appreciate the… variety of society Pemberley has enjoyed.”
Miss Elizabeth said nothing. That made it worse.
Georgiana found Miss Elizabeth attending to the embroidery frame in her lap with too much concentration. The color from the drive had faded a little.
Fitzwilliam crossed the room.
He did not hurry. He did not challenge Miss Bingley. He merely moved to the table near Miss Elizabeth, took up a book lying there, and asked, “Did you find the passage you mentioned yesterday?”
Miss Elizabeth’s fingers loosened around the frame. “I did.”
“Then you must show it to me later. I remain unconvinced by your interpretation.”
“That is because you are obstinate.”
“So, I have been informed.”
Lydia’s mouth parted with obvious delight.
Georgiana nearly smiled into her tea.
Miss Bingley’s hand tightened around her cup.
This was new too. Fitzwilliam choosing, publicly and without flourish, to continue a conversation with Miss Elizabeth instead of accepting the currents Miss Bingley attempted to set.
It should not have astonished Georgiana.
He had never belonged to Miss Bingley. However, his courteous and repeated refusal of the role she had designated for him felt akin to an internally unlocked door.
Miss Bingley again addressed Georgiana.
“You must play after tea,” she said. “I have had so much headache today that nothing save your music could restore me.”
Georgiana placed her cup upon the table.
Another string.
Another pull.
Her throat closed a little, but anger came this time with the discomfort. A little. Enough to help.
“I do not care to perform this afternoon.”
Miss Bingley’s fan opened.
“Perform? My dear girl, you know we do not consider it performance among friends.”
Georgiana’s fingers pressed into the folds of her gown. Lydia had stopped stroking Horace altogether. Mrs. Gardiner sat very still near the tea tray. Fitzwilliam’s attention remained on the book in his hand, though Georgiana knew he was listening to every word.
“I prefer not to play,” Georgiana said.
Miss Bingley gave a soft, indulgent sound. “You are shy today. I shall choose something easy. Perhaps the Mozart air your brother favors.”
There were moments in which Georgiana could still feel the old habit rise first. Agree. Move. Please everyone. Avoid notice. Let the discomfort pass.