18. Chapter Eighteen #2
Then she remembered Miss Bingley in the corridor the day before.
Too young to judge properly. Brought back to proper influence.
Georgiana had heard the words from Lydia’s mouth afterward, but Lydia’s voice had carried too much anger to soften them.
Miss Bingley did not think her shy. She thought her manageable.
Georgiana set her hands upon the arms of her chair and stood.
The motion startled her almost as much as anyone else.
“I prefer to answer for myself, Miss Bingley.”
The words were not loud.
They did not need to be.
Mr. Hurst, who had been selecting a cake, paused with the tongs suspended above the plate.
Mr. Bingley stared into his cup.
Miss Elizabeth’s embroidery needle halted midair.
Fitzwilliam faced fully toward Georgiana.
Miss Bingley’s fan remained open, but it no longer moved.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
Georgiana’s knees wanted very much to tremble. She locked them beneath her skirt and hoped no one would notice.
“I know whether I wish to play,” she said. “I do not wish it presently.”
Lydia made a tiny strangled sound.
It might have been pride. It might have been distress from having to remain silent. With Lydia, both were possible.
Miss Bingley recovered enough to laugh lightly. “Of course, dear Georgiana. No one wished to compel you.”
“No,” Georgiana said, because once the first no had emerged, the second came more readily. “But you often decide before I have answered.”
That was too much perhaps.
Or perhaps exactly enough.
Georgiana’s fingers curled against her skirt.
Fitzwilliam crossed the remaining space between them. He did not touch her; he would not embarrass her before guests. But he came near enough that she knew he stood with her.
“I believe my sister has expressed herself clearly.”
Miss Bingley’s complexion altered.
Lydia rose from the stool so quickly Horace’s head dropped to the rug. He lifted it with offended dignity.
“Excellent decision, Miss Darcy,” Lydia announced. “Performances after tea are oppressive. Everyone sits and pretends not to wonder whether cake remains.”
“Lydia,” Miss Elizabeth said, though the rebuke lacked force.
Mr. Bingley laughed once and then converted it into a cough. “I confess I have wondered that very thing.”
Mr. Hurst lowered the tongs. “Cake remains.”
“Then the afternoon is saved,” Lydia declared.
The release of tension arrived unevenly. Mrs. Gardiner moved to Elizabeth’s side. Mr. Gardiner changed the subject as though mitigating conflict was a habit. He accepted a fresh cup of tea, and began speaking to Mr. Darcy of Lambton roads.
Miss Bingley sat through it all with a smile that had become an effort.
Georgiana remained standing beside her chair, unsure whether to sit again or flee.
Lydia solved the problem in her usual fashion.
“Miss Darcy, come help me rescue Horace from despair. He has been denied cake and may never recover.”
Horace thumped his tail.
Miss Bingley drew herself up. “Surely Miss Darcy need not concern herself with the dog.”
Georgiana crossed to Lydia. “I shall come.”
The simple choice steadied her more than the chair had.
Lydia’s grin flashed bright and triumphant, though she somehow worked not to fling herself across the room in celebration. Georgiana appreciated the restraint more than she could say.
They crossed toward the window seat where Horace had flopped against the carpet with theatrical suffering. Georgiana knelt beside him, accepting the excuse to lower her face and gather herself. Lydia crouched nearby and pretended to inspect the dog’s ears.
“That,” Lydia whispered, “was magnificent.”
Georgiana touched Horace’s head. “I thought I might be ill.”
“All the best victories produce that sensation.”
“I do not think that is true.”
“It ought to be. Makes them more memorable.”
Georgiana stole a brief look across the room.
Fitzwilliam stood near Mr. Gardiner, but his attention rested upon her for a moment before returning to the conversation.
His expression undid her more than Miss Bingley’s displeasure had.
Pride, yes, but also regret. Tenderness. Apology. He had heard her. He had seen.
Georgiana bent over Horace again and rubbed behind his ears.
The dog sighed with shameless pleasure.
“Horace approves,” Lydia said. “That is the highest judgment in this household.”
“I thought Mrs. Reynolds held that honor.”
“Mrs. Reynolds and Horace govern different departments.”
Georgiana’s laugh escaped too quickly. Miss Bingley looked over. Georgiana’s first impulse was still to lower her voice.
She did not.
She laughed again, softer but unhidden.
Miss Bingley looked away.
The remainder of tea passed with peculiar civility.
Miss Bingley spoke less. When she addressed Georgiana, the tone had altered by a fraction, each phrase now edged with caution.
Fitzwilliam remained attentive without hovering.
Miss Elizabeth was quieter than she had been before the drive, though whenever she and Fitzwilliam exchanged a word, the air around them seemed to gather itself.
Georgiana did not know what exactly had happened during their outing.
Lydia plainly believed she did.
Several times Georgiana caught her friend watching them with the eager satisfaction of a general observing troops move exactly as planned.
When Mrs. Hurst proposed returning to her sister’s room before dinner, Miss Bingley accepted the suggestion with a relief she failed to disguise. Mr. Hurst followed on the promise that dinner would come eventually, and Mr. Bingley escorted his sisters out with an expression of divided loyalties.
The room eased after they left.
There was no announcement of it. No one sighed dramatically. Georgiana felt the difference in the way Mrs. Gardiner took up her embroidery, in the way Lydia sprawled halfway onto the rug beside Horace, in the way Fitzwilliam crossed at last to Georgiana’s chair.
“Will you walk with me?” he asked.
Georgiana rose.
Lydia sat up instantly. “Shall I come?”
“No,” Georgiana said, then nearly laughed at Lydia’s wounded face. “I mean, not this time.”
Lydia pressed a hand to her heart. “Cast off after all my devotion.”
“You are never cast off.”
“That is better.”
Fitzwilliam offered Georgiana his arm. She accepted it, and together they left the drawing room for the corridor leading toward the library.
They did not go far. Fitzwilliam led her into the small blue parlor overlooking the east lawn, where the afternoon light lay pale across the carpet and the house sounded distant enough for truth.