19. Chapter Nineteen #2
Bingley shifted uncomfortably. Mrs. Hurst glanced toward the path. Mr. Gardiner closed his sketchbook halfway, as if prepared to intervene should good manners fail.
Elizabeth did not speak. Still, her hand remained on his sleeve, steadying him by the mere fact of its presence.
Miss Bingley’s color rose. “I meant no offense.”
“Then we shall consider the matter ended.”
It was not ended. Not truly. Darcy knew that as they resumed walking. Miss Bingley had been checked in front of the very people she wished to impress. She would not forgive it, though she would disguise resentment beneath injured elegance for as long as she found disguise useful.
They reached the highest point near noon.
Mr. Gardiner sketched, Mrs. Gardiner sat beneath a tree, and Bingley attempted to identify distant farms with such confident inaccuracy that Darcy had to correct him three times.
Elizabeth joined in with questions about the tenants, the land, and the spring flooding near the lower fields.
Darcy answered readily. It pleased him beyond reason to speak of such things to her.
Estate matters had once been duty, necessary and unadorned.
In Elizabeth’s presence, even fences and drainage acquired unexpected life.
Miss Bingley attempted to redirect the subject toward London. “Surely, Mr. Darcy, you cannot prefer such rustic concerns to the society awaiting you in Town. One must not bury oneself among farmers and tradesmen.”
Mr. Gardiner’s pencil paused.
Darcy felt the words like grit beneath his teeth.
Elizabeth’s posture altered.
Mrs. Gardiner lowered her sewing.
Darcy faced Miss Bingley fully. “My tenants are not rustic concerns. They are people whose labor supports this estate and whose welfare rests, in part, with me. As for trade, I have found intelligence and integrity among men engaged in business as readily as among those who boast older names and poorer conduct.”
Mr. Gardiner resumed sketching after a single beat. “You are generous, Darcy.”
“No. Merely accurate.”
Elizabeth looked down toward the valley, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
Miss Bingley fell silent.
Darcy did not regret a word.
By the time they reached the house, Lydia and Georgiana had reappeared near the lower paddock with Horace, two grass stains, and one account of sheep persecution so confused that no one could determine whether Horace had chased the sheep, the sheep had chased Horace, or Lydia had endangered both parties by attempting arbitration.
Georgiana was flushed with exertion and more animated than Darcy had seen her during any season since Ramsgate.
She walked between Lydia and Horace, speaking with her hands as she described the event to Elizabeth.
Lydia interrupted frequently to defend herself.
Elizabeth scolded and laughed in nearly equal measure.
Darcy walked several paces behind them with Bingley.
“Your sister is happy,” Bingley said.
“Yes.”
“She and Miss Lydia are an unexpected pair.”
“Very.”
“I begin to think unexpected pairs are the most successful ones.”
Darcy looked at him.
Bingley gazed ahead where Elizabeth had just accepted Georgiana’s arm while Lydia tripped over Horace’s lead. His expression held more thought than usual.
“You are thinking of Miss Bennet,” Darcy said.
Bingley did not pretend otherwise. “Almost constantly.”
“You should write to her.”
“I should do more than write.”
Darcy let that rest between them.
Bingley looked toward him. “After Pemberley?”
“Yes.”
“If Caroline objects?”
“She will.”
Bingley’s face lost all expression. “Then she may object.”
It was not a declaration suited to poetry, but from Bingley it was a revolution.
Darcy clapped him once upon the shoulder.
Ahead, Lydia spun around. “Are you two conspiring? Miss Darcy, gentlemen are conspiring behind us.”
Georgiana peered back and called, “Then we must conspire faster.”
Darcy raised a brow at his sister.
She blushed and faced forward.
Lydia looked ready to burst from pride.
Later, while the party rested before dinner, Darcy found Georgiana and Lydia in the library attempting to hide a string beneath one of the smaller tables. Horace sat nearby with the expression of a dog who had already betrayed them and would do so again for a biscuit.
Darcy stopped in the doorway.
Lydia froze.
Georgiana hid the string behind her skirt, which was useless, as half of it remained visible near her foot.
“Do I wish to know?” Darcy asked.
“No,” Lydia said.
Georgiana said at the same time, “It is nothing.”
Darcy entered, closed the door behind him, and regarded the table, the string, the guilty dog, and the two young ladies with growing suspicion. “Nothing is rarely so elaborate.”
Lydia stepped in front of Georgiana. “If Miss Bingley should attempt to sit between you and Lizzy at dinner, one might need to retrieve a dropped object.”
“With string?”
“Objects roll.”
“Under tables?”
“Often.”
Georgiana gave up and began laughing into her hand.
Darcy should have reprimanded them. He was older, master of the house, guardian, host, and a man already fighting a losing war against disorder. Instead, he crossed to the table, took the end of the string, and examined the proposed arrangement.
“You would trip a footman.”
Lydia frowned. “Would I?”
“Certainly.”
“That is unfortunate. I like the footmen.”
“Then abandon this strategy.”
Georgiana lowered her hand. “We wished to help.”
“I know.” Darcy set the string upon the table. “And you have helped. Both of you.”
Lydia glanced sideways at Georgiana, then back to him. “Does that mean you shall finally propose?”
Georgiana gasped. “Lydia!”
Darcy stared at Miss Lydia Bennet.
Miss Lydia Bennet stared back with no remorse whatsoever.
“Miss Lydia,” he said, after a moment in which several responses presented themselves and none could be spoken in front of Georgiana, “you will find life easier if you do not ask gentlemen questions they cannot answer.”
She considered this. “That sounds like an answer.”
“It is not.”
“It is a very gentlemanly answer, which means it conceals the true one.”
Georgiana clutched the back of a chair.
Darcy looked toward his sister. “You encourage this?”
“I try not to,” she said weakly.
“You do not try hard,” Lydia accused.
Georgiana’s laughter escaped in a small burst.
Darcy found he could not resent either of them.
Their plotting was absurd, improper in conception, and generally doomed by overconfidence, but beneath it lay affection.
Lydia’s loyalty had become a shield for Georgiana, clumsy sometimes, but real.
Georgiana’s growing courage owed much to that shield. He would be a fool not to honor it.
“Thank you,” he said.
Lydia’s face changed. “For the string?”
“No. Not for the string. Never for the string. For caring for my sister.”
Georgiana’s amusement vanished into something softer.
Lydia shifted, suddenly less certain. “Oh. Well. She is worth caring for.”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “She is.”
Georgiana bent to pick up the string. “We shall not trip the footman.”
“I am relieved.”
“We may think of something else,” Lydia warned.
“I have no doubt.”
At dinner, Miss Bingley tried every social maneuver left to her.
First, she attempted to claim the seat beside Darcy.
Mrs. Reynolds, with a placid face that betrayed years of managing greater crises than disappointed ladies, directed her to a chair beside Mrs. Hurst and placed Elizabeth near Darcy with such natural authority that no one could object without creating spectacle.
Darcy did not know whether to thank his housekeeper or raise her wages.
Possibly both.
Elizabeth sat beside him, untying her gloves beneath the table. Her hand brushed the edge of his napkin. It was absurd. Fascinating. Wonderful.
Miss Bingley saw.
Darcy lifted his wineglass and asked Elizabeth whether she had ever climbed the rocks near Matlock.
She had not. That led to a discussion of walking paths, which led to Mr. Gardiner’s interest in fishing water, which led to Bingley offering to fall into any stream required for general amusement.
Lydia declared this unnecessary, since he had already proven his willingness to be ridiculous.
Georgiana suggested that Horace would assist if called upon.
The dinner became lively in spite of every attempt Miss Bingley made to improve it.
She introduced a London acquaintance. Bingley forgot the name.
She praised Italian singing. Georgiana asked Elizabeth whether she preferred simple airs or dramatic pieces.
Miss Bingley mentioned the elegance of a certain titled family’s estate.
Mrs. Gardiner spoke of Lambton friends with such pleasant specificity that Darcy found himself asking after them in detail, partly from genuine interest and partly because Miss Bingley’s expression sharpened each time trade, local families, or ordinary kindness received notice.
“You are very gracious, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley said at length, “to concern yourself with such minor connections.”
Darcy set down his fork. “Mrs. Gardiner’s friends are not minor to her.”
The table stilled.
Mr. Gardiner looked at him with something close to respect. Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes warmed, though she said nothing.
Miss Bingley lifted her chin. “I spoke of rank.”
“I know.”
That ended the exchange.
Elizabeth’s hand lowered beneath the table. Her fingers brushed the back of his for the briefest instant, hidden by the linen.
Darcy nearly forgot how to breathe.
The rest of dinner passed with Miss Bingley saying less and observing more.
That was worse. He had hoped, foolishly, that repeated social failure might persuade her to withdraw.
Rather, her eyes moved between him and Elizabeth, between Georgiana and Lydia, between Mrs. Reynolds at the door and Mrs. Gardiner at the table.
He could see calculation rebuilding itself with every course.
After the ladies withdrew, Bingley drank half his wine in silence.
Darcy let him.
At last Bingley said, “She will not stop.”
“No.”
“I ought to manage her.”
“Yes.”