Page 78 of A Question of Character

“Yes, because you left us unprotected.”

He glanced at Elizabeth with grave apology. “I cannot permit such suffering.”

“Nor can I,” Elizabeth replied. “Go, Mr. Wickham. Save them.”

He bowed, then offered Lydia his arm. “Come, Miss Lydia. We must prevent moral instruction at all costs.”

Lydia giggled, then stopped herself and tried to walk with dignity. She did not succeed, but the effort was new enough that Elizabeth carried the memory of it with her long after they had gone inside.

That evening, once the Philipses and Mr. Wickham had departed and Longbourn had subsided into its customary mixture of noise and weariness, Elizabeth went to Jane’s room. Jane was folding ribbons into a drawer by candlelight.

“You approve of him,” Jane said before Elizabeth had spoken.

“I think I do.”

Jane smiled. “That is no small recommendation from you.”

“I am not so severe as everyone supposes.”

“You are exactly as severe as everyone supposes, but more entertaining.”

Elizabeth sat upon the edge of the bed and removed one slipper. “He has been foolish. I am certain of it.”

“Did he tell you so?” Jane raised her brow.

“In his fashion. He did not offer particulars.”

“Perhaps he is ashamed of them.” Her sister always thought well of others.

“Perhaps.” Elizabeth worked at the second slipper, which resisted her. “That may be why I believe him.”

Jane paused with a blue ribbon in her hands. “Because he admits fault?”

“Because he does not admire himself for admitting it.”

Jane considered this, then placed the ribbon carefully in the drawer. “I have liked him from the first. He has made Lydia happier without making her more foolish.”

Elizabeth let out a startled laugh. “That should be impossible.”

“And yet.”

Elizabeth looked toward the window. Outside, the rain had ceased, and the last gray light of evening lay over the garden. Somewhere below, Lydia was laughing at something Kitty had said, but it lacked its usual sharpness. No shriek, no demand that someone admire her, no exaggerated complaint designed to bring every eye in the room upon herself.

A few weeks away, and her sister had become recognizable in a different direction.

“I had thought,” Elizabeth said slowly, “that Lydia would never attach herself to anyone who did not make her worse.”

Jane came to sit beside her. “Perhaps she needed someone to expect better.”

Elizabeth rested her elbows upon her knees and thought of Mr. Darcy saying that people seldom changed when wrongdoing profited them. She had agreed with him then, or nearly agreed. Now she found herself considering the matter again. People did change, or might. A foolish young man might spend his inheritance on the law instead of pleasure. A silly girl might learn to pause before reaching for the biscuit plate. And a proud gentleman might become dear through tea, kindness, and an expression far too serious for Hyde Park.

“What are you thinking?” Jane asked.

“That I have been away too long.”

Jane nudged her shoulder against Elizabeth’s. “Then remain home a little before anyone carries you off again.”

Elizabeth reached for one of Jane’s folded ribbons and wound it around her finger. “That depends upon who does the carrying.”