Page 164 of What Change Entails

“Yes,” Lydia replied slowly, still studying her face. “He is not the only creature who has been up to something.”

Georgiana looked from Elizabeth to Darcy and then down at Horace with sudden, desperate concentration.

Darcy coughed.

Elizabeth walked toward the house with as much dignity as a woman recently kissed in a gig could manage.

Behind her, Lydia whispered loudly, “Miss Darcy, I believe our plan has advanced.”

Georgiana made a strangled sound.

Darcy, beside Elizabeth now, murmured so none but she could hear, “I begin to fear Miss Lydia’s powers of observation.”

“You should,” Elizabeth answered. “I have feared them for years.” Despite how well Lydia hid her intelligence, occasionally she had caught the family off guard.

He offered her his arm before they reached the steps.

After the smallest hesitation, she took it.

From an upper window, curtains shifted. Elizabeth saw them. So did Darcy. Miss Bingley’s headache, it seemed, had improved enough for surveillance.

Darcy’s arm remained firm beneath Elizabeth’s hand. He did not move away. Neither did she.

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.