“And listen to Kitty playing that concerto again? I would rather sit with Papa in his study!”
“He is still reserved with you?”
“Oh,” Lydia shrugged as she dropped herself into the seat at Elizabeth’s vanity. “Papa and I never were great companions.”
“Has he even spoken ten words to you in the last week?”
Lydia squirmed in her seat. “I do not remember. He is not speaking much to anyone, though, Lizzy—even to you, unless it is about the account books. Do you think his health troubles him?”
“I think his conscience troubles him,” Elizabeth retorted.
Lydia bit her lip and looked down to her stomach. A casual observer might have noticed little through her loose-fitting gown, but one who had been previously familiar with Lydia’s youthful figure could easily discern a widening to her hips, a fullness to her bosom, and a decided roundness to her middle that had not before been present. “La, he cannot be angry with himself! No, Lizzy, he assigns all the blame to me. He thinks me the stupidest girl alive; I know he does.”
“I think it unwise for us to debate another person’s feelings,” Elizabeth sighed. “I have learnt that in the most humiliating of ways. We are like to assign thoughts and motives that were never held by another, and thus cause ourselves even more distress than is warranted.” She had seated herself again on her bed, drawing her knees up to her chest and dropping her head over them as she gazed out the window.
“Lizzy?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you ever afraid?”
Elizabeth raised her head. “Afraid? Of the future, do you mean?”
Lydia’s teeth sank more deeply into her plump lower lip. She blinked, then nodded jerkily.
“Come,” Elizabeth gestured to a place beside her. Lydia came, and Elizabeth draped a comforting arm about her as her younger sister began to tremble. “I think perhapsyouhave reason to be,” Elizabeth mused quietly.
“But you are not?”
Elizabeth stroked a wayward tendril from about Lydia’s ear. “I think fear would not describe what I feel. No, I look to the future and I feel… lost. As if I once had hope, and it has become a mist in my dreams.”
“It is all my fault,” Lydia rubbed her eyes miserably. “Had I not run away with George, it would have been so much easier for you to marry well!”
“That is nonsense, and you know it,” Elizabeth admonished—though half-heartedly. “Jane has done well, you see. I could easily have gone to London for the Season, so it is my own fault if I do not meet a promising gentleman this winter.”
“You stayed at Longbourn for my sake. Do not pretend I do not remember that, for I cannot think how dreary it would be for me here if you had not!”
Elizabeth’s lips wavered into a reluctant little smile. “And I shall hold you to account one day. I should think nothing less than your finest bonnet will do.”
“And my good pelisse. You ought not to forget to ask for that! It is brand new, you know, for it was with the wedding clothes Mr Darcy gave me.”
The warmth livening Elizabeth’s cheeks froze, her eyes hardening to some point beyond her sister. Lydia sat up in some alarm at this sudden shift in Elizabeth’s manner. “Lizzy, you are making the face again.”
“’The face’?” Elizabeth drew in a breath. “Which face do you mean?”
“That one right… no, look that way, just… yes, when your eyes squint just so and you grit your teeth. You do it all the time since Jane got engaged, and I shouldn’t wonder that you have headaches. Does that make your jaw sore?”
“I had not realised… no, Lydia, I am sure it has nothing to do with my headaches. I simply have not been able to take as much exercise as I wish. The weather, do you know, it has been far too wet.”
“Balderdash! Yesterday was perfectly lovely by your standards, yet you did not take your long walk. I expected you would be off to see Jane.”
“I was helping Papa,” she scoffed defensively. “Some of the accounts had come due, and—”
Lydia poked her in the chest. “You, Lizzy Bennet, do not like being around happy people anymore.”
“What? How can you think so, and what can it have to do with anything?”
“I think so because I feel the same. I can hardly stand to hear people gibbering about their pointless fancies, and no one is more disgustingly happy than Jane and her Mr Bingley.”
