Page 110 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"You are staying here?" Lady Catherine demanded, gesturing to the cramped sitting room with her cane. "In this shoebox?"

"It is a bit small," Lydia admitted cheerfully. "Maria and I have to share a bed, and she kicks."

"Unacceptable," Lady Catherine declared. "You are the sister of the Mistress of Pemberley. You are the sister of the Viscountess of Keathley. You cannot be seen sleeping in a parsonage like a surplus curate."

"But—" Mr Collins stammered.

"Mrs Collins," Lady Catherine turned to Charlotte. "Pack her trunks. Your sister can stay here. She looks like she enjoys small spaces. But Miss Bennet is coming to Rosings."

Lydia's eyes went wide. "Rosings? The big house? With the golden chimneys?"

"The chimneys are not gold, they are brick, but yes. You are family. Distant, noisy, ill-mannered family, but family nonetheless. And I will not have it said that Lady Catherine de Bourgh left her niece's sister to languish in a cottage."

"Oh, famous!" Lydia clapped her hands. "Do you have officers there? Or balls?"

"We have standards," Lady Catherine said ominously. "And starting today, you are going to learn them. Anne, order the footman to fetch Miss Bennet's trunk."

Anne blinked, looking from her mother to the wild creature in the yellow dress. A small spark of interest lit her pale eyes.

"Yes, Mother," Anne said. "This should be entertaining."

The transfer of Lydia Bennet from the humble parsonage to the grand estate of Rosings Park was accomplished with the speed of a military coup. Within the hour, Lydia was installed in the Blue Bedroom, which was pink, but Lady Catherine refusedto change the name. Her trunk was unpacked by a maid who was scandalised by the state of her unmentionables, and Lydia herself was unleashed upon the drawing room.

It was Easter afternoon. The service was over—Mr Collins had preached for forty minutes on the subject of humility, a virtue Lady Catherine valued in others but saw no need to practise herself—and now they were "resting."

Resting, for Lydia Bennet, apparently involved throwing herself onto the furniture as if she were a rag doll tossed by a toddler.

Lady Catherine sat in her high-backed chair, sipping perfectly brewed tea. She watched as Lydia crossed the room, looked at a priceless vase, poked a fire screen, and then flung herself onto the gilded settee with a groan of boredom.

"It is very quiet here," Lydia complained, kicking her heels against the silk upholstery. "At Longbourn, Papa is usually making cutting remarks, or Mama is shouting, or Kitty is crying. Here, it is just ticking clocks."

"That is the sound of civilisation," Lady Catherine informed her. "And remove your feet from the silk. That fabric was imported from Lyons before the war. It costs more than your father's annual income."

Lydia dropped her feet, but she slumped lower, her spine forming a perfect curve of indolence. She pulled a letter from her pocket—a crumpled, well-read missive.

"Lizzy writes that she is having a ball at Pemberley for Easter," Lydia sighed, waving the paper. "She says Georgiana is playing a concerto and there will be three hundred people. And Jane says Robert took her to the theatre four times last week. It is not fair. They are having all the fun."

"They are married women," Lady Catherine said. "They have duties."

"They have husbands," Lydia corrected. "Rich, handsome husbands. That is what I want. I want to catch a gentleman of Darcy's calibre. Or at least an officer. A Colonel, maybe. Like cousin Richard, but with more money and less laughing at me."

Lady Catherine set her teacup down and watched the girl with a critical eye. She saw the raw ambition. She was vulgar, certainly. But she was also practical.

"You wish to catch a husband?" Lady Catherine asked.

"Of course! I am sixteen. I am practically a spinster. Mama says if I do not marry by next year, I shall have to wear caps and teach Sunday school." Lydia shuddered. "I want a carriage. And diamonds. And a husband who lets me go to Brighton."

"And you think you will achieve this by sprawling on a sofa like a sack of potatoes?"

Lydia blinked. "I am not a sack of potatoes. I am resting."

"You look like a sack of potatoes. A sack of potatoes in a yellow dress that is too tight in the bust." Lady Catherine stood up. She walked over to the settee and poked Lydia's shoulder with her cane. "Sit up."

"Ouch!" Lydia sat up, rubbing her arm. "You poked me!"

"I shall do worse than poke you if you do not listen. You want a Darcy? You want a Viscount?"

"Yes!"