Page 130 of What Change Entails

Lydia ignored him and seized Georgiana’s hand.

They made their escape before Elizabeth could summon another warning. Once in the corridor, Lydia moved quickly, pulling Georgiana along the passage with the energy of a girl fleeing capture. The lamps had been lowered for the evening, and their shadows stretched along the walls, long and wavering beside the portraits.

“Your brother,” Lydia whispered fiercely, “is the most obvious man in England.”

Georgiana stumbled on the edge of the carpet. “Lydia!”

“He is. I thought Lizzy was bad, staring at him whenever he turns away, but Mr. Darcy is worse. Far worse. He looks at her whenever anyone else speaks, which is foolish. The trick is to look when the person you admire is speaking. Then it appears attentive rather than besotted.”

Georgiana pressed a hand to her mouth, horrified by the word and unable to stop herself from laughing. “Do not say that where anyone may hear you.”

“No one is here but ancestors, and they look very dull. They shall not repeat it.”

They reached the family wing, and Georgiana led the way toward her bedchamber. Her maid had already drawn the curtains and set a small fire despite the mild weather, for Derbyshire nights cooled quickly after rain. A pair of candles burned upon the dressing table, casting a warm glow across the pale walls, the blue coverlet, and the music Lydia had left piled upon a chair earlier that afternoon.

Lydia released Georgiana’s hand and spun in a full circle. “I like your room better than mine.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“It remains true today.”

She shook her head. “You said yours has the better view.”

“It does, but yours has better chairs.”

Georgiana closed the door, then hesitated, because closing a bedchamber door with another young lady inside felt perfectly proper, yet closing it with the intention of discussing her brother’s romantic prospects felt deeply improper. Lydia, however, had no such reservations. She dropped into a chair and looked enormously satisfied.

“Well,” Lydia said, “we are succeeding splendidly.”

Georgiana crossed to the chair near the fire and sat more carefully. “I am not certain we can take credit for everything.”

Her new friend raised a challenging eyebrow. “We can take credit for enough.”

“Lydia.”

“Do not look moral. You know it is true. Miss Bingley retreated upstairs with her megrim, your brother and Lizzy spent half the evening making eyes at each other over music, and my uncle had to clear his throat like a magistrate at an improper assembly.”

Georgiana’s face warmed. “They were not making eyes.”

“They absolutely were.”

“I think they were merely… aware of one another.”

Lydia gave her a look of profound disappointment. “That is what polite people call making eyes.”

Georgiana giggled and tucked one foot beneath her gown. “You cannot speak so plainly.”

“I can. I do. I have been doing it for nearly sixteen years.”

“That is not a recommendation.” Sometimes Lydia’s brash behavior alarmed Georgiana.

“It is experience.” Lydia leaned back upon her hands and swung one foot, still wearing one slipper though the other had vanished somewhere downstairs. “Mark me, Georgiana, Mr. Darcy wishes very much to kiss my sister.”

Georgiana made a sound so scandalized that it startled even herself. “Lydia Bennet!”

“What?” Lydia was altogether unrepentant. “He does. It is written all over him. Well, not written. Mr. Darcy would never permit writing upon his face. But it is there. In his eyes. And in the way he stands near her pretending he has no reason to stand there.”

Georgiana pressed both hands over her cheeks. “You must not say such things.”