Chapter Ten

T he autumn air in Lady Milton’s conservatory had become stifling, though perhaps it was merely my own discomfort at being surrounded by endless prattle about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I had placed myself behind a particularly robust fern, ostensibly to admire its fronds, but truly to avoid yet another conversation about her alleged charms. As if I needed to hear more about her particular brand of...vivacity.

“...and when poor Mrs Langford’s daughter took ill, you would hardly credit it,” Lady Milton’s voice drifted over the greenery, “but Miss Elizabeth herself called upon them. In those awful rooms above the milliner’s shop, no less!”

“How very like my niece’s friend,” came the Countess of Matlock’s measured response. “Though I confess, I am not surprised. She has always been remarkably gracious to those in reduced circumstances. It is precisely why I have mentioned her favourably to my nephew, despite certain—objections.”

I nearly laughed aloud. Gracious? Elizabeth Bennet? A country miss who traipses through muddy fields? I had personally witnessed her nearly trip over her own feet at the Meryton assembly, and her dancing, while energetic, hardly qualified as—

But something in the Countess’s tone gave me pause. She had not emphasised the word as one might when discussing deportment or physical grace. And Lady Matlock’s opinion carries considerably more weight than... well, than mine, if I must be honest with myself.

I drifted closer, the fern’s leaves providing sufficient concealment for my eavesdropping.

“Indeed,” Lady Milton continued, “I found her quite different to what certain people had led me to expect. Such genuine warmth in her manner, and so very attentive in her treatment of my rather diffident niece. The girl has not stopped talking about Miss Elizabeth’s kindness in engaging her in conversation about poetry, of all things!” And was that barb aimed in my direction? Surely not - she cannot know I am here.

“Miss Elizabeth has a particular talent for making the neglected feel valued,” the Countess replied. “A quality I find far more meaningful than the mere superficial accomplishments of ...certain people.” Oh! Oh dear.

I felt my cheeks grow warm, knowing full well I was among those “certain people” who had painted a rather different picture of Elizabeth Bennet. Though in my defence, I had been chiefly concerned with her abysmal curtsy. Which now seems... rather beside the point.

Excusing myself shortly after, I retreated to my chambers, my thoughts in an uncomfortable tangle. I retrieved Johnson’s Dictionary, though I knew perfectly well what I would find:

GRACIOUS, adj. [gracieux, French]

1. Merciful; benevolent.

2. Favourable; kind.

3. Acceptable; favoured.

4. Virtuous; good.

5. Excellent. Obsolete.

How telling that I immediately assumed a judgement of her physical deportment, when they spoke of her character. The words seemed to mock me from the page. Benevolent. Kind. Virtuous. Everything I had dismissed as beneath my notice, yet here was Elizabeth Bennet, without title or fortune, exemplifying qualities I had never bothered to cultivate.

I closed the dictionary with trembling fingers. Perhaps it is time to acknowledge that my own definition of superiority requires...revision. Before it costs me more than dignity alone.

—?—

Thursday, the Tenth of September, 1812

Disaster. Utter disaster. I attempted to join a discussion about Shakespeare's sonnets at Lady Melbourne's, thinking myself well-prepared after my recent reading. But the moment Mr Wilcox turned his attention to me, I found myself falling back into old habits—that awful simper, that practised head tilt. Worse, I could hear myself trying to imitate Elizabeth Bennet's wit and failing miserably. "Indeed, sir, I find Sonnet 116 rather... imperfect itself. Does it not shake your constancy?" The silence that followed! I sounded exactly like what I am—someone trying too hard to be clever. Even Miss Maxter winced in sympathy. I must remember: the goal is not to become Elizabeth Bennet. The goal is to become a more genuine Caroline Bingley. Though at present, I am not entirely sure who that might be.

—?—

Thursday, the Seventeenth of September, 1812

A small victory today. I was walking in the park, my parasol tilted just so against the autumn sunshine, when I genuinely admired Lady Worcester's new bonnet, its azure ribbons fluttering in the morning breeze. Instead of using the compliment as currency, my usual strategy of flattering those whose favour I seek with carefully memorized phrases from La Belle Assemblée I simply said what I thought: "What a lovely shade of blue, my lady. It reminds me of the forget-me-nots in my brother's garden." The words felt strange upon my tongue, unpolished and spontaneous. She seemed startled, then pleased, the fine Mechlin lace of her collar trembling slightly as she laughed. We had a very pleasant conversation about gardens, of all things, as we strolled past the carefully manicured hedges of the promenade. I found myself mentioning my secret preference for wildflowers over hothouse blooms—something I would never have admitted in the perfumed confines of a drawing room—and she confided that she lets part of her estate grow wild specifically for butterflies. Her gloved hand touched my arm in genuine fellowship, not the studied gestures of social ceremony. No calculation. No advantage gained. Mere... discourse. The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we walked, and I noticed, for the first time in an age, the simple pleasure of morning air untainted by strategic thinking. How singular.

—?—

Thursday, the First of October, 1812

I catch myself sometimes, still playing the old games. Tonight at the Morrisons' Ball, I deliberately positioned myself near the card-room, knowing Mr Harrison would have to pass by. But then—and this is the strange part—when he stopped to talk, I forgot to pose. I was too engaged in watching his reaction to my thoughts about Byron's latest work (which I genuinely find overwrought, no matter what Mr Darcy thinks). He made a discussion of horticulture fascinating. Can one be calculating and genuine at the same time? Is there perhaps a middle ground between Elizabeth's natural manner and my carefully constructed one?

—?—

Friday, the Second of October, 1812

I have been thinking about last night. Perhaps there is nothing inherently wrong with choosing advantageous positions in a ballroom—positioning oneself where the candlelight falls most becomingly through the crystal chandeliers, or wearing flattering colours. The problem was that I never went beyond that—I treated discourse itself as merely another form of positioning.

I felt so alive when I spoke with Mr Harrison. I had not paid him much mind before—he is merely a younger son with a modest estate. But his conversation... his conversation made me think. Made me wish to think. He spoke of his gardens not as mere ornaments but as experiments, challenges, triumphs and failures, his enthusiasm causing him to gesture with his quizzing glass in a most unstudied manner. When he described the difficulties of cultivating a particularly delicate variety of rose, the Autumn Damask, celebrated as the 'Four Seasons Rose of Paestum,' whose perfume filled the conservatory at his estate, I found myself offering genuine suggestions rather than mere pleasantries. For the first time, I was not calculating the effect of my words or monitoring the precise angle of my fan. I was simply engaged in the pleasure of real discourse. How strange that in forgetting to be strategic, I should find myself truly charming.

—?—

Saturday, the Ninth of October, 1812

An illuminating evening, the light of a hundred beeswax candles reflecting off the gilt-framed mirrors. I overheard someone refer to me as "greatly improved" while I was adjusting my Kashmir shawl near the Pembroke table. I felt simultaneously pleased and offended. Improved from what? Then I remembered myself six months ago, endlessly agreeing with everyone of consequence, my only goal to secure an advantageous match, my voice as practiced and hollow as the tinkling of the musical boxes. I still wish to marry well—I see no shame in that. But I find I now have other wishes too. I want to be listened to, not merely heard. I want to have genuine discourse, not mere exchanges of pleasantries that sound as rehearsed as a pianoforte exercise. I want... Good heavens. I want to be interested in people. How absolutely shocking.

—?—

Monday, the Eleventh of October, 1812

I had tea with Mrs Garth today—her best Wedgwood china with the blue-and-white pattern, and those delightfully unfashionable seed cakes she insists upon serving. Yes, really. I can hardly believe it myself. But she has such interesting perspectives on everything, and she does not simper or play games. I find myself admiring that more and more. As she poured the Earl Grey, she said something that struck me: "You seem more at ease with yourself lately, Miss Bingley." Am I? I am certainly less comfortable in my social mask. It feels tighter these days, more constraining. Like a gown I have outgrown, with old whalebone stays pinching with every breath.

—?—

Tuesday, the Twelfth of October, 1812

Where it began, I cannot begin to know—though I suspect it has something to do with that mortifying business of watching Mr Darcy's face soften every time Elizabeth Bennet opened her mouth to disagree with him, her dark eyes sparkling more brilliantly than the diamonds at my throat. (Really, the man might have saved us all a great deal of trouble by explaining his preference for argumentative females years ago.) Tonight, after the Rutherfords' dinner-party, I watched Miss Maxter charm the entire dining-room and finally understood something: her great secret is that she has no secrets. She simply is who she is. But that does not mean she is artless—I have begun to notice the skill with which she guides conversations, includes wallflowers, smooths over awkward moments. The subtle sweep of her gown through the gathering shows as much design as any battle plan. There is an art to appearing artless, it seems. But it must grow from something real.

—?—

Tuesday, the Ninth of November, 1812

Mr Harrison asked me today why I have changed. The Caroline of six months ago would have demurred, simpered, hidden behind her painted fan, denied any change at all. Instead, I found myself saying, "Because I was tired of being tiresome." The words tasted strange on my tongue, like the first sip of strong tea without sugar. He laughed—not unkindly—and said he preferred honesty to artifice, his fingers idly straightening his perfectly tied cravat. Then he asked my genuine opinion about the new landscaping at Vauxhall Gardens. I gave it to him. Every devastating criticism, every genuine appreciation. The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we walked, my kid slippers growing quite damp with dew. He looked rather stunned, then intrigued. We ended up talking for nearly an hour, long enough for my cheeks to grow pink with the evening chill.

—?—

Later That Evening

I have again been thinking about artifice versus authenticity, as I sit here in my chambers, the beeswax candle burning low and my writing desk scattered with visiting cards and unopened invitations.. Perhaps they are not as opposed as I once thought. Perhaps the real art lies in knowing when to deploy each—when to be diplomatic and when to be direct, when to position oneself advantageously beneath the crystal chandeliers and when to simply let matters proceed naturally.I came to the conclusion that Elizabeth Bennet is not actually as artless as I once assumed. She chooses her moments, her battles. She is natural, yes, but also clever about when and how she deploys that naturalness.This strange new inclination toward honesty, it is growing strong, for me.Like a particularly stubborn vine, it keeps sprouting up in the most inconvenient moments. as persistent as the morning glory that defies the gardener's shears. I find myself blurting out actual opinions when artificial ones might seem to serve far better. Most alarming of all, I am beginning to enjoy it. I am beginning to think that true sophistication lies not in constant calculation nor in complete carelessness, but in knowing how to balance both. To be genuine does not mean one must be artless.

Ishall never be Elizabeth Bennet. Nor do I wish to be. I have yet to develop an affinity for mud. But I find I am becoming rather interested in discovering who Caroline Bingley might be, when she allows herself to simply... be.

—?—

Wednesday, the Tenth of November, 1812

Mr Harrison called, arriving just as the morning light was casting long shadows through the drawing room's tall windows. He brought a volume of satirical writings on modern garden design, its leather binding worn soft at the corners, its pages bearing the evidence of frequent study. We sat in the pair of gilt chairs near the French doors, where the autumn air carried the clean, sharp scent of the last late roses from the kitchen garden, those stubborn blooms that defy the season. He read aloud the most amusing passages, his quizzing glass catching the sunlight as he gestured to emphasize particularly witty observations about the follies of artificial grottos and geometrically trimmed shrubbery.

I found myself laughing—not the practiced, musical laugh I had perfected at Mrs. Tyler's seminary, but something far less elegant and far more genuine. My Indian muslin gown was quite crushed from leaning forward in my eagerness to see the satirical sketches in the margins, and I had entirely forgotten to maintain the proper degree of distance between our chairs. I am beginning to think I might rather prefer being myself, even if it means occasionally forgetting to hold my fan at the most becoming angle. How entirely unfashionable. How very... freeing. Like stepping out without a bonnet and feeling the sun on one's face, propriety be hanged.

—?—

Thursday, the Twelfth of November, 1812

The Eve of Lady Rotherham’s Grand Ball

Tomorrow evening’s ball shall host the finest of society, including His Grace the Duke of Clarence’s second son. I have instructed Adèle to lay out my newest gown—the champagne silk with golden threaded roses. She has practised the latest Parisian method of hair dressing until her arms grew weary. All must be without fault.

I must confess to a most troublesome feeling of disquiet. Never have I felt such trepidation regarding a social gathering these past months. Though indeed, never have the stakes seemed of such consequence.

—?—

Friday, the Thirteenth of November, 1812

The Morning Following—Written with an Unsteady Hand

I scarcely know how to commit to paper the events of yesternight. Yet perhaps I must, if only to guard against such folly in future times.

The evening commenced most favourably. My appearance was beyond reproach—even dear Louisa remarked that I cast all others in shadow. Upon my introduction to Lord Julian, I felt all my former uncertainties rise within me like the tide. And then...

I hardly know how to record last night’s mortification. But perhaps I must, if only to prevent myself from ever making the same mistake again. Oh, how it pains me to record it. I reverted to my former manners. Completely, utterly reverted to my old self. Like putting on a comfortable old dress without realizing it had become hopelessly outdated. “Your lordship speaks with such wit!” When he had said naught of humour.

“I quite agree, the weather has been shocking.” I had just spent yesterday rhapsodizing about the perfect autumn days.

“How utterly fascinating!” In response to his rather mundane observations regarding his stable.

Simper, simper, simper.

I could hear myself doing it, like watching a theatrical performance of my former self. Worse, I could see Mr Harrison who watched from across the room, his expression shifting from confusion to disappointment. He had been showing particular regard to me lately, and I had found myself looking forward to our debates about garden design and literature.

But when faced with a lord, I became the old Caroline. Calculating. Fawning. False.

The nadir came when Lord Julian mentioned Byron.

“Oh!” I twittered, “I find his work so very... what is your lordship’s opinion?”

He looked at me rather oddly. “I was not aware you had such malleable literary tastes, Miss Bingley. Mr Harrison told me about your rather passionate defence of Wordsworth over Byron.”

I felt myself flush scarlet. In that moment, I saw myself so clearly—and so did everyone else. The contrast between the real conversations I had been having these past months and this shabby performance was mortifying.

Lord Julian soon made his excuses. Mr Harrison maintained a most pointed distance throughout the evening. I cannot blame him after my behaviour.

But the worst part? As I watched Miss Maxter chatting easily with Lord Julian later, her amber silk skirts falling carelessly as she leaned forward in her chair, making him laugh genuinely at some story about her family's misadventures in Brighton—his starched cravat actually shaking with mirth—I saw him become a person rather than a title. She talked to him exactly as she would anyone else, not even bothering to modulate her voice to the refined whisper deemed proper for addressing peers.

And he loved it.

I came home in the early hours, my thoughts in such tumult that sleep proved impossible. Even now, the evening’s bright candles seem to mock me from every mirror—the elegant dress, the perfect coiffure, all my careful preparations rendered worthless by my own folly. And beneath it all sat a woman so eager to please she forgot everything she had ever learnt about the value of being real.

The night hours crept past, marked only by the dying fire and my own wandering thoughts. How many times had I rehearsed such performances? How long had I been playing at elegance rather than simply being?

Dawn Found Me Still Wakeful, Despite the Bitter November Frost

The household stirred to life below stairs. I heard the familiar rhythm of the maids’ footsteps, the distant clatter of kitchen preparations. All so ordinary, while I felt so utterly changed.

Mr Harrison’s note arrived with the morning post. All it said was: “I much prefer the real Miss Bingley to any imitation, no matter how polished.”

My temper flared, but very soon I dissolved into tears. Through the window, I watched the sun rise fully over the frost-rimed gardens. When did his good opinion come to matter more than a lord’s?

When did my own good opinion of myself begin to matter most of all?

—?—

Monday, the Sixteenth of November, 1812

A Raw November Morning, the Frost Thick Upon the Window Panes

I did something shocking today. I approached Lord Julian after the dinner-party at the Rutherfords’, where the candles cast a gentle aspect upon even the sternest countenances and the last chrysanthemums lent their subtle fragrance to the air. My hands trembled, but my voice remained steady.

“Your lordship, I behaved like a perfect fool at Lady Rotherham’s ball. I have been inclined to believe assemblies and gatherings would never be so good as when I played the perfect society miss, but I was quite wrong. I can only say that your rank occasioned me great anxiety, and I reverted to some very bad old habits. With your permission, may I begin again? I actually find Byron’s recent work rather melodramatic, though his command of imagery can be stunning. Would you be interested in discussing why?”

He looked startled, then intrigued. The evening shadows lengthened across the Turkey carpet as we ended up having quite a spirited debate about modern poetry.

Lord Julian confided in me as we stood near the ornamental firescreen, its Chinese silk casting mottled shadows in the candlelight. He is an old friend of Mr Grantley's. He spoke movingly of his concern about that poor man—who had once been so fond of fine prints and whose hand had trembled so noticeably at cards last season. It seems Mr Grantley has quite lost his eyesight and is no longer able to be in society. I felt a pang of genuine regret at Mr Grantley's misfortunes, remembering how he had once stumbled into that pier glass, and later upset poor Lady Jersyey's fern, incidents I had attributed to...other matters. As I was leaving, Lord Julian said, his voice pitched low enough that the dowagers by the card table could not hear, "That was much better, Miss Bingley. Much more like the woman Mr Harrison described."

—?—

As My Carriage Made Its Way Through the Darkening Streets

After that encounter, I began thinking about masks and faces; about who we are and who we pretend to be; about how taxing it is to maintain a false aspect, and how such exertions might be better employed in cultivating one's true nature.

The old Caroline would have been thoroughly delighted to have a lord’s attention. The new Caroline finds she is rather more interested in the way Mr Harrison contests her opinions and makes her laugh.

How very unexpected life becomes when one allows it to be real.

—?—

The Following Morning, As the Frost Yielded to a Fine, Cold Rain

Mr Harrison arrived with a new book on garden design and a question about whether I still find mixed flower borders “chaotic and unfashionable.”

I told him my honest opinion. All of it. At length.

He remained for two hours, while the rain traced patterns upon the glass and the fire cast shifting shadows upon the wall.

I did not simper once.

One shows improvement , after all.

—?—

The Twenty-Third of November, 1812 One Week Following the Lord Julian Incident

Mr Harrison called today. I find I feel an unseemly thrill when his name is announced. Something he said captured my attention and would not release its hold.

“That is nonsense, Miss Bingley, and you know it,” he declared when I made some fashionable comment about the new French styles. “You were saying but last week how impractical they are for anything but standing about in drawing-rooms.”

I found myself quite speechless. No one but Elizabeth Bennet had ever so directly challenged me before. But instead of feeling offended, I felt... seen.

—?—

The Twenty-Fifth of November, 1812 A Grey Morning

I cannot cease thinking about that conversation with Mr Harrison. The late afternoon sun made it impossible to hide behind one's fan in the usual manner. He has this unnerving habit of gazing directly upon one whilst speaking, his green eyes as steady as a compass needle, as if he is searching for something behind the social pleasantries. The ribbons of my best morning dress fairly trembled under such scrutiny. And when he catches even a hint of artifice—a too-practiced tilt of the head, a response borrowed from Lady Spencer's famous repertoire of elegant phrases—he simply... calls attention to it. It should be horrible. Instead, it is oddly liberating.

—?—

The Second of December, 1812 A Drizzling Afternoon

Another encounter with Mr Harrison today, beneath the dripping portico of the circulating library, my kid slippers quite soaked from puddles despite my best efforts. I heard myself beginning to simper about the weather, my voice rising to that artificial pitch deemed elegant by the ton, and caught his raised eyebrow over the rim of his slightly rain-speckled quizzing glass. Without thinking, I stopped mid-sentence and said, "In truth, I find all this rain quite deplorable. My new bonnet is utterly ruined—touching the sodden silk flowers that had cost a small fortune at Madame Devereaux's merely yesterday.

He smiled—not the polite society smile to which I am accustomed, but something warm that reached his eyes, creating little creases at the corners that spoke of genuine pleasure. "There you are," he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the steady drumming of rain on the cobblestones. "I had been wondering when the real Miss Bingley would appear."

I felt myself flush, the warmth spreading across my cheeks despite the damp chill in the air. Not with embarrassment, but with... something else entirely.

—?—

The Second of December, 1812 As Night Falls

I stood at my window this evening, watching the stars emerge one by one. How different everything appears now! I recalled all those evenings I spent in idle gossip at parties, alone,desperately seeking attention and approval. But now I look at the night and it does not seem so lonely. Rather, it feels full of possibility.

Mr Harrison spoke to me of his plans to improve his tenant farmers’ cottages today. Once, I should have dismissed such conversation as tediously practical. Now I find myself eagerly offering suggestions about proper ventilation and the importance of good glass in the windows. He values my practical mind—how strange that I spent so many years concealing it!

—?—

The Third of December, 1812 At Morning Breakfast

Charles remarked at breakfast that he hardly knows me any longer. I smiled and replied that perhaps he is only now truly making my acquaintance. Mr Harrison, who was calling early to discuss the cottage improvements, met my gaze across the table. That look of his—I shall never tire of it.

—?—

The Fifth of December, 1812 Following the Assembly

I did something shocking this evening. When Mr. Harrison asked my opinion of his friend’s new painting, I told him the truth—that I found it pretentious and poorly composed. My heart was pounding throughout, but I looked him directly in the eye and said exactly what I thought.

He threw back his head and laughed. “Magnificent,” he said. “And what else?”

I found myself speaking of composition and light, about how the artist clearly wished to imitate the Italian masters but had not the skill to carry it off. All my actual knowledge about art, usually hidden behind bland compliments, came pouring forth.

Mr Harrison merely watched me, that intense look in his eyes. When I finally fell silent, he said, “Who would have believed you would come along? How wonderful you are when you are real.”

I have never felt more exposed. Or more exhilarated.

—?—

The Sixth of December, 1812 Dawn

I lay awake through half the night thinking about Mr Harrison’s forthrightness. He does not calculate or manipulate—he simply says what he thinks and feels, yet somehow manages to do so without giving offence. Well, usually. And when he does offend, he does not appear to mind.

How does he dare? How would it feel to live so freely?

—?—

The Tenth of December, 1812 At Tea Time

Mr Harrison brought his mother to call today, her dove-grey visiting dress as practical and unfashionable as her sensible opinions. She settled into the damask chair near the fireplace, her jet beads catching the afternoon light as she gestured, while her son stood by the mantelpiece wearing a smile that suggested he knew exactly what he was about. Once, I should have been calculating the value of such a connection, measuring every word as carefully as one measures ribbon at the milliner's. Instead, I found myself genuinely interested in her thoughts on managing a household, leaning forward in my chair quite forgetting the proper posture drilled into me.

She has such practical wisdom! We spoke for nearly two hours about preserving fruit and training new maids, her hands demonstrating the proper way to fold household linens even as she spoke. The tea grew cold in my best Wedgwood cups, and I quite forgot to ring for fresh. When she opened her reticule to share her personal recipe for quince preserves, written in a hand as firm and practical as herself, I found myself taking notes on my own visiting cards! The Caroline of six months ago would have expired from mortification at such a conversation, would have steered the discourse toward opera or the latest London scandals. Instead, I found myself thoroughly engrossed in Mrs Harrison's discourse on the proper rotation of winter stores, her voice as brisk and refreshing as the herbs she recommended hanging to dry in the stillroom.

—?—

The Twentieth of December, 1812 A Clear Winter’s Morning

Today I watched Mr Harrison tell Lord Rotherham exactly why his new policies for his tenants were shortsighted. The scene unfolded in the drawing room at Mrs Ashton's, where the morning light streaming through the tall windows made it impossible to hide any expression. No hedging, no flattery—just clear, logical arguments delivered with perfect courtesy but absolute firmness, his cravat remaining immaculate even as Lord Rotherham's grew rather crumpled with agitation. Mr Harrison's quizzing glass lay forgotten beside his untouched cup, his hands sketching figures in the air as he detailed the mathematics of fair crop rotation and reasonable rents.

I found myself quite overcome watching him, my fingers pleating and unpleating my handkerchief beneath the table, my tea growing quite cold in the finest Sevres china. The forced smile I had cultivated was entirely forgotten as I watched his unwavering defense of what was right. Is this what Elizabeth felt, seeing Mr Darcy's fundamental integrity beneath his pride? My cheeks grew warm at the thought, and I had to take a rather hasty sip of cold tea to cover my confusion. Lord Rotherham's pinch of snuff went quite neglected as he was forced to actually consider Mr Harrison's arguments, while the other guests pretended a fascination with their plates that deceived absolutely no one.

—?—

The Twenty First of December, 1812 A Notable Day

Today I held my first niece. Little Margaret—named for our mother, her grandmother, is quite the tiniest person I have ever encountered. Once, I should have maintained a careful distance, making the expected polite noises while secretly dreading any threat to my silk gown.

Instead, I found myself utterly captivated by her impossibly small fingers and the way her entire hand wrapped around just one of mine. When she opened her eyes and gazed at me with that unfixed infant gaze, I felt something shift inside my chest.

“Would you like to hold her a bit longer?” Louisa asked, clearly surprised by my lingering presence at her bedside.

“If you do not mind,” I replied, unable to look away from Margaret’s perfect little face. “I believe she is quite the most fascinating person I have met this season.”

“Caroline!” Louisa laughed. “You cannot mean to tell me you prefer my red-faced infant to Lord Rotherham’s sophisticated discourse on wine vintages?”

I smiled, remembering how once I would have preened at any attention from such an eminent personage. “My dear, your Margaret has already shown more genuine emotion in her first day than his lordship has in half a decade of my acquaintance.”

The look Louisa gave me was startlingly like Mr Harrison’s when I speak my mind. “You have changed, sister.”

“Yes,” I agreed, watching Margaret’s tiny fingers flex against my gown. “Though perhaps it is more accurate to say I am becoming who I always was, beneath all the artifice.”

“Mr Harrison’s influence, I suppose?”

I considered this as Margaret made a soft, snuffling sound against my shoulder. “No. He merely made me realize I was worthy of being real.”

“Well,” Louisa said softly, “I find I quite like this real Caroline. As does your niece, it seems.”

Indeed, Margaret had fallen asleep in my arms, her small form radiating a surprising amount of warmth. I discovered I did not mind in the slightest that she was creasing my new muslin.

The old Caroline would have been horrified.

The new Caroline thinks some things are worth a creased gown.

Like tiny fingers, and honest hearts, and being exactly who one is meant to be.

—?—

The Twenty-Third of December, 1812 After the Whipples’ Dinner Party

Something strange is occurring. This evening at dinner, Mr Harrison was defending his position on Catholic Emancipation (quite unfashionable, quite correct). I found myself joining in, supporting his arguments with facts I had recently read. The words simply came forth, clear and true and unplanned.

He turned and looked at me, and—oh! That look! I have seen it before, on Mr Darcy’s face when Elizabeth speaks her mind. That tender pride, that delighted recognition of a kindred spirit.

I quite forgot to breathe.

—?—

The Twenty-Third of December, 1812 In the Late Hours

I truly understand. All those years pursuing Mr Darcy, attempting to win his good opinion through careful flattery and agreement—but this is what he wanted. What any worthwhile man wants. Not a mirror to reflect his own opinions, but a real person to challenge and support and grow with.

Mr Harrison’s estate is modest. His connections are merely respectable. He shall never be the catch I once dreamed of.

But when he looks at me with those clear, honest eyes, seeing through to the real Caroline and finding her worthy... I feel richer than if I had caught a duke. These past weeks have brought me more true joy than all my years seeking advancement—the laughter we shared over Byron’s latest, our spirited debates about the garden designs, even those practical discussions about tenant cottages that I once would have scorned. Good times never seem so good as when one is truly oneself. Indeed, I find myself wondering why I ever thought happiness must come wrapped in titles and grand estates.

—?—

The Twenty-Fourth of December, 1812 Following Yesterday’s Walk

“You are doing it again,” he said today when I began to make some elegant nothing of a comment about his sister’s pianoforte-playing.

“Am I? Oh dear. Well then, in truth? She requires more practise. But her enthusiasm is charming.”

He took my hand. Just for a moment. But the way he looked at me...our touching hands…

I begin to think that true intimacy—the meeting of actual minds and hearts—is worth far more than any social triumph.

How very unlike the old Caroline to think so.

How very much like the woman I am becoming to know it is true.

—?—

The Twenty-Fifth of December, 1812 Christmas Morning

“You are thoroughly spoiling me, you know,” I told him over tea. “I am becoming shockingly forthright.”

“You are becoming yourself,” he corrected. “And I find myself quite deeply attached to who that is.”

For once in my life, I did not calculate or plan or consider. I simply spoke from my heart:

“I find myself quite deeply attached to who you are as well.”

The look in his eyes... no estate in England could be worth half so much.

How strange that in learning to be genuine, I have found everything I once tried so hard to manufacture through artifice. True respect. True affection. True love.

The old Caroline would be appalled.

The new Caroline is simply, absolutely, genuinely happy.

—?—

The Third of January, 1813 A Most Troubling Morning

Adèle came to me today, her eyes cast down in a manner most unlike her usual forthright demeanour. She stood twisting her apron, a gesture I had not seen since she first came to us.

“Mam’selle Caroline, I must speak wiz you of a matter most... délicate.” Her accent, usually softened by years in England, grew more pronounced with distress.

“What is it, Adèle?” Although I knew. Lord help me, I had known for weeks and chosen to be blind.

“Je suis... that is to say... I am in ze famille way.” Her eyes remained fixed upon the carpet. “Monsieur Faxon, ‘e promised to marry me, but now...”

“Charles’s valet?” I interrupted sharply. As if there had been any doubt, as if I had not seen them in the garden at twilight, as if I had not heard their whispered endearments in the servants’ stairwell. One does become rather accomplished at avoiding uncomfortable truths when one has practised it as an art form .

“Oui, Mam’selle. But ‘e says now zat ze time is not right, zat perhaps in a year or two...” She lifted her chin, and I saw a flash of her usual spirit. “I told ‘im zat ze bébé shall not wait for ‘is convenient time.”

I felt myself stiffen with proper indignation. “Really, Adèle, this is most inappropriate. A lady’s maid in such a condition...” Oh, how grand I sound, how very proper. As if she had not held me while I wept over Mr Harrison last week.

“Mam’selle Caroline,” she said, using that old childhood name that always makes my heart soften, “Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. I know that I ‘ave disappointed you most grievously” As if she had broken a piece of china rather than the rigid rules of our society.

I heard myself begin to speak of dismissal, of references, of the shame such a situation would bring upon a respectable household. Good Lord, I sound precisely like my mother. How provoking.

Yet even as the words left my lips, I remembered:

Adèle, holding my hand through my first London season. Adèle, listening to my tearful confessions about Mr Darcy. Adèle, gently suggesting that perhaps my “refined” manners were not serving me as well as I imagined.

"I know, Mam’selle.” Her voice caught. “I shall pack my things zis afternoon. But... may I beg one favour? A character reference? Without it, I cannot...”

“Adèle.” Her name caught in my throat. “How long have you been with me?”

“Eight years, Mam’selle. Since you were sixteen.” A tiny smile touched her lips. “Since you tried to dress your ‘air like ze Princess of Wales and nearly set it afire.”

Since you became more sister than servant, though I never had the grace to acknowledge it.

“And in all that time, have you ever known me to make a proper decision without your counsel?”

“Non, Mam’selle.” Her smile grew knowing. “But you are learning.”

—?—

Later That Day

I found myself relating the entire unfortunate circumstance to Mr Harrison during our morning walk. Though “relating” suggests more coherence than my actual stammering account achieved.

“Miss Bingley,” he said, when I had finished explaining my plans to dismiss her with a character, “do you recollect our discussion about the flower borders in your garden?”

I stared at him in bewilderment. “Indeed, sir? Horticultural metaphors at such a moment?”

“You insisted that formal arrangements were the only acceptable choice for a lady of taste. Yet wild roses are the envy of the county. Sometimes, the unconventional path yields the most beautiful results.”

“Sir, we are speaking of a servant in a... delicate condition. Not flowers.” Though I must admit, the parallel between cultivating gardens and cultivating compassion did not escape me entirely.

“Indeed. And what do you do with your most valuable plants when they require special care? You shelter them, nurture them, and trust they shall bloom again.”

Oh. Oh dear.

“I have a small property in Hampshire,” he continued. “The cottage there stands empty. A lady’s maid might find it a pleasant place for a period of... retirement. And afterward, should she wish to return to service...”

I felt my eyes fill with tears. “You would assist me in this?”

“I would assist you in doing what I believe your heart already knows is right.”

—?—

The Twelfth of January, 1813

Mr Harrison had written to the cottage’s caretaker. Adèle shall go there in a months’ time, before her condition becomes apparent. Faxon has agreed to marry her—though I suspect my brother’s intervention in that quarter—and she may return to me once the child is settled with her sister in the country.

“You are too good to me, Mam’selle,” she said, when I told her.

I thought of all the times she had been good to me. Of all the times I had taken that goodness as my due.

“No, Adèle. I am only beginning to be good enough.”

Although in truth, Mr Harrison deserves the merit. How provoking to find oneself becoming more worthy through his influence. Almost as provoking as how very much I find myself enjoying it.

—?—

The Tenth of February, 1813

My new maid, Mary, has managed to both tear my best morning dress and style my hair in a fashion better suited to a milkmaid. T hough perhaps I am being unkind. Milkmaids likely possess more skill with pins.

“I am most dreadfully sorry, miss,” she stammered, her fingers trembling as she attempted to repair the damage.

I felt my lips form the words of dismissal. S o easy to slip back into that role, like donning a familiar glove . But then I caught sight of Adèle’s empty chair by the window, where she used to sit mending my gowns and offering tart observations about my suitors.

“Mary,” I said instead, forcing patience into my voice, “let us begin again. Adèle taught me that the key to a proper coiffure lies in the foundation...”

Charles burst into my sitting room, waving a letter. “Caroline! The most extraordinary news from Pemberley!”

“Unless Mr Darcy has found good sense and rejected that fortune-hunting country miss, I cannot imagine what...” Though really, why do I still persist in this charade?

“Better! They are married! Last Tuesday, at Longbourn.”

I felt myself reach for my old phrases about connections and unsuitability. They died on my tongue as I recalled Mr Harrison’s words about gardens and unconventional beauty.

“Charles,” I said slowly, “are they happy?”

He looked at me as though I had begun speaking Greek. “Entirely so, from all accounts. Though I expected you to be rather more...”

“Bitter? Spiteful?” As I was but six months past, measuring worth by birth and fortune rather than character?

”My dear brother, I find I no longer have the strength for such careful cultivation of malice. It exhausts one so.”

“I say,” Charles settled into a chair, studying me. “You have changed, Caroline.”

“Have I?”— I have altered in every particular and yet somehow I feel more myself than ever— “Perhaps I have simply learned to tend my own garden rather than criticizing others’.”

“I do not know what that means,” he admitted cheerfully, “but you seem happier for it.”

Mr Harrison called that evening, his riding boots still bearing traces of mud from his journey, as the day's earlier rain had left the roads in a shocking state. We spoke of the Darcys' marriage only briefly, the topic fading as naturally as the last rays of sunlight through the drawing room windows, before turning to a spirited debate about the proper placement of rose bushes. He sketched possible arrangements on the back of a letter with his pencil, his normally precise handwriting growing rather enthusiastic as he argued the merits of southern exposure. I found I preferred it so, watching the firelight catch the amber depths of his eyes as he defended his horticultural theories with the same passion he had shown that morning defending his tenants' rights.

Though I did allow myself one small moment of satisfaction—Miss Elizabeth will have to deal with Lady Catherine. Some comeuppance is only natural, after all. Though I may be improving, I have not achieved sainthood.