Chapter Three

A nother day of the Bennet occupation dawned. After Louisa forced me to spend several excruciating hours playing nurse to our “invalid” who continued to recover at a glacial pace, I found myself in the drawing room, watching Mr Darcy write to his sister. I positioned myself strategically near him—close enough that he might catch the expensive French perfume I had applied liberally, but not so near as to appear desperate.

Miss Elizabeth sat nearby with her needlework, no doubt plotting how to turn even this peaceful scene to her advantage. For a certainty, she eavesdropped shamelessly.

“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” I exclaimed, leaning closer to admire his penmanship.

Mr Darcy made no reply. He may have sighed. Undeterred, I made another effort.

“You write uncommonly fast.” I wished he would write more quickly and turn his attention to me.

“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly,” he responded, not looking up. What, I wondered, would it take to garner a second of his attention? I began to wonder if I should simply set my dress on fire to get his attention. Surely more flattery could not go wrong. I would find something to engage him.

“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year!” I gushed, as if correspondence was the most fascinating topic in creation. “Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!” My admiration of his industriousness was a bit forced, but I was grasping for an angle that would entice him. Would the man not even look at me? I was running out of compliments.

“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.” Indeed. I could think of nothing more tedious. I longed to extract a soupcon of attention so I tittered at his wit, though I sensed Miss Eliza’s eyes upon us. She raised a single brow in what I was learning to recognise as her ‘arch’ expression. The woman had more facial expressions than a travelling theatre troupe. Surreptitiously, I experimented with lifting one brow. My facial muscles seemed unwilling to cooperate. Was this the missing accomplishment I needed to develop?

“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.” I touched his arm lightly, my fingers barely grazing the superfine wool of his coat.

“I have already told her so once, by your desire.” His gaze fixed on my hand as if it were some exotic species of insect that had landed on his sleeve.

After a moment, I perceived that he would like me to relocate my hand.

“Caroline,” Louisa whispered, “do not pester Mr Darcy so.”

I ignored her, moving slightly closer—and conveniently out of my sister’s reach. “I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.” And I am clearly running out of conversational gambits .

“Thank you—but I always mend my own.” Mr Darcy did not even raise his eyes to me as he spoke. What would it take to interest him?

I executed a strategic retreat across the room, making sure to display my elegant walk to its best advantage. Upon turning back, I found that rather than admire my form, he was entirely absorbed in his writing. The man might as well have been carved from marble.

“How can you contrive to write so even?” I threw out. He did have the most masculine, precise handwriting. Quite attractive if you like that sort of thing.

Silence. I was beginning to wonder if he’d gone temporarily deaf. But wait, was that a titter? I whipped around to glare at Miss Eliza, but her expression revealed nothing.

Making one final assault on the fortress of Mr Darcy’s attention, I called forth my most potent piece of artillery—excessive praise of his beloved sister. He was devoted to that mousy little sister of his. A few kind words about her could not go astray.

“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”

Darcy actually stopped writing. For a moment, he seemed to be praying for patience. “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”

Washis jaw clenching? And was Miss Eliza smothering a giggle? If she found something amusing, I could do no less. I forced out a gay laugh of my own, though internally I was contemplating murder. “Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr Darcy?”

“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine.” The muscle in his cheek twitched like he was biting back something decidedly not charming

“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease cannot write ill.” He would not escape my admiration so easily as that. I was not going to be deterred by mere facial tics.

Charles, bless his perpetually inconvenient heart, chose this moment to join in. “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline, because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”

“My style of writing is very different from yours,” Mr Darcy replied coolly. He did, however, grace Charles with a glance as he spoke.

“Oh!” I seized the chance to mock Charles, hoping to spark some fraternal camaraderie. “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words and blots the rest.”

To my absolute horror, this sparked a lengthy debate between Darcy and Elizabeth about the merits of humility and haste in correspondence. I watched in mounting despair as Darcy actually set down his pen, sat back and turned in her direction. His eyes sparkled with interest at her impertinent observations.

Their discussion of friendship and persuasion was utterly tedious, yet Mr Darcy seemed inexplicably captivated. My ire rose as I watched them toss the conversational ball between them as if in a game of royal tennis. Nothing I had said earned more than a polite dismissal. The man was inured to my flattery but appeared to lap up the impertinent badinage Miss Eliza served. I fumed. Gradually, I moved across the carpet to position myself between the two contestants, in hopes of interrupting their little skirmish.

“Caroline,” Louisa murmured, as she came to my side and attempted to bring me to the window, “you look quite flushed. Perhaps some air would do you good?”

“I am perfectly well,” I snapped, though in truth I felt rather faint as Mr Darcy and Miss Eliza carried on their verbal sparring. I felt rather like I was watching a carriage accident progress by degrees.

Charles, ever insensible to the mood, joined in, jesting about Mr Darcy’s stature. Mr Darcy merely smiled, though I fancied I detected a hint of discomfort. Miss Eliza, the impertinent creature, appeared to be suppressing a laugh.

“I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy on particular occasions,” Charles continued, “and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.”

“I see your design, Bingley,” Mr Darcy said, addressing Charles. “You dislike an argument and want to silence this.” Charles laughed in a sheepish manner, and, to my relief, that concluded the conversation. Mr Darcy returned to his cursed letter. Determined to capture his attention, I suggested some music.

“Mr Darcy, would you care for some entertainment? Perhaps Miss Eliza would favour us with a performance?”

“Oh no,” Miss Eliza demurred, “I believe Miss Bingley’s talents far exceed my own.”

I schooled my expression, though my brows may have risen of their own accord. Only in tandem, however. The single brown lift was not within my capacity. I bit back a number of delectable retorts. My mind spun with possibilities-

'Indeed, they do. I am capable of playing without slurring the notes and skipping the difficult parts.'

'How kind of you to notice my superiority in at least one area.'

'Talents? I was not aware you had any.'

I amused myself with these as, with an expression of extreme modesty, I took my place at the pianoforte. As I played, I glared over the top of the instrument. Mr Darcy’s gaze continued to be fixed upon Miss Eliza. The sight nearly caused me to miss several notes. I stopped in the middle of an ill-chosen Italian love song, hoping to shift the mood. I would not provide musical accompaniment to that witch’s seduction! Instead, like a fool, I varied the charm with a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr Darcy drew near Miss Eliza.

“Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

I nearly slipped into a funeral march. The man was actually asking her to dance while I provided the musical accompaniment to my own humiliation!

Eliza smiled but made no answer. The man asked her to dance, and she ignored him! What manner of flirtation was this? I surely did not wish her success, but, in fact, he repeated the question with some surprise at her silence.

“Oh,” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kinds of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now despise me if you dare.”

“Indeed, I do not dare.”

I am certain I missed an entire measure with that. Why in the name of everything holy did he NOT despise her? Surely her words would affront him, but instead provoked remarkable gallantry. What was it in her manner which made the man keep going back for more? Heretofore, he never gave any woman a second glance. And this countrified, impertinent miss had him eating out of her hand. Thank goodness for the inferiority of her connections, else he should be in some danger.

They did not, heavens be praised, dance. But I concluded my performance abruptly in fear that such a thing could be reconsidered. I was trembling with disgust and wrapped myself well in a shawl while I thought through the events. I was not capable of conversation for some time.

How was it possible that Miss Elizabeth Bennet—plain, unaccomplished, and with all the refinement of a farmyard cat—had managed to capture Darcy’s attention when I, with my superior everything, could barely get him to look at me, while he stared across many a room at her. None of this made any sense.

The next day, I made a further attempt. Nothing I had attempted had provoked Darcy into disliking her. Even talking of their supposed marriage and planning his happiness in such an alliance fell flat. As we were walking in the shrubbery, I endeavoured to point out the inferiority of her connections to no avail.

“I hope,” I said, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, to cure the younger girls of running after the officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.”

“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” The man actually looked amused.

“Oh yes,” I pressed on, determined to have the last word. “Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines.”

Finding him still unmoved by my wit, I deployed my final weapon. “As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”

I nearly choked on the words; certain such obvious flattery would reveal the absurdity of his fascination. Instead, the traitorous man actually considered it seriously.

“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression,” he mused. “But their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.”

I contemplated throwing myself into the nearest ornamental pond. Clearly, we were all living in some sort of other world in which mud-spattered impertinence trumped breeding and accomplishments. I felt my face grow hot with indignation. Before I could formulate a suitably cutting response, we were interrupted by the arrival of my sister and the very object of our discussion, Miss Eliza herself.

Panic seized me as I realised they might have overheard our conversation. I scrambled to cover my confusion, saying, “I did not know that you intended to walk.”

Louisa, bless her misguided heart, seemed more concerned with their sudden appearance than the potential eavesdropping. “You used us abominably ill,” she scolded, “running away without telling us that you were coming out.” Of course I had not told them. I wanted the man to myself !

Louisa took Mr Darcy’s other arm, leaving Miss Eliza to walk alone. Did my sister not realise she was giving that woman the perfect opportunity to appear noble and self-sacrificing? As if on cue, Mr Darcy noticed the impropriety of the situation.

“This walk is not wide enough for our party,” said he, ever the gentleman. “We had better go into the avenue.”

I held my breath, certain that Miss Eliza would use this moment to insinuate herself further into Mr Darcy’s good graces. To my surprise, she did quite the opposite.

“No, no; stay where you are,” she said with a laugh that set my teeth on edge. “You are charmingly grouped and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”

With that, she ran off, leaving us standing there like fools. I fumed. The picturesque indeed. I was certain there was an insult buried in that phrase; though I could not quite think what it was.

The Bennet sisters had to leave Netherfield before it was too late. Though judging by the way Darcy’s eyes followed Elizabeth’s retreating figure, I feared it already was.

After dinner that evening, when we ladies withdrew, Miss Eliza fussed over her sister like a mother hen with her only chick, escorting her to the drawing room as if Jane might dissolve upon exposure to the evening air. I welcomed them with such excessive warmth that I nearly strained something.

Inspired by their imminent departure, I am sure I had never been so agreeable to them as I was during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. I regaled them with tales of London society, describing balls and soirées with such exquisite detail that surely they ought to recognise their own provincial limitations.

“Of course,” I added with delicate emphasis, “one must have the proper connections to attend such affairs.” I might as well have acted it out in the manner of a charade, without providing a single clue. They smiled politely but were unmoved.

When the gentlemen at last entered, my eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, but he bypassed me as if I were merely decorative furniture, making straight for Jane with his congratulations on her recovery. Even Mr Hurst, who generally acknowledges nothing unless it is wrapped in pastry, managed a slight bow and said he was “very glad.”

Charles, meanwhile, transformed into some sort of overwrought nurse. “Miss Bennet, are you quite warm enough? Jenkins! Another log on the fire! Thompson! Fetch the largest screen—no, the other one. Miss Bennet, pray move away from that treacherous draft!”

He was showing such unseemly, marked attention to a nobody.

“Charles,” I hissed, “do you intend to burn down Netherfield for Miss Bennet’s comfort?”

He ignored me completely, the lovesick fool, continuing to hover over Jane like an anxious butterfly. Miss Elizabeth, pretending to focus on her needlework, watched it all with poorly concealed triumph while I contemplated the shocking prospect of being permanently yoked to these two insipid creatures. If only Charles could attach himself to someone of actual consequence—or better yet, to Georgiana Darcy, giving me the perfect excuse to become a permanent fixture at Pemberley.

But no, Charles doted upon the ever-smiling Jane Bennet as if she were Helen of Troy and he Menelaus attempting to wrest her from Paris.

Later, as we settled for the evening, I made every effort to engage Mr Darcy in conversation, but he seemed determined to bury his nose in a book. In desperation, I selected the second volume of his book and attempted to read the tedious thing, all while stealing glances at him. I might as well have been reading ancient Greek for all I comprehended. I peppered him with questions, but could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered the questions tersely and read on.

“How pleasant it is to spend an evening thus!” I exclaimed, unable to bear the silence any longer. “I declare, after all, there is no enjoyment like reading!”

Mr Darcy responded by turning a page with devastating indifference.

“When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.” Though perhaps with slightly more fashionable titles than “ Treatise on Agricultural Developments in Northumbria .”

Silence reigned once more. In a fit of pique, I turned to Charles. “By the bye, are you truly serious about hosting a ball at Netherfield? I fear some among us,” I glanced meaningfully at Mr Darcy, “might find it more punishment than pleasure.”

Charles, the blundering oaf, merely laughed. “If Darcy wishes to retire early, he may. The ball is quite decided.”

Finding Darcy still absorbed in his book, I made a strategic decision. My elegant figure and graceful carriage had captured many a gentleman’s eye in London. Could I not capture Mr Darcy’s? If I could not capture his attention alone, perhaps I could use Elizabeth as a foil. Surely my stylish figure would appear to even greater advantage next to her reed-thin form.

“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.” I called out sweetly, “will you not join me in a turn about the room? It is most refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”

To my astonishment, she agreed. Even more shocking, Mr Darcy looked up from his book. I nearly stumbled in my triumph.

“Will you not join us, Mr Darcy?” I inquired, batting my eyelashes. His eyes slid to mine for a half second before immediately fixing again on the ill dressed, inelegant miss beside me.

His response was typically cryptic, something about two motives for walking together. I feigned confusion, hoping he would elaborate, but Miss Eliza had the gall to suggest we disappoint him by not inquiring further as to his motives.

I was incapable of disappointing Mr Darcy in anything, and persevered, therefore, in requiring an explanation of his two motives.

“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking: if the first, I should be completely in your way; and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.”

“Oh, shocking!” I cried. In each other’s confidence? Not in a thousand years. “I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”

Miss Eliza had the temerity to suggest that we “Tease him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.”

Indeed, I had not the least idea how to tease such a man. It would never have occurred to me to do anything so scandalous. What was this wild girl about?

What followed was possibly the most excruciating conversation of my life, as Elizabeth and Mr Darcy engaged in what could only be described as verbal fencing, while I stood by like a particularly useless referee. They sparred about pride, prejudice, and the nature of character defects, while I contemplated whether it was possible to expire from sheer frustration.

“Your examination of Mr Darcy is over, I presume,” I said after what had seemed hours. “And pray what is the result?”

“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.”

“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding; certainly, too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost for ever.”

“That is a failing, indeed!” She persisted in plaguing the man. “Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”

“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”

“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.”

“And yours,” he replied, with a smile, a smile unlike any I had ever seen upon his handsome visage before, “is wilfully to misunderstand them.”

I could not comprehend what was happening before me. Mr. Darcy, actually smiling at that impertinent country nobody after she accused him of hating everyone! I have spent years perfecting every accomplishment that would suit Pemberley’s mistress, yet he seems enchanted by this....I know not what she is. His eyes follow her about the room, as if she were some fascinating puzzle. He teases her about “wilfully misunderstanding” everyone, when she understands nothing about proper society. It simply cannot be serious. It cannot!

“Do let us have a little music,” I finally announced, my voice several octaves higher than intended. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr Hurst?”

As I attacked the pianoforte with more vigour than accuracy, I made a solemn vow. These Bennet sisters would not triumph. Not while Caroline Bingley drew breath. Though at this rate, I might need to consider more dramatic measures—perhaps a convenient carriage accident? Or would that be too obvious?

I caught my wrathful reflection in the mirror above the pianoforte and forced myself to smile serenely. After all, a lady never shows her distress—even when watching her carefully constructed world crumble note by terrible note.

To think, I mused darkly as I massacred Mozart, I once thought country life would be merely boring.

∞∞∞

Heaven be praised! The moment I had been praying for finally arrived.Miss Bennet requested her mother send a carriage. My jubilation lasted approximately thirty seconds before that scheming matron replied that she would not do so for several more days. Of course not. Why make things simple when one could prolong the agony?

Thankfully, Miss Bennet then appealed to Charles for his carriage, proving she had at least a modicum of sense beneath all those serene smiles.

“Louisa,” I whispered, a triumphant smile playing upon my lips, “it appears we may soon be rid of our... charming visitors.”

“Caroline,” Louisa admonished, “do attempt to display some semblance of regret at their leaving.”

I immediately arranged my features into an expression of profound distress that would befit any tragic actress. “Oh, but surely you cannot think of leaving us so soon!” I warbled, my voice dripping with enough artificial sweetness to cause the loss of several teeth. “Why, Jane is scarcely recovered! What if you should catch your death on the journey?”

The look of determination on Miss Eliza’s face nearly caused me to lose my composure. She was as desperate to escape as I was to see her go—possibly the only thing we had ever agreed upon. I could not blame her, for I wished nothing more fervently than to see the back of her.

“Charles,” I called out, unable to resist the urge to further my triumph, “do tell Miss Bennet that she simply must not travel in her delicate condition.”

My brother, predictably, seized the chance to play the gallant host. “Indeed, Miss Bennet,” he said, gazing at Jane with all the subtlety of a lovesick puppy, “I fear for your health should you depart too hastily.”

Mr Darcy stood by the hearth looking as if he would rather be anywhere else—possibly including an evening of conversation with his aunt Lady Catherine. His studied avoidance of Elizabeth’s gaze only served to highlight how attentive he had been before. The man had all the restraint of a summer tempest.

“Mr Darcy,” I simpered, determined to draw him into conversation, “do you not agree that our guests should remain a while longer?”

He mumbled something noncommittal, suddenly fascinated by whatever pastoral scene was visible through the window. Sheep, presumably. Or possibly escape routes. I seethed inwardly at his obvious preoccupation.

It was decided that the two interlopers would remain in our midst until after services the following morning. I reproached myself for following Louisa’s order to pretend I wished them to stay.

I did take some comfort in noting that Darcy scarcely spoke ten words to Elizabeth all that Saturday, adhering to his book as if it contained the wisdom of Solomon. My heart soared with relief. I could only assume that ample exposure to her ill-mannered bickering and scanty charms had at last disgusted him.

As Sunday dawned and the longed-for hour of departure approached, I found myself in the peculiar position of almost wishing to prolong the Bennet sisters’ stay, if only to prevent Charles from moping about the house like a lovestruck fool.

“Miss Eliza,” I said, forcing myself to shake her hand and wondering if impertinence was contagious, “do know that you shall always be welcome at Netherfield.” The lie nearly caused me physical pain.

“How kind you are, Miss Bingley,” she replied, her eyes twinkling with barely suppressed mirth. “I shall treasure the memory of your hospitality.” I felt a blush rise at her clever riposte. How did she manage to make perfect politeness sound so much like a reproach?

As I watched them rejoin their ill-bred family in their own decrepit carriage, I let out a sigh of relief. “Well,” I declared, turning to Louisa, “Dare I hope we have seen the last of the Bennet sisters for quite some time.”

Louisa merely shook her head, a knowing smile upon her face. “I would not celebrate too soon, Caroline. I fear our brother is quite taken with Miss Bennet.”

I sniffed dismissively. “Nonsense. It is merely a passing fancy. He shall forget her as soon as the next pretty face catches his eye.”

But even as I spoke, I caught sight of Mr Darcy’s expression as he watched Elizabeth’s departure. He looked like a man who had just discovered something both wonderful and terrible, and was not quite sure which frightened him more.

I retreated to my room to nurse a sudden headache. Clearly, this battle was far from over. Perhaps it was time to consider more drastic measures. I wondered idly if one could arrange for an entire family to be accidentally relocated to the colonies.