Chapter Four

M y elation at the eviction of the two interlopers was short-lived thanks to my brother’s hasty decision to hold a ball. A ball! In this backwater! My days were filled with constant struggles to create an elegant entertainment in a provincial town.

“Charles,” I called out sweetly, “pray tell me, how do you propose we create a decent ball when we are a day’s journey from London?”

My dear brother, bless his simple heart, merely smiled. “I am certain you shall manage splendidly, Caroline.”

I sniffed. “Oh yes, splendidly,” I muttered. “And I suppose you imagine we shall source our supplies from the illustrious shops of this pitiful outpost?”

The horror dawning on Charles’s face as he reviewed the bills for our impending lavish entertainment almost made the whole ordeal worthwhile. Almost.

“Good heavens, Caroline!” he spluttered, his eyes threatening to escape their sockets. “Are these figures correct?”

I smiled with angelic patience. “But of course, dear brother. Did you imagine quality appears by magic?”

As I rattled off the list of necessities - linens, flowers, wines, foodstuffs, even the very musicians - all to be hauled from London, I watched Charles’s complexion achieve fascinating new shades of pale.

“Surely we do not need quite so many candles—”

“Oh no,” I interrupted, warming to my theme. “We certainly have no need for proper lighting. Let us give everyone tallow candles and watch the local gentry drip grease all over themselves. How atmospheric.”

My exhaustive labours in preparing for this ball did provide one small mercy - I was spared the requirement of making calls or attending entertainments in the village. Small favours indeed.

Thanks to my maid, Adèle Durand, whose French accent was far more authentic than my enthusiasm for country life, I remained admirably well-informed of the goings-on in our delightful neighbourhood. The girl had a rather keen ability to gather gossip.

“Mademoiselle Caroline,” she simpered one evening, lowering her voice, “I ‘ave ‘eard ze most intriguing news!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do enlighten me, Adèle. Has someone finally invented a way to make Meryton tolerable?”

She giggled, a most unbecoming sound. “Non, Mademoiselle. But zere are two new gentlemen in town, one connected to ze Bennet family!”

My interest was piqued. “Do go on, Adèle. I find myself in desperate need of amusement.”

The tale she spun was positively delicious. The first gentleman—and I use that term loosely—was apparently the heir to Longbourn, some sort of clergyman. The laundry maid at Netherfield also served Longbourn on occasion and was full of talk about the man, whose dingy linens had sparked her outrage. He was, by her report, tall and spindly but rather round about the middle. He came to the estate by donkey cart and took residence for some weeks' visit. His intention to select his bride from among the Bennet throng was music to my ears. Surely any man would immediately be drawn to the admittedly beautiful Jane Bennet. Charles would be spared!

“Adèle,” I declared, “your news has afforded me no small pleasure. Please, take these silk stockings. I find I have no use for them in this dull hamlet.”

But it was the second arrival that truly captured my attention. I found myself, quite by accident of course, standing in a particular spot in the corridor outside the billiard room, where some peculiarity of the building made the gentlemen’s conversation quite audible. I overheard the most fascinating exchange between Charles and Mr Darcy about a certain Mr Wickham.

Darcy dropped his voice more than once, and the sound of billiard balls as they played interfered with some words. But I heard enough to be intrigued.

“What unsettled you in town, Darcy?” Charles asked. “You fled while I was speaking with the Misses Bennet as if the Devil himself were in pursuit.”

Darcy’s response was somewhere between a grunt and a growl.

“Was it the soldiers? Or that peculiar fellow they called cousin?”

“Cousin? Which was a cousin?”

“The one who kept bowing, dressed like a parson.”

“He is a cousin to the Bennets?”

“So he was introduced. Did he provoke you somehow?”

“No. I barely took note of him. It was the new militia man. Wickham.”

Lengthy silence. Billiard balls clacking. The distinct sound of liquid being poured suggested that this conversation required the aid of spirits.

“He is the son of my former steward,” Darcy finally ground out, sounding about as cheerful as a man attending his own funeral. “He grew up on the estate. He is as licentious a debauchee as you could imagine.”

“Ah, I recall the name now. Thought he could get paid for a clerical living and then claim the living as well. Hardly seems he sought his ordination if he is now marching in the militia.”

“I can only hope the French find their way to this part of England and put a sword through the dastard.”

“My word,” I murmured to myself, “a licentious debauchee set loose among the young ladies of the village? How perfectly dreadful. I simply must inform everyone I know, purely out of concern for their welfare, of course. Or, on second thought, perhaps I should keep the matter to myself.” This little sojourn in the countryside might prove entertaining after all .

∞∞∞

My citron silk gown drew many an eye. It was so satisfying to see the envy reflected in the gazes of the dowdy local matrons for my turban with dyed to match ostrich feathers which rose nearly twenty inches. It was the sort of ensemble that would have attracted notice in London, let alone in this provincial locale where the height of style apparently involves putting ribbons on one’s bonnet. I cannot say, however, that it made up for being forced to receive the throng of barely washed, poorly dressed locals who promenaded into Netherfield gawking as if they had never seen a proper house before.

After the tedious reception, I opened the ball with Charles. Perhaps it was proper, but I was sorely disappointed that Mr Darcy had not taken the opportunity to request the honour. He declined to dance the first as was his wont. Surely, our intimate friendship warranted an exception. I caught my reflection in one of the pier glasses I had insisted on having installed at ruinous expense and quickly adjusted my expression from “quietly seething” to “radiantly content.” One must maintain standards, after all.

Dancing with my brother was far from exhilarating. However I was relieved of my ennui by the opportunity to watch Miss Eliza with her cousin, the visiting parson. He had clearly solicited her hand prior to the evening. The resignation on Elizabeth’s face matched that of Marie Antoinette approaching the guillotine. What followed was less a dance than an extended exercise in foot-stomping and apology-making.

This Mr Collins had been introduced to me in the receiving line. He distinguished himself by his ridiculously low and repeated bowing, and the endless stream of drivel emanating from his mouth. Miss Eliza and her sisters each did their best to behave as though the strange fellow was not actually of their party, but he latched on to Miss Eliza as they entered the ballroom as though she were his personal property. Might this signal some intention? While my wish was for him to secure Jane Bennet to spare Charles, the idea of Miss Eliza shackled to such a specimen had a certain appeal.

The man had not the slightest acquaintance with the patterns of the dance, or the manners of a gentleman. Miss Eliza’s glossy silk slippers were marred with his footprints before the first turn. I bit my cheek to restrain my mirth. The moment the torture ended she trotted to that plain spinster, Miss Lucas, where they whispered together violently.

My joy at Miss Eliza’s misfortune was tempered exceedingly when next she was approached by Mr Darcy—yes, the same Mr Darcy who could not be bothered to dance the first with me. I could not credit my eyes when I saw him lead her to the floor for the next set. Fine eyes indeed!

What I could see of them during the dance led me to conclude that neither was best pleased with their partner. What objection that chit could possibly have to being partnered with the most eligible man in the room I could not imagine. Mr Darcy looked positively thunderous as I overheard Miss Eliza mention the name “Wickham.” If she was championing Darcy’s enemy to him in the course of my ball, she was even more deluded than I had thought.

After the set ended, I made myself agreeable to Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty, knowing they would divulge confidences faster than an overturned wine glass. What I learnt was shocking indeed.

Miss Lydia declared this Wickham, or as she so charmingly named him “Wicky,” to be the ‘handsomest man’ she had ever met, with elegant manners and a winning smile. “Oh Lord, yes!” Lydia squealed, demonstrating the discretion of a fishwife. “Lizzy has been absolutely monopolising Wickham at every gathering. Though I do not see why—I am much prettier!”

“And where is the gallant Mr Wickham tonight?” I inquired, affecting my sweetest tone.

“Gone to town on business,” Lydia pouted. “Though he promised me three dances! Three! It’s positively barbaric of him to disappear.”

Armed with this intelligence, I intercepted Eliza with my sweetest smile—the one that usually precedes a most delightful destruction of reputation.

The impertinent Miss Eliza’s face momentarily showed a flash of dismay, but then returned to her usual expression of being entirely too pleased with herself. I resolved to wipe that self-satisfied expression from her face.

“Miss Eliza,” I began, my voice dripping with false civility, “I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham.” I paused, savouring the moment. “Let me recommend you, however, as a friend,” I simpered, though we both knew friendship was the furthest thing from my mind, “not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions. The young man forgot to tell you, among his other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy’s steward.”

The look of indifference on her face was not gratifying. I pressed on, hoping to further diminish her pretensions.

“I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr Darcy is not in the least to blame; that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned; and that though my brother thought he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”

To my utter vexation, Miss Eliza seemed more amused than chastened. “His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be the same,” said Elizabeth, angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr Darcy’s steward, and of that, I can assure you, he informed me himself.”

My face grew hot with indignation. How dare she dismiss my warnings so cavalierly? “I beg your pardon,” I managed to say, turning away with what I hoped was a cutting sneer. “Excuse my interference; it was kindly meant.”

As I stalked away, I could have sworn I heard her mutter, “Insolent girl!” under her breath. The nerve! To think that she, a nobody from nowhere, would dare to insult me!

I retreated to a corner of the ballroom, seething. My attempt to discredit Wickham in Miss Eliza’s eyes had failed miserably. Worse still, I feared I had only succeeded in raising her opinion of the scoundrel. On further reflection, perhaps this turn of events was better than my plan. Nothing would turn Darcy from Miss Eliza more quickly than her infatuation with his enemy. My criticism of Wickham had caused Miss Eliza to fix herself more determinedly in her partiality, perverse creature that she was. I smiled with satisfaction.

As I sipped my wine, I watched Miss Eliza join her sister Jane, who met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Of course, my brother had taken her to the floor twice already, and that fatuous Sir William was crowing about it as if the banns were being read.

Disaster.

By the time the last of our “esteemed guests” began their departure, my patience had worn thinner than the soles of Miss Elizabeth’s dancing slippers after her encounter with Mr Collins. The Bennet clan, led by their indefatigable matriarch, seemed determined to extend their interminable presence well past the point when all civilised persons had mercifully departed.

“Louisa,” I hissed, watching Mrs Bennet arrange herself more comfortably in our best chair, “I fear we shall be entertaining the Bennets until Michaelmas. Perhaps we should simply deed them the house and be done with it?”

My sister merely yawned. “I am excessively fatigued, Caroline. These country dances are positively wearying.”

I nodded in fervent agreement. “Indeed. I feel as though I have been trampled by a herd of particularly uncoordinated cattle.”

Louisa made no reply, merely shook her head and turned away from me.

I steadfastly repulsed every attempt at conversation from Mrs Bennet, hoping my silence might penetrate even her remarkably thick skull. Alas, my pointed silence had no effect whatsoever on Mr Collins, who continued to expound upon our entertainment with all the brevity of a sermon from an Archbishop.

“Mr Bingley,” he simpered, “I must compliment you on the exceptional nature of this gathering. Such refinement! Such sophistication! Why, one might almost imagine oneself in London. It nearly rivals the entertainments of Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”

I briefly contemplated whether shoving him bodily from the house would constitute a breach of etiquette. Surely any reasonable magistrate would consider it justifiable?

“Mr Collins,” I finally interjected, my voice sweeter than an entire sugar merchant’s warehouse, “while we are deeply gratified by your effusive praise, I fear you may exhaust your supply of adjectives before you reach Longbourn. Perhaps it would be prudent to save some for the journey? I’m certain Lady Catherine would not wish you to strain yourself.”

The fool merely blinked at me, uncomprehending, before launching into another tedious monologue on the sumptuousness of our refreshments.

My eyes darted about the room, seeking diversion. The scene resembled nothing so much as the aftermath of a particularly lengthy siege. Mr Darcy stood like a statue, his face suggesting he was mentally composing his will. Mr Bennet smirked from his corner, clearly enjoying everyone else’s discomfort. And Charles... oh, Charles. There he stood with Jane Bennet, lost in conversation, utterly oblivious to the fact that all proper society was descending into chaos around him.

Even Lydia Bennet, usually as unstoppable as a bolting curricle, had been reduced to occasional grunts of “Lord, how tired I am!” punctuated by yawns wide enough to swallow a footman whole.

When the Bennets finally rose to leave, my relief was short-lived, as Mrs Bennet immediately launched into a tirade of invitations.

“Oh, Mr Bingley,” she cooed, her voice grating on my every nerve, “you simply must come to Longbourn for a family dinner. No need for formality! Why, we will welcome you at any time! We shall be delighted to have you!”

I watched in horror as Charles, the traitor, agreed with alacrity. “It would be my pleasure, Mrs Bennet. I shall call upon you directly after my return from London.”

As the Bennets finally, mercifully, quit the house, I turned to Charles, my eyes narrowing. “Brother dear,” I said, my voice as sweet as I could make it in my exhaustion, “perhaps we might discuss the wisdom of accepting impromptu dinner invitations from every family in the county?”

Charles, oblivious to my ire, merely smiled. “Come now, Caroline. The Bennets are delightful company.”

I bit back my scathing retort, reminding myself that fratricide, while tempting, was generally frowned upon in polite society.

As the Bennet carriage finally, blessedly, rolled away, I turned to Louisa with a look of abject despair. “Sister dear, I fear we are doomed. Charles shall be irrevocably bound to Jane Bennet before the year is out, and we shall be forced to endure Mrs Bennet’s company for all eternity.”

Louisa patted my arm sympathetically. “Come, Caroline. Let us retire. There is plenty of time to consider Charles’s future.”

Instead, I retreated to my chambers, determined to find a way to extricate us from this rural nightmare before we found ourselves irrevocably entangled with the Bennet family. Safely ensconced in my chambers, I rang for Adèle, desperate for a sympathetic ear.

"Mon Dieu, Mademoiselle,” she exclaimed, her French accent strong in her excitement as she helped me out of my gown. “Quel soir! I ‘ave never seen such a spectacle!”

“Oh, Adèle,” I collapsed into my chair, “it was an absolute disaster. Charles might as well have proposed to Jane Bennet on the spot, given how he gazed upon her with such obvious admiration all evening. That woman smiled at him so much I fear her face might become fixed in that expression.”

“Eef I may be so bold, Mademoiselle,” Adèle suggested, her eyes glinting with calculation as she brushed out my hair, “perhaps it is time to consider ze return to Londres?”

I sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “Go on.”

“Well, Mademoiselle, I ‘ave observed Miss Bennet carefully. She smiles ze same way at everyone—at your brother, at ze officers, even at old Monsieur Lucas. And when your brother is not looking...” She paused meaningfully.

“Yes?” I turned to face her, intrigued.

“She shows no particular preference for ‘im. No stealing glances when ‘e looks away, no special smiles saved only for ‘im. Not like ze young ladies in love I ‘ave known.”

“Adèle,” I said slowly, “are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Only zat perhaps Monsieur Charles should be made aware zat ‘is affections might not be... equally returned? And surely ze season in London is about to begin. It would be a shame for ‘im to miss it, tied to ze countryside by a lady who sees ‘im as nothing more special zan any other gentleman.”

“Adèle, you brilliant creature!” I sat up straighter. “If we could convince Charles that Jane’s affections are merely generally pleasing rather than particularly attached...”

“And surely Mademoiselle knows many charming young ladies in London who would be most eager to show your brother what real ardour looks like?”

“You know,” I mused, reaching for my writing desk, “I believe it’s time I wrote to dear Georgiana Darcy. The London air would do her good, do not you think? And where Miss Darcy goes, her brother is sure to follow...”

“And where Monsieur Darcy goes...”

“Charles will follow!” I finished triumphantly. “Adèle, you’re absolutely invaluable. Though I must know—how did you become so observant of matters of the heart?”

She smiled mysteriously as she turned down my bed. “Let us say zat in my previous position, ze lady of ze house was not nearly so clever as you, Mademoiselle. She never thought to ask what ze servants might notice about ‘er daughter’s suitors.”

“You know, Adèle,” I mused as I climbed into bed, “I believe this little sojourn in the countryside is making me exceedingly artful.”

“Non, Mademoiselle,” she smirked, drawing the curtains. “You were always devious. Ze countryside merely gives you more opportunities to practice.”

As I prepared for sleep, my mind whirled with possibilities. A hasty departure to London, subtle hints about Jane’s indifference, the promise of more suitable matches in town... Yes, this could work perfectly.

“Adèle,” I called out as she reached the door, “remind me to give you those silk ribbons I bought in London. You’ve more than earned them.”

“Merci, Mademoiselle. Though might I suggest—ze next time you wish to observe Miss Bennet’s true feelings, watch ‘er when she thinks no one is looking. Ze servants see everything, you know.”

Her knowing smile as she closed the door behind her reminded me why I’d hired her in the first place. Sometimes the best intelligence comes from those everyone else forgets to notice.

Tomorrow, I would begin planning our escape from this rural purgatory. But tonight, I would sleep soundly, knowing that the battle was not lost—it was merely moving to more favourable terrain.

I heard Charles’s thunderous departure at first light, the door slamming with all the subtlety of a cannon blast. My brother never could master the art of quiet exits. “For heaven’s sake, Charles,” I muttered into my pillow, “Must you announce your departure to all of Hertfordshire? ”

Despite my utter exhaustion, I dragged myself from bed. There was far too much to accomplish to lounge about like some provincial miss.

I had no intention of remaining at Netherfield. Under no circumstance would I permit my foolish brother to entangle himself further with the nobodies of Meryton. He would easily be swayed to believed Jane Bennet a mere fortune hunter, provided he was no longer in her vicinity. His infatuation was palpable and likely to progress with further exposure. Miss Bennet was a beauty, for a certainty. But she lacked any another qualification to match with Charles Bingley.

I needed to order the closure of the house, the dismissal of the servants, the packing of my things. Most urgently, I must write a pithy letter to Jane Bennet making it unquestionably clear that she had failed in her quest to catch my fool of a brother.

As Adèle scurried about, I settled at my escritoire, mind already composing the most essential correspondence of the morning. That simpering Jane Bennet must be dealt with, and quickly.

“Let me see,” I murmured, dipping my quill with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. “How does one politely tell a fortune hunter she’s failed spectacularly?”

“ My dear Miss Bennet ,” I began with a flourish. No one viewing my correspondence could doubt my accomplishments. At least as far as penmanship. Those pesky rules of grammar quite escaped me.

A knock at the door interrupted my composition. “Miss Bingley?” It was Mrs Nickleby, the housekeeper. “The servants are asking about their wages—”

“Oh, for—” I caught myself before uttering something unladylike. “Pay them through the month and dismiss them all. We are closing Netherfield immediately.”

“But miss, the kitchen has already started preparing—”

“Then they can eat it themselves! We shall dine in Grosvenor Street tonight.” I turned back to my letter, muttering, “Where civilised people actually know which fork to use.”

Returning to my correspondence, I carefully crafted the perfect blend of condescension and false friendship. First, I set out the facts:

“ This morning, we have resolved to follow my brother to town directly. We mean to dine today in Grosvenor Street, where Mr Hurst has a house ,” I wrote, then paused to appreciate my handiwork. 'Oh, that sounds properly sophisticated. Let her chew on that while she’s eating mutton in Meryton.'

“ I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that .” I suppose I might miss watching Elizabeth Bennet traipse through mud. Such refined entertainment is hard to come by in town.

Surely that would suffice to give the impression the abrupt removal from Netherfield back to civilisation was a simple matter of returning to more verdant pastures, as it were. It would be polite to suggest a correspondence, perhaps even to suggest that we might visit should she by some miracle appear in London. No, promised letters would suffice. Let Miss Jane Bennet fill a thousand sheets, she will wait a very long time for me to put my quill to paper for the likes of her. Now, on to the more pressing concerns.

“ When my brother departed yesterday ”... no, too simple. “Upon my brother’s precipitous departure ”... oh Lord, no, she probably does not know what precipitous means. Ah, here we are—

“When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London might be concluded in three or four days ,” I paused to laugh. 'Three or four days indeed. He shall stay in town until he forgets the exact shade of Jane Bennet’s eyes if I have anything to say about it.'

“ But as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are already there for the winter: I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the crowd, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you. ”

Yes. Numerous beaux- none of whom is my brother.

The masterpiece of my correspondence would be the casual mention of Georgiana Darcy. I felt profound satisfaction as I wrote that section, imagining Jane Bennet’s face as she read it.

“ ‘Mr Darcy is impatient to see his sister, ’” I read, adding with a smirk, 'And I am impatient to see her brother, but we need not mention that part.'

I continued writing: “ I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments... ”

“Unlike some people we know,” I added to the empty room, “who can only claim one out of three. Beauty without fortune is like a garden without a wall—entirely too accessible to the public.”

“ And the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still more interesting from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many ?”

I was determined to match Charles with Georgiana, if I could not find him a title or another well-connected heiress more of an age. Darcy’s sister would be ideal for him if not. She was the daughter of a gentleman, had a lovely fortune, and, to my mind, was as malleable as honey. She would suit me perfectly. And Charles would do well with such a retiring lady. In truth, it would chiefly secure my own happiness, elevating my rank, and when there has been one inter-marriage, I surely will have less trouble in achieving a second. With her brother.

Finally, I sealed the letter with a flourish, admiring how the wax caught the light. There. That should thoroughly extinguish any expectations of a Bingley-Bennet alliance. Now, to more important matters—like convincing Mr Darcy of my suitability as his life companion.

I summoned a footman. “Have this delivered to Longbourn immediately. And Morton? Make sure the messenger bears an appropriately grave countenance. We would not want Miss Bennet thinking this is good news.”

As I watched the letter being carried away, I felt rather pleased with myself. 'Well done, Caroline,'I congratulated myself. 'Now, which dress shall I wear to greatest advantage when paying a call on Georgiana? Something that says ‘loving sister-in-law material,’ perhaps?'

After all, what was the point of arranging one’s brother’s affairs if one could not secure one’s own in the process?