Chapter Seven

“H ow very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning,” I declared. “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse!”

Louisa frowned. “Caroline, I do not think that is quite fair. Miss Elizabeth looked well enough to me.”

I waved away her objection like an unwanted suitor. “Nonsense, Louisa. You must have noticed how tanned she has become. It is most unbecoming. One might mistake her for a farmer’s daughter.” Given her connections, that was not far off the mark.

“I thought Miss Elizabeth looked lovely,” Georgiana said softly.

I fixed her with my best governess stare, the one I had been practising for when I would become mistress of Pemberley. “My dear Georgiana, you are too kind. Surely you must have noticed her utter lack of fashion and grace. Why, her walking dress was at least two seasons out of date!”

Louisa cleared her throat as if preparing for a particularly lengthy sermon. “Caroline, perhaps we should speak of more pleasant topics. The weather has been delightful, has it not?”

Ignoring her, I continued, “For my own part, I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome.”

“Caroline!” Louisa exclaimed. “That is quite enough. You are being terribly unkind.”

I rounded on her like a general spotting weakness in enemy lines. “Am I? I am merely stating facts, Louisa. Her nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so 'fine,' I never could perceive anything extraordinary in them. Save, perhaps, their ability to bewitch otherwise sensible gentlemen.”

Georgiana shifted in her seat like a schoolgirl caught passing notes. No matter—she needed to learn proper standards if I were to guide her through her coming out. After all, as her future sister-in-law, it would be my duty to ensure she did not fall prey to fortune hunters and other undesirables.

“They have a sharp, shrewish look,” I continued, warming to my theme, “which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.”

I glared at her with fury. “I am merely expressing my opinion, Louisa. Do you not remember how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty in Hertfordshire?”

“Pray excuse me,” Georgiana murmured, fleeing the room. Her face had gone quite pale, poor thing. Clearly, she needed more exposure to proper critical thinking.

Louisa shook her head. “I remember no such thing. Caroline, you are letting your jealousy cloud your judgement.”

“Jealousy?” I sputtered, nearly choking on the word. “What nonsense! I have no reason to be jealous of Eliza Bennet. Why should I envy a girl who dresses as though she has been ploughing fields?”

“Do you not?” Louisa asked pointedly. “Then why are you so determined to find fault with her?”

Before I could deliver a scathing retort, Mr Darcy entered the room. I immediately transformed my expression into one of sweet concern, like a guardian angel hovering over my charge.

“Mr Darcy,” I simpered, “we were discussing Miss Eliza Bennet. Do you not agree that she looks quite altered since the winter? The country air has been most... unkind to her complexion.”

Darcy’s expression remained impassive. “I perceived no alteration beyond her being rather tanned, which is no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.”

Louisa shot me a warning glance that chilled the air, but I persisted with one last piece of criticism. “But surely you must admit that she has lost whatever charm she once possessed? I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘She a beauty! I should as soon call her mother a wit.’”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, an amazing feat given that his expression had appeared carved from marble. “Yes,” he replied, his tone cooler than a December morning, “but that was only when I first knew her. For it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”

With that, he strode from the room, his gait firm and his shoulders stiff. I was left gaping in his wake.

Louisa fixed her eyes on me. With a look that mingled pity and exasperation, she said softly, “Caroline, you have gone too far. Can you not see that your words only serve to lower yourself in Mr Darcy’s estimation?”

I turned away, unable to bear the truth of her words. “I do not know what you mean, Louisa. I was merely making conversation.”

“No, Caroline,” Louisa replied firmly. “You were attempting to disparage a woman whom Mr Darcy clearly admires. It is unbecoming and, frankly, rather desperate.”

I whirled to face her, my silk rustling. “Desperate? How dare you!”

Louisa held up a hand. “Sister, please. For your own sake, I beg you to let this go. Your pursuit of Mr Darcy is more than obvious to everyone, and it is not having the effect you desire. Rather, the opposite.”

I felt my cheeks burn with humiliation. “I do not know what you are talking about,” I said stiffly.

Louisa sighed. “Very well, Caroline. But I implore you to consider your actions more carefully. You are only hurting yourself. Need I remind you of the matter of Sir Nigel Winston?”

I gasped at Louisa's cruelty, rose and fled to my chambers, summoning Adèle with a sharp pull of the bell that greatly strained the rope.

“Adèle,” I snapped as she entered, “fetch my rose water. I find myself quite overcome with the heat.” And the humiliation, though I would never admit it.

“Oui, Ma’mselle,” she murmured, but I caught the slight hesitation in her step. “Though per'aps Ma'mselle would prefer ze lavender water? I 'ear it is Mees Elizabeth's favourite—ze 'ousekeeper was telling me 'ow she commented most favourably on ze scent in ze guest chambers. ”

I fixed her with a glare that should have turned her to ice. “And pray tell, what else has the housekeeper been saying about Miss Eliza Bennet?”

Adèle busied herself with my toilette items, her face a mask of careful neutrality. “Oh, zat she is très gentille—very kind—to all ze servants. Madame Reynolds says she 'as never seen ze master so pleased with a visitor. Unlike some who... ” She caught herself, but the damage was done.

“Unlike some who what?” I demanded, my voice rising.

“Nothing, Ma'mselle. Though per'aps if you were to speak to Monsieur Thomas with less... 'ow you say, severity about ze coal scuttle incident? And to Marie about ze tea tray? And to Cook about ze partridge? And— ”

“That will be all, Adèle,” I said through clenched teeth.

As she departed, I caught my reflection in the pier glass. The woman staring back at me looked rather like someone who had discovered all their best winter gowns had been eaten by moths—and that everyone else had noticed first.

I sank onto a nearby chair, my mind reeling. Could Louisa be right? Had I truly made such a fool of myself? No, I decided. It was not possible. Eliza Bennet was nothing, a mere country nobody. Mr Darcy would see reason eventually. He had to.

And yet…

Louisa had been rather unfeeling reminding me of Sir Nigel Winston. Surely, it was unnecessary and unkind. I had been a child, well, a young lady of fifteen, but that is practically infancy when one considers matters of the heart.

Mrs Tyler’s Boarding School for Young Ladies was where Papa had spent a small fortune—thirty guineas per annum! to transform his merchant’s daughters into ladies of quality. The prospectus had promised everything a young lady might need to catch a titled husband: “The English and French Languages, History, Chronology, Mythology, and every kind of Needle Work .” For an extra guinea each, one could add “ Music, Dancing, Writing, Arithmetic, and Geography, with the Use of the Globes .” Papa, bless his generous merchant heart, had insisted we take every possible extra.

“My girls,” he had declared, counting out the guineas, “shall be as accomplished as any lady of the ton. More so, if possible!” The situation was healthy; and being so contiguous to the metropolis that my father, who resided in London, and preferred having his children near him, he declared this seminary proved ideal.

Louisa and I entered together, as my mother would not have us separated, despite Louisa being three years my senior. Louisa was then eighteen and more retiring than she now seems. Mrs Tyler’s establishment occupied a commodious house with extensive gardens and walks, where twelve carefully selected young ladies were meant to bloom into social butterflies.

We mingled with the other pupils every day—during instruction, at meals and when we were called upon to practise the skills of a lady of a household. Of the young ladies we lived with, several were from mercantile households. We all were being educated with the hope that we would move up in society through marriage. Two were of a higher sphere—Miss Clarissa Winston and Miss Althea Hightower. Miss Hightower was well named, as she would not for a second allow anyone to stand as her equal. She insisted the distinction of rank be preserved, as she was the grandniece of an earl. Miss Winston, whose father had been a baronet, was the only member of our group Miss Hightower willingly associated with. Nonetheless, Miss Winston was kind and put on no airs due to her superior birth.

During one of our holidays from school, Miss Winston kindly invited Louisa and me to visit her home. I had not considered her a close acquaintance, but was delighted to accept.

The Winston home, Misslewood, was a day’s journey from school. The Winston family coach conveyed us to Kent, and I fell in love twice during that visit—first with Misselwood, though comparing it to Pemberley now is like comparing a cottage to a palace—and then with Sir Nigel Winston himself, Miss Winston's eldest brother. In retrospect, he was rather middling in every possible way: middling height, middling looks, middling conversation. But to my fifteen-year-old eyes, he might as well have been Adonis incarnate.

I smoothed my finest gown—pale blue silk that I was convinced made me look at least eighteen—and had spent hours arranging my hair to achieve that perfect “artlessly elegant” look.

Sir Nigel stood near the fireplace, his profile illuminated by the flickering flames. My heart fluttered in my chest.

“Miss Bingley,” he said, inclining his head as I approached. “I trust you are finding your stay agreeable?”

“Indeed, Sir Nigel,” I replied, endeavouring to maintain my composure at this marked attention. “Your hospitality is most gracious.”

As we took our seats at the table, I found myself fortuitously placed beside the young baronet. I reached for my glass, trusting he would not perceive the slight tremor in my hand.

“Sir Nigel,” I ventured, “I could not help but admire the fine collection of books in your library. Are you a great reader?”

Sir Nigel’s eyes met mine, and for a moment, I fancied I detected interest. “I do enjoy a good volume now and then, Miss Bingley. Have you found anything to your taste?”

I seized upon the opening. “Oh yes, I was particularly drawn to a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. His words are so... moving.” Shakespeare was always a safe choice. No one would denigrate that taste.

“Do you have a favourite?” he had asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.

“I... find them all so beautiful, Sir. How could one possibly choose?” I had, in fact, read precisely one sonnet, understood none of it, and promptly abandoned the enterprise.

His expression had suggested he would rather converse with his soup. “I see. Well, Miss Bingley, I am pleased you have found some diversion in our modest library.”

He turned then to address the lady on his other side, leaving me to contemplate my folly. I was not discouraged, however, since my dowry of twenty thousand was far superior to any but my sister’s among the party.

In the drawing room after dinner, I manoeuvred to sit beside Sir Nigel on a small settee.

“Sir,” I ventured, leaning closer than I ought, “I am most eager to hear of your adventures. Did you perhaps visit the Continent?”

Sir Nigel shifted, putting a respectable distance between us. “I did not, Miss Bingley. My travels were confined to our fair shores.”

“Oh! Then you must have seen the Lake District. I have heard it is tremendously romantic.”

At this, Sir Nigel’s brow furrowed. “I visited on matters of business, Miss Bingley. There was little time for romantic notions.”

My cheeks blazed with such violence I feared they might catch fire. How could I have been so unutterably stupid?Oh! I wished the Turkish carpet might open and swallow me whole.

"I... that is... I spoke out of turn," I stammered, my fingers twisting my silk skirts quite beyond redemption. "Pray excuse my presumption, sir."

Later, speaking with Louisa, I reflected on each particular of the evening. How could I capture the attention of a man like Sir Nigel? Louisa suggested I comport myself with greater dignity for the remainder of my visit. Perhaps, she suggested, Sir Nigel sought a lady of more mature years. I countered that Many girls found husbands at an early age and wed at perhaps sixteen. Or so I had heard. Louisa fixed me with such a look I begrudgingly admitted that, given that I was not yet out, he might be reluctant. But a small, stubborn part of me still clung to the hope that I might yet find a way to distinguish myself in his eyes.

I was thoroughly disabused of this notion when I experienced the proverb Miss Tyler always remarked upon. “Listeners never hear any good of themselves.”

I had determined that Sir Nigel was a perennial early riser, and thus insisted that our maid awaken me at dawn. I completed my toilette with care, and proceeded to the breakfast room with high hopes.

I could not believe my ears! I had only meant to join them for an early breakfast when I overheard the most dreadful conversation between Sir Nigel and Lady Winston. Hidden behind the door in the hallway, I found myself an unwilling audience to their cruel words.

“Nigel,” Lady Winston’s voice dripped with disdain, “you simply must put a stop to that Bingley girl’s unseemly behaviour. It is becoming quite embarrassing.”

Surely they did not mean me? What had Louisa done?

Sir Nigel’s deep chuckle sent a shudder down my spine. “Mother, you need not worry. I have no interest in entertaining the fancies of a child. Miss Bingley is but fifteen—a mere babe playing at being grown.” Oh dear. Louisa was not fifteen.

“Nevertheless,” Lady Winston continued, “her attempts at flirtation are gauche. Did you see how she simpered and batted her eyelashes at you during dinner? It was positively vulgar.” Miss Hightower always batted her eyelashes and she captured the attention of many a gentleman. And what did “simper” mean? I must consult my Johnson’s Dictionary to learn the meaning of the word.

“Come now, Mother. She is harmless, if a trifle annoying. She will grow out of this foolishness in time.”

“One can only hope. Really, Nigel, I expected better from the girls from Miss Tyler’s. What are they teaching when this upstart girl from trade sets her cap at a man twice her age—scandalous! You need not humour her,” the lady said.

“I do not intend to do so. I speak with her at my peril. She is relentless and has not the judgement of a schoolroom miss. I politely attempted to discourage her attentions, but I have ensured my safety. Spencer slept in my dressing room last night lest she forget herself and enter unbidden.”

I could bear no more. Tears filling my eyes, I fled from my place of concealment. How could I have been so blind? So foolish? Sir Nigel saw me as nothing more than a silly child, andI had made myself the object of ridicule.

I vowed never to make such a display of myself again! Though given my recent behaviour with Mr Darcy, some lessons take longer to learn than others.

Adèle, seeing my distress at the memory, attempted to console me: “At least Monsieur Darcy ees not twice your age, Ma’mselle. And you no longer ..'ow do you say...simper quite so obviously.”

I tossed a cushion at her.

It was a most peculiar morning indeed. I had descended for breakfast at what I considered an entirely reasonable hour—not yet eleven o'clock—when I encountered Adèle in the corridor, who informed me that Mr Darcy had already departed. Upon entering the breakfast parlour, I discovered it quite deserted save for Mr Hurst, who appeared to have taken permanent residence behind his newspaper. The rustling of pages was punctuated only by the occasional clink of his coffee cup.

"Has Louisa made her appearance this morning?" I enquired, affecting an air of dignified concern.

Mr Hurst barely lowered his newspaper—the ill-mannered oaf—to drawl, "Louisa was quite indisposed early this morning. She is now out with Miss Darcy walking in the rose garden.” He did not bother to look at me as he responded, insolent fool.

I signalled to the footman—a lamentably untrained fellow—to assemble my plate. The incompetent creature managed to botch even this simple task, failing to provide adequate preserves and selecting a very paltry slice of cake.

"I say," I addressed the footman with measured displeasure, "one generally expects the morning cake to be visible to the naked eye. Shall I require a magnifying glass to locate it?"

The poor fool merely blinked at me like a startled owl. No matter, I would consume my meal quickly and find my sister and Miss Darcy. Perhaps she would be able to relate where her brother had gone.

I had slept ill, ruminating as I was over Louisa’s cruel words and the long buried memory of that holiday at Misslewood. I had most certainly remedied any tendency toward "simpering"—such a vulgar accusation. I did not “smile in an affected and silly way.” I was determined to reserve my dignified smiles for gentlemen of consequence.

Like Mr Darcy, my thoughts helpfully supplied.

The very gentleman whose inexplicable fascination with that Bennet creature continued to vex me. The chit did not smile so much as guffaw like a marketplace fishwife! She had no compunction about bursting into unladylike laughter in company. Was this not far less appealing than an occasional smile of little sincerity? I could not fathom her success given how far her behavior diverged from everything I had learned at Miss Tyler's Select Seminary for Young Ladies at considerable expense, I might add.

As I sipped my chocolate I determined that when I became mistress, I should instruct the cook as to the proper preparation of hot chocolate. I was accustomed to there being at least a half a drachm of cardamom-seeds incorporated into my beverage. Pemberley’s cook used none, but rather added a quantity of vanelos. “Ghastly,” I murmured.

"Did you speak, Miss Bingley?" Mr Hurst inquired from behind his paper fortress.

"I was merely observing," I replied with glacial politeness, "that when I become mistress of a great estate, I shall ensure the cook is replaced. This... concoction appears to contain nothing but vanelos." I pronounced the word as if it were a particularly disagreeable disease.

"Mmph," contributed Mr Hurst, vanishing once more behind his newspaper. How had my dear sister attached herself to such a monosyllabic specimen? Did she not converse with him during their courtship?

My thoughts drifted to various courtships I had observed, particularly Louisa's peculiar liaison with the very gentleman currently ignoring me. Their courtship had been businesslike, with Mr Hurst pursuing Louisa with all the finesse of a runaway carriage.

Almost from their first meeting, Mr Hurst followed Louisa like a well trained dog. Louisa had not been required to put a great deal of effort into the endeavour. Mr Hurst’s pursuit was open and direct. There was something to be said for receiving the determined attention of a gentleman, but somehow it fell flat. There was no thrill of the chase, no sense of achievement. But Louisa had managed what I had not yet done. Not that I would wish to sink to accepting the attentions of such a man, but Louisa had married and married into the gentry. I wanted a great deal more for myself, yet, I had to be honest, I had made little headway.

Louisa had spent some time considering whether she could be happy with Hurst, and became convinced that her chance of happiness with him was as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state. I could learn little from Louisa’s courtship, as, honestly, it was far more conducted on Mr Hurst’s side than on Louisa’s. I recalled teasing her about his ardor.

“Mr Hurst nearly knocked over poor Mr Lawrence in his haste to secure your hand for the first set.”

Louisa laughed, the sound both amused and mortified. “Oh, do not remind me! Though I must say, his enthusiasm, while perhaps lacking in grace, does have a certain... charm to it.”

“Charm?” I arched an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now? The man announces his intentions with the subtlety of a town crier.”

“Not everyone needs to conduct their affairs with your level of sophistication, Caroline.” Louisa picked up her embroidery, though her eyes remained unfocused. “There is something rather refreshing about knowing exactly where one stands.”

I watched her carefully. “And where do you stand, sister?”

She was quiet for a moment, her needle moving in small, precise stitches. “I believe... I believe I could be content with him. He is not what one might call brilliant, but he is kind, and his situation is comfortable.”

“Comfortable!” I exclaimed. “Really, Louisa, is that all you aspire to?”

“What would you have me aspire to?” She set down her work again, meeting my gaze directly. “We cannot all wait for a duke to come sweeping in on a white horse, Caroline. Some of us must be practical.”

The next day brought Mr Hurst himself, looking rather like an eager hound as he bounded into our drawing room. I observed with some amusement how he barely remembered to bow to me before turning his attention to Louisa.

“Miss Bingley,” he said, his round face flushed with either exertion or anticipation, “I wondered if you might care to take a turn about the garden? The gardener tells me the roses are particularly fine this year.”

“The gardener tells you?” I murmured, too quietly for him to hear. “Since when does Mr Hurst consult with gardeners about roses?”

But Louisa was already rising, a soft smile playing about her lips. “That would be lovely, Mr Hurst. Though perhaps Caroline would care to join us?”

“Oh, no,” I demurred, lifting my book meaningfully. “I find myself quite engrossed in Miss Edgeworth's latest moral tale. I am sure one of the maids will suffice as a chaperon.”

Louisa shot me a knowing look as she accepted Mr Hurst’s arm. I watched them through the window as they made their way down the garden path, his steps carefully measured to match her shorter stride, his head bent attentively as she spoke about something that made her gesture animatedly with her free hand.

I sighed, setting aside the book I had not actually been reading. While I could not see settling as she did, perhaps Louisa had a point, after all. There was something to be said for a man who knew his own mind and was not afraid to show it. Though I would never admit it aloud, I envied her a little – not for Mr Hurst himself, heaven forbid, but for the simplicity of it all. No games, no sophisticated maneuvers, just honest affection offered and, eventually, accepted.

Their courtship proceeded with all the predictability of a well-rehearsed country dance. Mr Hurst called three times a week, brought flowers twice, and spoke enthusiastically about his cook’s legendary dishes at least twice per visit. Louisa listened, smiled, and gradually stopped looking to me for rescue when he launched into his favorite topics.

When he finally made his offer, it was again in the garden—direct and to the point, just like everything else about him.

“Well?” I demanded when Louisa emerged, her eyes bright.

“He says his cook makes the finest white soup in all of England,” she replied with a small laugh. “And... I believe I shall enjoy testing that claim for myself.”

I embraced her then. I was still certain she was a fool, and that I would fare far better, seeking a grand match when, to Louisa, contentment might be the greater prize. Not that I would ever lower my own standards, of course. But watching Louisa’s quiet joy in the weeks that followed, I had to consider that there might be more than one path to happiness in the marriage state.

Though I maintained Mr Hurst might have made his offer without reference to the soup.

My ambitions had been entirely focused on Mr Darcy for the last three years. Since he befriended Charles, no other gentleman had been worthy of my interest. Prior to that, I had considered and attempted to attract a handful of gentlemen, but none had taken.

My contemplation was disturbed by the appearance of my brother, who brought with him the smell of horse. Charles burst into the breakfast room with his usual excessive energy, presenting himself with all the dignity of a gentleman who had been forcibly reacquainted with his horse's negative opinion of jumping hedges.

"Caroline!" he exclaimed cheerfully, "What a splendid morning! Though I dare say you have missed all the best of it. I passed Darcy on the road to Lambton, looking remarkably purposeful for so early an hour."

"Purposeful?" I enquired, affecting disinterest.

"Oh yes," Charles continued blithely, "and wearing his finest coat, which seems rather excessive for a simple morning ride. Though I suppose one never knows whom one might encounter in the neighbourhood."

I turned this intelligence over in my mind, noting with some disquiet that Lambton lay in precisely the direction where certain persons of our acquaintance were known to be staying. The chocolate, I decided, had become entirely unpalatable.

The following morning began with the sort of disturbance that sets one’s nerves quite on edge. I had scarcely finished my toilette when Adèle appeared at my chamber door, practically trembling with suppressed intelligence.

“Mademoiselle,” she whispered, glancing furtively down the corridor, “Ze most extraordinary zing ‘as occurred. Monsieur Darcy ‘as departed again, not one heure ‘ence, taking only ‘is valet and travelling case!”

I paused in the act of adjusting my morning attire. “Departed? He said nothing of this last evening!”

“Oui, Mademoiselle. ‘E wished to leave for Londres most urgently, zey say. Faxon—zat is, Monsieur Darcy’s man—was to order ze fastest ‘orses from ze stable. And zere is more.. ”

“Well? Out with it, girl! Do not keep me in suspense.”

“A note arrived from ze inn at Lambton. Ze Gardiners send zeir deepest regrets, but zey cannot attend dinner tonight as planned. Zey ‘ave been called most urgently to Londres ”

This was beyond irregular. Mr Darcy had seemed rather preoccupied upon his return yesterday, though I had attributed it to the tedium of whatever business had called him to Lambton. But to depart again so soon, and with such haste...

“And their niece?” I enquired, striving for nonchalance. “I suppose Miss Eliza Bennet accompanies them?”

“Mais naturellement, Mademoiselle. Zey departed within ze heure of sending ze note, or so says ze messenger.”

I swept from my chambers with purposeful dignity, my mind already cataloguing these suspicious circumstances. First, Mr Darcy’s oddly abbreviated visit to Lambton, then his distracted manner at supper last evening, and now this precipitous departure—coinciding precisely with that of Miss Eliza and her relations? One could hardly ignore such a synchronous sequence of events.

I found Miss Darcy in the music room, bent over her pianoforte with unusual concentration. Too much concentration, one might say, for someone merely practicing scales.

“My dear Georgiana,” I called, sailing into the room. “I was most distressed to hear of your brother’s sudden departure, particularly when we only arrived a few days ago! I trust no ill news prompted such haste?”

Georgiana’s fingers stumbled over the notes. “Oh! Good morning, Miss Bingley. I... that is to say... my brother had urgent business in town.”

“Indeed? How vexing for him to be called away so unexpectedly, especially after such a brief stay in Pemberley. I noticed he seemed rather preoccupied at supper last evening.”

“Did he?” Her voice rose slightly. “I am sure I did not notice anything unusual.”

“And such a shame about the Gardiners being unable to join us for dinner,” I continued, watching her reflection in the pianoforte’s polished surface. “I had rather looked forward to hearing more about their travels through Derbyshire.”

Another stumble in the scales. “Yes, it is... unfortunate. Mrs Gardiner wrote that they had received news requiring their immediate return to London.”

How fascinating, I thought, that both parties should be called to London with such urgency, after your brother’s return from Lambton. Where, one assumes, heencountered them.

I spent the next hour making what I considered to be a most thorough investigation of the household, though to disappointingly little effect. The housekeeper was suddenly quite deaf to any indirect enquiries about Mr Darcy’s movements the previous day. The butler had developed an unprecedented passion for monosyllabic responses. Even Adèle’s usual network of intelligence seemed to have failed entirely.

“Louisa,” I declared, cornering my sister in the conservatory, “you cannot tell me you see nothing suspicious in this sudden exodus. Mr Darcy returns from Lambton in obvious distress, barely speaks at supper, and then flees to London at dawn?”

My sister continued arranging flowers with maddening serenity. “I am sure I do not know what you mean, Caroline. Mr Darcy is quite at liberty to attend to his business as he sees fit.”

“And I suppose you find nothing remarkable in Miss Eliza’s equally precipitous departure? When they were explicitly expected for dinner?”

“The Gardiners are tradespeople,” Louisa replied, snipping a stem with perhaps unnecessary vigour. “No doubt some matter of business required their attention.”

“Both parties departing for London within hours of each other, directly after Mr Darcy’s return from Lambton where, I might add, he likely encountered them? And you see no connection?”

“I see,” said Louisa, turning to face me at last, “that you are in danger of appearing rather more interested in Mr Darcy’s movements than is strictly proper.”

I drew myself up with injured dignity. “I merely express natural concern for our host’s well-being, particularly given his peculiar behaviour at supper last evening.”

“Then you may express it more quietly. Really, Caroline, you are becoming quite shrill.”

I was saved from having to respond to this slander by the arrival of Charles, who bounded into the conservatory with his usual excess of energy.

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “I have been searching for you in all directions. I find myself thinking—we really must remove to Scarborough directly. It would be most improper to impose upon Miss Darcy’s hospitality indefinitely while her brother is from home, what?”

“Scarborough?” I very nearly screeched, then collected myself. “My dear Charles, surely you cannot mean to abandon Miss Darcy in her hour of need?”

“Abandon? Good heavens, no! Quite the opposite. Girl ought to have some peace and quiet, not have to worry about entertaining guests. Mrs Annesley agrees completely.”

“But surely—”

“Already sent word ahead to Aunt Matilda,” Charles continued cheerfully. “We shall leave first thing tomorrow.”

I looked to Louisa for support, but found her suddenly fascinated by a rather mediocre arrangement of some tedious form of flora.

“I suppose,” I said with all the grace I could muster, “if you think it best.”

That evening at dinner, I watched Miss Darcy pick at her food with an air of preoccupation that I found highly suggestive. Something was afoot—something significant enough to send Mr Darcy hastening to London at dawn, something connecting him to that pretentious country nobody, Miss Eliza Bennet.

And I, Caroline Bingley, was being bustled off to Scarborough like an inconvenient houseguest, denied even the satisfaction of discovering what might be afoot.

“More wine, Miss Bingley?” enquired Mr Hurst, who had apparently noticed nothing amiss about the entire day.

“No,” I replied shortly. “I thank you. I find I have quite lost my taste for it.”

For now, I added silently, watching Miss Darcy’s downcast expression. But I shall discover what has occurred, if I must interview every servant in London to do so.