Chapter Nine

A t last, I thought, settling into the morning room of our London residence, one might breathe properly again. The air in Scarborough had been altogether too healthful for my constitution—to say nothing of the mortifying ordeal at that wretched excuse for an inn. Even now, I cannot bear to think of those endless hours confined to a chamber scarcely fit for servants, bereft of both funds and suitable attire after some light-fingered thief made off with my belongings. That a scullery maid—a scullery maid!—should have been my sole source of sustenance until Charles’s arrival... Well. The entire adventure had utterly unsettled my nerves. I found myself jumping at the slightest sound, and my appreciation for cook’s efforts had increased dramatically, having learned through bitter experience what passes for cuisine in provincial establishments—if you have the coin to pay for it.

“The morning papers, Miss,” murmured Phillips, presenting them with an elegant flourish that nearly—but not quite—made up for his otherwise pedestrian manner.

I accepted them with a languid gesture, preparing myself for the usual tedium of society announcements. The Season had not yet begun in earnest, though one had hopes that—

My fingers arrested their movement across the page.

“Good heavens,” I breathed, sitting forward with rather more animation than I generally permitted myself to display.

There, tucked between an announcement of Lady Metcalfe’s musical evening and a tediously lengthy account of sheep prices, sat the most extraordinary intelligence:

MARRIAGE. At the parish church of St Clement’s, London, Mr George Wickham, formerly of His Majesty’s —th Regiment of Foot, to Miss Lydia Bennet, youngest daughter of Mr Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire.

“Louisa!” I called out, barely restraining myself from the vulgarity of shouting. “Louisa, you simply must attend me at once!”

My sister appeared in the doorway, looking mildly alarmed. “Really, Caroline, what has occurred? You sound quite overcome.”

“Do read this,” I commanded, thrusting the paper toward her. “And pray tell me I am not misconstruing matters.”

Louisa adjusted her spectacles—which she persisted in calling her “reading glasses” as though that somehow rendered them more elegant—and peered at the indicated passage.

“Well!” she exclaimed after a moment. “That is... rather sudden, is it not?”

“Sudden?” I very nearly laughed. “My dear sister, it is beyond sudden. It is positively precipitous. And if you recall what Mr Darcy related about that gentleman’s... proclivities...”

“Caroline,” Louisa warned, glancing meaningfully at Phillips, who was taking an inordinate amount of time arranging the tea things.

“Oh, very well. Phillips, you may leave us. And do inform Mrs Morton that I shall take my chocolate in here this morning.”

No sooner had the door closed behind him than I turned to Louisa with barely contained glee. “Now, you cannot tell me this marriage has not been hastily arranged to prevent some scandal. The youngest Miss Bennet cannot be above sixteen years old, and Mr Wickham’s reputation...”

“It does seem rather... irregular,” Louisa admitted, sinking into the chair opposite mine.

“Irregular?” I savoured the word as though it were the finest chocolate. “My dear sister, this has all the hallmarks of what one might delicately term a ‘marriage under necessity.’ Though given Mr Wickham’s history of accumulating debts, perhaps ‘creditor’s noose’ would be more apt.”

“Caroline!”

“Oh, come now, Louisa. You cannot have forgotten the tales we heard of his behaviour in Meryton. And now to marry the youngest Bennet girl, barely out, with no fortune to speak of? There must be some compelling reason for such a match.”

“It is not our place to speculate,” Louisa murmured, though I noticed she made no move to leave the room.

“And what of Mr Darcy?” I mused, tapping the newspaper thoughtfully. “How mortifying this must be for him, after his marked attention to Miss Eliza. To have his former steward’s son marry into that family under such circumstances... Why, he shall hardly be able to acknowledge the connection now.”

“You seem rather pleased at the prospect.”

“I am merely concerned for our dear friend’s reputation,” I replied virtuously. “One cannot be too careful about one’s connections in society. And really, to have one’s sister married to such a man, and in such circumstances... Well, I dare say even Miss Eliza’s fine eyes shall lose some of their lustre in his estimation now. Not to mention the risk to our reputations should Charles continue his interest in Miss Jane Bennet.”

“You show a disturbing facility for intrigue, Caroline.” She did, I noted, furrow her brow most unattractively.

“I am being quite realistic, dear sister. Mark my words, we shall hear no more of Mr Darcy’s fascinating attraction to country misses with poor connections. Indeed, I should not be surprised if he removes himself from that entire circle of acquaintance. As we ought as well.”

The door opened to admit Charles, who appeared excessively cheerful for so early an hour.

“I say,” he announced, helping himself to a piece of toast from my perfectly arranged breakfast tray, “have you heard the news? Wickham has married one of the Bennet girls!”

“We are aware,” I replied dryly. “Though I confess myself surprised that you concern yourself with such matters.”

“Well, naturally I take an interest! I mean to call on Darcy directly and offer my congratulations on the happy event.”

I nearly dropped my chocolate. “You cannot be serious.”

“Whyever not? I mean, given his involvement in arranging the whole thing—”

“What?”

Charles blinked at me owlishly. “Oh! Perhaps I ought not to have... that is to say... I believe I hear my horse being brought round. Must dash!”

“Charles Bingley, you shall not leave this room until you have explained yourself thoroughly!”

But my brother, displaying heretofore-unknown talents for swift movement, had already vanished.

I turned to Louisa, who was suddenly very interested in adjusting her spectacles. “Did you hear that? Mr Darcy arranged the marriage? But why would he... unless...”

A horrible suspicion began to dawn.

“Oh, good heavens,” I breathed. “He is still in love with her.”

“With whom?” Louisa enquired innocently.

“Do not play the simpleton, Louisa. It does not become you. This can mean only one thing: Mr Darcy has involved himself in the Bennet family’s affairs for the sake of Miss Eliza. He has rescued her sister from scandal, thereby placing Miss Eliza under an obligation to him. How... how chivalrous of him.”

I slumped back in my chair, all pleasure in the morning’s intelligence quite dissipated.

“More chocolate?” Louisa offered, with what I considered to be wholly inappropriate amusement.

“No,” I replied shortly. “I find myself quite without an appetite.”

“Adèle,” I called, pausing before my mirror, “do come and attend to my hair. I find I am quite unable to think properly with these curls arranged so... provincially.”

My maid appeared with gratifying promptitude, her clever fingers already reaching for the tortoiseshell combs. “Mademoiselle appears troubled zis morning.”

“Troubled? Nonsense. I am merely contemplating a rather interesting piece of intelligence.” I adjusted my shawl with perfect nonchalance. “It appears Miss Lydia Bennet has married Mr Wickham. Rather hastily, one might say.”

Adèle’s hands paused briefly in their work. “Ah. And zis deesturbs Mademoiselle because...?”

“I am not disturbed! I am merely... puzzled. You see, my brother let slip that Mr Darcy had some hand in arranging the match. Now, why should a gentleman of Mr Darcy’s consequence involve himself in such a vulgar affair?”

“Per’aps,” Adèle suggested, deftly rearranging an errant curl, “Monsieur Darcy ‘as ‘is reasons.”

“Oh, I am quite certain he does. And I suspect those reasons have rather fine eyes and an impertinent manner.”

“Ma’mselle refers to Mees Elizabeth Bennet?” Adèle’s tone was entirely too knowing for a lady’s maid.

“Who else? Though what he sees in her, I cannot fathom. A gentleman of his refinement, his intelligence, his breeding—to be captivated by a country miss who tramples through muddy fields and laughs without restraint!”

“Ah, but Mademoiselle,” Adèle murmured, securing another curl, “is it not precisely such qualities zat might appeal to a man of substance? Ze ability to zink deeply, to laugh freely, to value what is genuine over what is merely fashionable...”

I turned sharply, causing her to drop a hairpin. “Really, Adèle! You sound as though you approve.”

“I speak only what I see, Mademoiselle. And what I ‘ave seen in Mees Elizabeth is a young lady of quick intelligence and sincere feeling. Such qualities are rare in any société.”

“Sincere feeling! Is that what one calls it when a young lady argues with every opinion a gentleman expresses?”

“Better, per'aps, zan agreeing with opinions one does not share?” The words were spoken so softly I might almost have imagined them.

“I believe you are becoming impertinent, Adèle.”

“A zousand pardons, Mademoiselle. Shall I arrange zese curls in ze Greek style you admired in La Belle Assemblée ?”

I waved her away. “No, no. I find I am suffering from a headache. You may leave me.”

Alone in my chamber, I found my thoughts turning traitorously to certain observations I had rather wished to ignore. The way Mr Darcy’s expression had softened when Miss Elizabeth spoke, even in disagreement. How his usual reserve had melted when she had teased him about his letter-writing. The manner in which he had attended to her every word during their discussions of books and music, while my own carefully prepared observations about the superiority of town life had fallen quite flat.

I rose and paced to the window, watching a pair of fashionable ladies carefully picking their way across the street, their delicate shoes unsullied by the slightest speck of dirt.

When, I wondered, had I last walked anywhere with such careless joy as Miss Elizabeth displayed?

The thought was immediately banished as unworthy. And yet...

I recalled a conversation overheard at Pemberley, Miss Elizabeth explaining to Miss Darcy about her rambles through the woods near Longbourn. “There is such pleasure in watching the seasons change,” she had said, her eyes alight with genuine enthusiasm. “Each day brings some new discovery—a nest of eggs, a late-blooming flower, a particularly fine view one had never noticed before.”

I had dismissed such raptures as affected rusticity. But Mr Darcy’s face as he listened—that had been genuine appreciation, had it not? Not for the subject matter itself, perhaps, but for the authentic delight with which it was expressed.

“Lord preserve me,” I murmured, sinking into my chair. “I believe I am beginning to understand.”

What man of sense would not prefer honest excitement over practised elegance? Natural wit over carefully rehearsed observations? Real feeling over perfect manners?

And there lies the heart of it, does it not? While I had spent years perfecting the precise angle of my head when listening to music, Elizabeth Bennet actually listened. While I had memorized clever observations about popular novels, she had formed her own opinions and defended them with spirit. While I had learned to move through a room with calculated grace, she moved with the natural animation of someone who actually had somewhere to go.

I thought of my own carefully crafted compliments about Pemberley’s grounds, delivered with perfect posture from the safety of the terrace. Then I recalled Miss Elizabeth, her cheeks flushed from walking, speaking with genuine passion about a particular vista she had discovered. No wonder he looked at her that way. She showed him the familiar through new eyes, while I merely showed him his own reflection.

The truth of it stung: Mr Darcy had enough wealth and consequence to fill a dozen drawing rooms. What he lacked—what Elizabeth Bennet offered in such abundance—was someone who cared nothing for his position and everything for his character, his inner self. Someone whose opinions were her own, whose laughter was genuine, whose very imperfections spoke to an authenticity I had long since polished away from myself.

How exhausting it must be, I realized with growing dismay, for Mr Darcy to constantly guard against fortune hunters and flatterers. To wonder if every smile, every compliment, every carefully staged moment of appreciation is genuine or merely another attempt to secure his favor. No wonder he looked at Elizabeth as though she were a rain shower in a drought—she offered him the one thing his wealth and position made nearly impossible to find: simple, sincere, honesty.

I glanced at my reflection in the looking glass. . The India muslin of my gown rustled softly as I leaned closer, seeing for the first time how very... practised I appeared. Every gesture calculated, every expression schooled - even the fashionable arch of my brow seemed artificial now. Perhaps it is time to remember who Caroline Bingley was before she learned to navigate the ton, before she spent hours practicing the perfect subtle incline of the head before this very mirror. If such a person still exists beneath all these layers of decorum and French cologne. I hardly recognised the uncertain expression I saw there, so at odds with my precisely painted lips and elaborately dressed hair. Was it possible that all my careful study of proper behaviour, all my diligent attention to the forms of elegant society - the perfectly modulated laugh, the exact degree of curtsey appropriate to each rank - had somehow failed utterly in its purpose?

“Non,” Adèle’s voice drifted through the door as she spoke to another servant. “Mademoiselle ‘as a ‘eadache. She is not to be disturbed.”

I almost laughed. A headache indeed—such as one gets from having one’s entire worldview shifted ever so slightly from its proper alignment.

Perhaps, a treacherous voice in my mind whispered, one might profit from a turn in the garden. Without regard for one’s shoes.

“Absolutely not,” I said aloud, straightening my spine. “I am Caroline Bingley, and I do not traipse about risking mud for anyone’s good opinion.”

But even as I spoke, I found myself wondering whether there might not be some middle ground between affecting raptures over every daisy and maintaining an unceasing pursuit of perfection of manner. Whether, perhaps, I had been on an entirely mistaken course all along.

“Adèle!” I called out suddenly.

She appeared at once. “Oui, Mademoiselle?”

“I believe I shall take a turn in the garden after all. And you need not trouble yourself about protecting my hem from the dew.”

Adèle’s expression remained entirely proper, but I rather fancied I saw a glimmer of approval in her eyes.

“Très bien, Mademoiselle. Shall I fetch your sturdy ‘alf-boots?”

“Good heavens, no. Let us not descend into complete savagery at once. My normal shoes shall do perfectly well.” I paused at the door. “Though perhaps... perhaps tomorrow we might see about the boots.”

There is, perhaps, a greater elegance in nature than in art —one which all my practised refinement has quite overlooked. What begins in artifice may end in authenticity.

Monday, the Seventh of September, 1812

I must write this down, though it pains me to acknowledge it even in private. I find I can no longer ignore the evidence. I have been reconsidering my approach but have not yet been fully convinced that change was needed. Tonight was mortifying enough to force me to face the fact that my methods do not work

There I stood, in my coral gown ordered specifically to complement the blue drawing-room at Lady Portsmouth's, positioned precisely where the chandelier would catch the gold thread in the embroidery. My hair was dressed to perfection, despite nearly scorching my neck when I insisted Adèle attempt to create a loose curl to hang down my back. The ostrich feathers, which stood half a yard above my head were the exact shade of my gown. Everything was calculated to perfection, as always. And yet—

Mr Brown walked straight past me to join that hoydenish Miss Maxter, who was practically bouncing in her seat whilst telling some nonsensical story about a pig in a parlour. A pig! In mixed company! And instead of the social censure such behaviour deserved, she received genuine laughter—even from Mr Brown himself.

I could almost hear Elizabeth Bennet's voice in my head: "Perhaps, Miss Bingley, they laugh because they are genuinely amused rather than socially obligated."

I recalled every excruciating occasion when I agreed with Mr Darcy's literary opinions. How many times did I abandon my own thoughts before they were even fully formed? "Oh yes, Mr Darcy, Byron's latest work is quite shocking." "Indeed, Mr Darcy, I find Cowper's pastoral scenes so... uplifting." Always watching his face, modulating my response to match his expression.

Whilst Elizabeth Bennet simply spoke her mind and won his approval.

I am not a fool. I have succeeded in many ways - my manners are impeccable, my fingers moving with practiced grace over the pianoforte's ivory keys, my watercolors displaying all the delicate skill that twelve years of instruction could impart. My accomplishments numerous, my attire always exactly right, from the precise arrangement of my Kashmir shawl to the latest Parisian trim on my evening gowns. But I am still unmarried, still watching others succeed where I have failed. And tonight, watching Miss Maxter's natural animation draw everyone to her like moths to a flame - her unschooled laugh ringing through the assembly rooms, her cheeks flushed with genuine pleasure rather than carefully applied carmine, her every movement spontaneous rather than studied - I was forced to consider a horrifying thought: all my careful cultivation of the perfect manner, every hour spent practicing the elegant arch of my wrist as I take tea, every carefully memorized bon mot, has been worse than useless.

So, I did it. I actually disagreed with someone - with Mr Radford, no less. My hands are still shaking as I write this.

He was praising that dreadful new production of ‘Twelfth Night,’ and instead of nodding and simulating perfect agreement as I have trained myself to do, I said: “Actually, I found it rather heavy-handed.”

The words felt foreign on my tongue. I nearly swallowed them back, nearly laughed and pretended it was a joke. But then the strangest thing happened - he asked my opinion. He wanted to know more.

And somehow, I found I had more to say. Real thoughts, not merely carefully curated responses. I heard myself critiquing the actor playing Malvolio, explaining how his broad comedy undermined the poignancy of the character’s humiliation. Where did those thoughts come from? Have they always been there, hidden beneath layers of calculation?

Even stranger - when Miss Maxter joined our discussion, I forgot to be jealous. I actually wanted to hear her perspective on the play. Is this what it feels like to have a genuine conversation? To actually care about the answers when one asks questions?

I find myself thinking of Elizabeth Bennet again, but differently now. Not with resentment, but with curiosity. How does she do it? How does one learn to be genuine?

Perhaps... perhaps one practises, as one practises the pianoforte or French. I’ve spent years practising artifice - surely sincerity can be learned just as carefully?

A plan is forming in my mind. I shall approach this methodically:

i. Observe those who succeed at being “natural” - n ot to copy them exactly, but to understand their methods

ii. Practise voicing real opinions in safe situations first

iii. Study subjects that actually interest me, not only those that make for acceptable conversation

iv. Allow myself to react genuinely to things, in small ways at first

v. Keep a journal of what works and what does not

It feels strange to be studying how to be natural and unstudied. But one must start somewhere, must one not? And if I have learned anything from watching Elizabeth Bennet’s success, it is that I must have been pursuing the wrong course. Her success and my, I must admit, utter failure, proves it.

Tomorrow I shall visit Hatchard’s. Not for the latest fashionable novel everyone is discussing, but for something I actually wish to read.

—?—

Tuesday, the Eighth of September, 1812

At the card-party at Mrs Powers's home this evening, Mr Radford sought me out at supper specifically to discuss the theatre further. He maneuvered quite deliberately past Mrs Ashton's peacock feather fan and Mrs. Harding's elaborate turban to reach my corner by the gilt-edged mirror. He said he looks forward to hearing my thoughts on the new comedy next week.

The strange warmth in my breast—I believe it might be genuine pleasure. How singular.

I wonder what else I might discover about myself, if I dare to look?