The Miseducation of Caroline Bingley (Austentatious #2)

Chapter One

A book was an abominable thing, Miss Caroline Bingley decided, for no matter which book you picked up, their stories were

already set in stone, and one’s own tastes or opinions—no matter how excellent—could never prevail upon them to change.

Satisfied by the philosophical insight of such a thought, she strolled across the Darcys’ library again.

Her journey took her past the sofa where Miss Georgiana Darcy—younger sister of the man who had, only a week prior, married Miss Elizabeth Bennet—was curled up like a contented cat.

It was the third time in half an hour that Caroline had taken a turn around the room, and the third time that Georgiana had, once again, ignored Caroline’s delicate sighs in favour of concentrating on the book in her hands.

Though the library at Pemberley was large and the seating arrangements—two long couches upholstered in an elegant shade of burgundy, accompanied by several matching chairs set into alcoves along the wall—were comfortable enough to please any numbers of readers, Caroline found herself in dire need of fresh entertainment.

After all, one could only stare at the paintings of the ancestral Darcys on the wall for so long before one began to feel them staring back.

She hesitated in front of a moustached man, who glared down at her from under a set of eyebrows so grey and hairy they looked like two mating caterpillars, and felt a shiver roll down her spine.

Swallowing her discomfort, Caroline selected yet another handsomely-bound book from the shelves. Flipping idly through it,

she discovered only dry descriptions about land management. With a frown, she returned the book to its rightful home. “Pray

tell me,” she complained, turning to face her companion, “what is the use of having a library in one’s home if one does not

actually stock anything worth reading?”

“I recall that, not so long ago, you could find no fault whatsoever with my brother’s tastes,” Georgiana said, without looking

up.

“I’m afraid I do not know what you mean. Surely even your brother does not spend his evenings deeply absorbed in”—she craned

her head to the side, the better to see the title on the spine of the book which she had just put back—“A Dissertation on the Chief Obstacles to the Improvement of Land, and Introducing Better Methods of Agriculture Throughout

Scotland?” Her lip curled in a sneer. “A thrilling read, to be sure.”

“You are standing in the wrong area if you wish to be amused.” Georgiana still hadn’t looked up, though she pointed a finger

at the opposite side of the room. Tendrils of perfectly curled fair hair framed her handsome face, which currently wore an

expression of placid contemplation. “We keep what few novels we have over there.”

Caroline crossed to the desired section, but the titles there did not inspire much hope: Gulliver’s Travels.

The History of Tom Jones. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.

She rolled her eyes. Other countries, world history, their own mundane lives—these were topics upon which men loved to lecture at length, but she had rarely found those conversations stimulating.

“I am sure that these will be equally as dry as the first one I picked up. Really, it is a wonder that the whole room does not burst into flames whenever the candles are lit.”

Miss Darcy heaved a sigh of her own, which was much louder and more irritated than the ladylike sighs Caroline had been so

lately emitting, and dropped the book she had been reading onto her lap, though her finger remained on the page to mark her

place. “Perhaps it is not the fault of the books, then, but of the reader herself. What say you to that?”

Caroline advanced to the hearth, where a small but merry fire burned in the grate, and took a moment to warm her hands. Though

it was early summer, there was still a slight chill in the air, no doubt caused by the housekeeper’s insistence on keeping

the windows open all night to freshen the room. Caroline’s blue dress, which had served her perfectly well whilst upstairs

in the guest room with a blazing fire, felt rather thin and insubstantial down here.

“Nothing at all,” she retorted, “seeing as the argument makes no sense whatsoever. How can the fault of a book lie with a

reader?”

“What I mean to say is that I do not think you possess the attention span to truly enjoy a book,” Georgiana said, leaning

back on the sofa. The dress she was wearing was a simple one—moss green, with lace trim at the hem and bosom—but it brought

out the hues in her brown eyes to great advantage. She was as fair-haired as her brother was dark, but those beautiful eyes

were a familial trait. “For it would require you to live another’s life for a few minutes, perhaps even an hour or two, which

I do not think you could abide, particularly if the character’s views did not align perfectly with your own.”

“I do not think that there is anything wrong in preferring to be one’s own self,” Caroline huffed. “You make it sound like some great defect of character.”

The flames in the handsome fireplace crackled, filling the silence. Georgiana opened her mouth as if to add something, then

closed it again, perhaps thinking better of it. “Not necessarily,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “But do not you think

it may be a matter of being reluctant to give up control in some way? One cannot influence a book to comply with one’s whims

and wishes, after all.”

This came remarkably close to what Caroline had been thinking only a minute prior, though she wasn’t about to admit that now.

“Certainly not.”

Georgiana’s lips twitched. “Hmm.”

Caroline glared at her. “I believe you are laughing at me, Miss Darcy.”

The smile which she had been repressing now made itself plain. “I believe you are being ridiculous, Miss Bingley.”

“What are you reading?” Caroline asked, pointing at the edition in Georgiana’s lap. Dutifully, Miss Darcy turned the book

so that Caroline could see the cover. “The Mysteries of Udolpho, eh? Well, that explains it!” she exclaimed. She had no real idea what The Mysteries of Udolpho was about, but the title suggested an air of grandness and mystique. “There must be two hundred books in this room, and yet,

you are hoarding the only interesting one.”

“Four hundred, actually. At least, at last count. And you’re welcome to this one.” Georgiana closed the book and offered it.

“I would love to hear your thoughts upon it.”

With a delighted grin, Caroline accepted the novel, plopped down on the couch next to Georgiana, and began to read.

To her surprise, the story began with a young lady called Emily bemoaning the manner in which she had been obliged to part from her love, Valancourt.

This interested Caroline for a minute or two, as it seemed that some delicious gossip must be forthcoming, but in truth, very little reason for the separation was provided.

She read on, hopeful of gleaning a juicy morsel or two, but could only discover that Valancourt had pleaded with Emily to remember him at sunset.

Why sunset specifically, Caroline could not tell.

Perhaps it had some significance to the lovers, or even to the author, though she could not determine what that significance might be.

Within another page or two, even the romance faded away, and with it vanished any hope of gossip. Before long, Caroline grew

restless with the description of Emily’s journey through a landscape she did not recognise. She quickly tired of the references

to Alpine shrubs amidst the crags, fluffy clouds, and delightful villages. Those things could be found in almost any place

in England; why would one bother to write about something everyone could see whenever they liked?

Lowering the book to her lap, she stared out of the long windows which so beautifully framed the view of the Pemberley estate.

It was such a lovely day outside; the sky was a beautiful, deep blue, with only a few puffy clouds chasing each other across it like playful children.

There was hardly a breeze, and the trees which she could see through the window were barely trembling at all.

The hedges, which lined the paths and walkways of Pemberley, had lately been trimmed back, though not nearly enough for her liking—her brother, Charles, kept the hedges at Netherfield as straight and neat as soldiers awaiting their marching orders.

In the distance, she could see only a slender sliver of the stream, though it sparkled as brightly as any jewel.

From a window on any of the upper floors, one could see more clearly how it opened out into wider banks, becoming a stately river of some importance, though here in the library, the view was far too impeded by thick woodland to see such a thing.

A bird flapped past the window at speed, catching her eye. The room in which she and Georgiana now sat was north-facing, which

rendered it much dimmer than the drawing room on the south side of the house. Despite the attractiveness of the drawing room,

painted in a pretty shade of light blue and—perhaps more importantly—with far fewer Darcy ancestors scowling down disapprovingly,

Georgiana much preferred the library and spent most of her days here. It was not an inelegant room by any means, wallpapered

in a pale yellow flock which had remained the same as far back as Caroline could remember. Miss Darcy’s late mother had apparently

preferred this room above all others, and her daughter seemed to have inherited the same inclination.

“Perhaps we ought to take a turn around the garden,” Caroline suggested, closing the book with a snap, already thinking about

which bonnet would match her blue dress best. “I have heard that it is not good for the complexion to spend too much time

indoors, especially when summer shall be over soon.”