Chapter 18
Old Stables
Noon
Caroline carefully nocked the arrow in the string, pulled her right arm back, and let loose the arrow.
It flew through the air and slammed into the target, though not the very center. She had never hit the bull's-eye, though she had come reasonably close.
Today it did not matter particularly. Caroline was too angry to care about bull's-eyes.
Fury churned in her breast like a storm. Disbelief, incredulity, and rage mingled in a sickening swirl that demanded an outlet for the pressure.
Charles had ruined everything. How could he?! How could he be so stupid? What foolishness had possessed him that he had made an offer for Jane Bennet? How did he not realize what a colossal mistake he had made?
She loosed another arrow, which was sped on its way by her fulminating rancor.
This was not how it was supposed to be! He was supposed to fall in love with Georgiana Darcy and marry her, gaining her dowry and increasing his status in the world!
Even if he had decided that Georgiana was too young, for all that she was so mature for her age, or if he could not wait a few years, Society teemed with other eligible ladies.
Many of them were blue-eyed and blonde-haired, and plenty of them were well-dowered and long-established with good family names.
But Jane Bennet?
She had nothing! Only her beauty, and what was that, after all?
There were many beautiful women in London!
She had no money, no dowry to add to her husband’s wealth or to support her; she had no consequence to lend to Charles; she had no connections to help him in Society.
Truly, a connection with her could only lower him!
Her family of birth was mortifying, her mother vulgar and her sisters hoydenish.
Mr. Bennet was no more than a mere country squire, married to the daughter of a solicitor, with no kin to increase his status in the world but only the deplorable connections of his wife.
Caroline ground her teeth. Mrs. Bennet’s brother by marriage was a mere solicitor in Meryton, and according to rumors, her brother was in trade in Town.
She shuddered a little at the very thought.
He was probably one of those arrogant Cits who sought to force their way up into a stratum of society too good for them!
Caroline blinked away tears of sheer rage, nocked another arrow, pulled back, and let it fly.
It thunked satisfyingly into the target, and she noted with pleasure that it was no more than two inches from the small red circle in the middle of the target.
It was nice to know that she was improving with practice, but there was little room within her soul at the moment to give way to gloating.
She was still brimming with anger, right up to the very top, so angry she could just howl, but a lady did not scream and make a display of herself.
So here she was, shooting arrows, an appropriately violent sort of exercise that allowed her, in some measure, to vent her spleen.
Ever since that catastrophic ball that had been supposed to be so glorious, that had been so delightful up until the very end, Caroline had been wracking her brains to figure out how to free her fool of a brother.
Regrettably, it seemed well-nigh impossible; there was no way for a gentleman to draw back from an engagement without irretrievably besmirching his honor.
Perhaps Jane could be bought off? Or her silly mother?
It had not taken Caroline long to dismiss this idea though; Mrs. Bennet might be a fool, but Jane was not, and anyway, the solicitor’s daughter, no matter how vulgar, well understood the advantages of marriage to a wealthy man and security for life rather than a single sum swiftly spent.
Just when Caroline had thought her cup of bitterness was full to running over, Mr. Darcy had added to her tribulations by announcing the previous evening his impending return to London.
He was a perfect gentleman, with a perfect diplomatic justification ready; it was, he had said, too long since last he had seen Georgiana, and he needed to return to Darcy House to spend time with his younger sister.
It would be a laudable reason were it the true one.
Following, as it did hard on the heels of Charles’s idiotic engagement, Caroline was confident that the decision was Mr. Darcy’s diplomatic refusal to countenance such a marriage.
He had her fullest sympathies, even as the river of her despair swelled over its banks.
Charles had destroyed not only his own chance at future happiness with his selfishness and shortsightedness, but hers as well.
Mr. Darcy had been mere days from making her an offer, she knew it, and now he was distancing himself from their family.
He would never tolerate being connected with the vulgar Bennets and their relatives in trade!
It made her want to both weep and gnash her teeth in fury.
She pulled back her last arrow, aimed, and let it fly. This one soared through the air and stabbed itself firmly into the very center of the target. Her first bull's-eye.
“Oh, Miss Bingley, how wonderful!” a feminine voice cried out.
She turned and frowned at the sight of the youngest two Misses Bennet, who were standing by the door, both with wide eyes, both dressed warmly.
She opened her mouth to snarl something and then closed it with a snap. Whatever else might be said about her, she was a lady, and a lady did not shout at others. Moreover, these girls would tragically soon be her sisters by marriage.
“Miss Kitty, Miss Lydia,” she said coolly. “Whatever are you doing here?”
Lydia stepped forward and said, “Do you not remember that we spoke at the ball of shooting arrows?”
Caroline’s nostrils quivered with distaste. The ball. She had thought it would be the perfect way to display her prowess as a hostess to Mr. Darcy, and then Charles had proposed to Jane!
“Yes, I remember,” she said.
“I hope we are not disturbing you,” Kitty said meekly, “but Lydia and I wished to leave Longbourn as the talk is nothing but weddings and clothes and breakfasts, and oh, shooting arrows is obviously so very difficult, and yet you make it look so easy! I cannot imagine how you shot the arrow directly into the center!”
In spite of herself, Caroline could not help but be pleased at the ardent admiration in young Miss Kitty’s eyes. Truthfully, it was quite impressive that she had managed to hit the center of the target.
“Would you like to take a turn with the bow and arrow?” she asked.
“Oh yes!” Lydia exclaimed, stepping forward. “Ought I to continue wearing my pelisse, or should I take it off?”
“My experience is that it is difficult to move my arm easily with too many layers of clothing, so I would advise hanging it on that hook over there,” Caroline said.
“It is rather cool in the stables, of course, but you will likely warm up with the exercise, and you can put the pelisse on again when you are done.”
“Oh, thank you,” Lydia said, eagerly unbuttoning her pelisse. “This is so very exciting!
***
Pig in the Poke Pub
Evening
Tuesday, 3rd December 1811
George Wickham stepped into the little room that had been assigned to him, closing the door securely behind himself.
The air was chilly, and he crossed on rapid strides to the fire laid ready on the hearth.
He knelt to light the tinder scattered across the logs and watched as the tiny nascent flames caught and spread.
Wickham stood, tossing the taper into the small but growing fire.
Already its meager heat was starting to seep out beyond the stones of the hearth into the cold room.
Wickham extended his hands over the flames, greedily gleaning what heat he could for his stiff fingers.
His military-issued coat at least was warm, the scarlet wool a sturdy barrier against the cold.
He glanced around the tidy little room and sighed in contentment.
Meryton and the Pig in the Poke were beginning almost to feel like home.
He would always enjoy London, glittering town of pleasure that it was, but it held dangers for men such as himself.
It had not taken him long to grace the halls of his favorite gaming hell, and there he had largely stayed during his few days' sojourn in Town, stumbling out in the dawn to sleep until evening.
It had, perhaps, not been the wisest course of action he could have chosen, but Wickham could not regret it, despite the loss of some fifty pounds.
Every gentleman gambled; why should he refrain?
Wickham brooded for a moment. There was one gift Providence had failed to give him.
He was blessed with a handsome face, a good figure, accomplished address, and an ease of charm and manner which made him acceptable in all but the most exclusive of drawing rooms. But the one thing he did not have was a reliable income from a father or uncle or cousin. No, he was quite alone in the world.
None of which would matter, of course, if Darcy had not denied him the living. The expression of brooding on Wickham's face deepened. It should have been his! The income would have been reassuringly steady, none of this scrabbling hand-to-mouth subsistence to which he had been reduced.
Alas, the living was gone, awarded to another, and forever beyond Wickham's reach.
The situation was not so very bad; he was popular in Meryton, liked by his fellow-officers, adored by the ladies of the town, and respected by their husbands and sons and brothers.
No door was shut to him, no dinner table denied him, no gaming table where he was not welcome.