Chapter 13
Caroline let down the hood of her cloak as she stepped inside the home of a London midwife. The house was small and sparsely furnished, yet looked comfortable and clean. A maid led Caroline to wait in the sitting room.
Mrs. Sherman had helped a friend of Caroline’s after the girl got into a scrape. The midwife had been discreet and capable—qualities Caroline desperately needed.
The maid went to find her mistress. Caroline waited by the hearth, the fire a welcome warmth against the chill. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the low wooden beams, the scents of chamomile, raspberry leaf, and pennyroyal mingling into an earthy bouquet.
To Caroline, it seemed like the maid was gone an age. But of course, Caroline’s nerves were keeping her on edge.
No one could find out she was here. She would be ruined.
She’d been vague with Louisa about the need for this London trip. She’d settled on the excuse that she wanted to speak to Jane.
Charles had been devastated since the ball. Louisa questioned Caroline about the incident with Wickham. Could it have been a misunderstanding? Caroline feigned a hope that a reconciliation might be possible.
For the sake of appearances, she would indeed go to Cheapside and call on Jane. Not that the angelic Miss Bennet would likely receive her. Jane knew that Caroline had lied—that she’d been part of Wickham’s scheme.
As long as Jane couldn’t prove it until Caroline was safely married to Darcy—that was the only thing that mattered.
The maid returned, and Caroline followed her to an office where a woman of middling years sat at a desk. She was dressed in serviceable grey wool. Auburn hair streaked with white was pulled into a tight bun.
Against one wall, heavy tomes weighed down an oaken bookshelf. Upon a rough-hewn table, a collection of glass bottles and earthenware jars stood in neat rows, their contents ranging from dark liquids to pale powders.
Opposite the door, a chaise longue was draped in what appeared to be clean linens and colourful pillows. Caroline’s mouth was dry, but she forced herself to speak.
She explained her symptoms, and the midwife examined her. Afterwards, they sat to discuss the situation.
“At this point,” Mrs. Sherman said, “it’s too soon to confirm your suspicions. But the signs suggest pregnancy.”
Caroline nodded. She wasn’t surprised, nor even dismayed. But she needed to seduce Darcy, and quickly.
A sudden longing rose inside her. She wished she were a new bride, sharing a moment of joy with her husband. She wished she could see the sparkle in his eyes as they dreamt together of their son or daughter.
If she married Wickham, would he love their child? A spike of happiness blossomed in her chest but soon died. The two of them were not made for love. But for a brief shining moment, she wondered what life would be like if they were.
Mrs. Sherman gave her some herbs for nausea and other symptoms. Caroline left some coins for the woman and went on her way. Hood pulled up, veil over her face, Caroline took a meandering route back to her sister’s home on Grosvenor Street.
∞∞∞
Lizzy surveyed the facade of a modest town house on the outskirts of Mayfair as a figure climbed down the steps. Lizzy had seen only a glimpse of the woman’s face when a breeze lifted her veil. But there had been no mistake. The tall frame, the red cloak, the beaded reticule—it was Caroline.
From inside the waiting hackney, Lizzy watched. Her gaze followed Caroline until she’d disappeared from sight. Employing a man to watch the Hursts’ home had paid off after all.
The watchman had sent word that morning of Caroline’s arrival in town. Lizzy and a footman named Owen had headed towards Mayfair. On the way, she’d spotted a woman who looked remarkably like Caroline despite the veil. And not far behind, Owen had spied the watchman on her heels.
Owen opened the door to the hack and said, “Peters says he’ll keep watching her, with his boy to spell him, if that pleases ye, ma’am.”
“Yes, for now.” But Lizzy already had the answer to the most critical question: what Caroline had to hide.
During her aunt’s last pregnancy, Lizzy had been in town visiting for several weeks. Mrs. Gardiner had praised the tonics and restoratives the midwife had provided. Lizzy remembered well the bronze window boxes and tall urns that adorned the front of Mrs. Sherman’s home.
There could be no doubt. Caroline had come to London to see a midwife.
Of course, Caroline might be visiting Mrs. Sherman for a different female complaint. Lizzy didn’t know whether the midwife offered such comforts. But if that was the case, then why the secrecy? Why the veil?
In a soft tone, Owen said, “Mr. Gardiner wouldn’t like us sneaking around, miss.”
Lizzy gave him a wan smile. “Of course. I’ll tell him tonight. You’re a good man, Owen, and I wouldn’t want you blamed for my choices.”
“Thank you, miss. You and your sister have always been kind to me. I hate to think of any harm coming to Miss Bennet.” They shared a soft smile before the footman closed the door and took his place next to the driver.
During the ride back to Cheapside, Lizzy wondered what to do next. She would tell her uncle about having Caroline followed, but not what she’d learnt. No matter how angry she was, Lizzy wouldn’t stoop to shredding Caroline’s reputation.
In that, if nothing else, Lizzy felt a sisterhood with Caroline. A woman could be ruined for an act that would earn a man a jovial pat on the back. Was Wickham blackmailing her? Was that why she’d helped him?
Or was he her lover?
A few weeks ago, during a walk into Meryton, Lizzy had noticed Wickham looking over Caroline’s figure. She’d given him a quick flirtatious glance in return. But that was nothing. It happened a thousand times a day in a thousand villages throughout England.
More suspicious had been the incident at the linen-draper.
Lizzy had come upon Caroline looking flushed and hurried.
The woman had nearly run into a clerk carrying three bolts of fabric in his arms. A few minutes later, Wickham had come from the same direction. He seemed to materialise from nowhere.
Lizzy had cast aside the absurd idea that he’d emerged from the storage closet. But might that have been the case? Had Wickham and Caroline been meeting for trysts at Meryton shops?
Lizzy let out a giggle, thinking the situation sounded like something from a lurid novel. But what did she know of the goings-on between men and women? If Caroline was indeed with child, Wickham seemed as likely a culprit as anyone else.
What to do with this information? Should she tell Bingley? It hardly seemed like her place.
She wished she could talk to Darcy. He could advise her how best to proceed. She trusted his discretion and his charity.
Yes, that was what she would do. Write a note to Darcy. It wasn’t quite proper but…she could ask her uncle to send it to him on her behalf.
A weight lifted from her. She would contact Darcy. Then, all would be well.
∞∞∞
Caroline stepped inside the house on Grosvenor Street, out of the misty rain. She’d needed facts, and now she had them. No point in getting emotional about it. Once she was married to Darcy, the child would be a blessing.
She blinked back tears. If she’d known seven years ago that she would still be chasing Darcy, she would never have begun. She was no longer a girl. She was on the brink of spinsterhood. And she had nothing at all to show for her efforts.
In the beginning, it had seemed like the most logical thing in the world. Darcy was her brother’s best friend. She and Darcy were forever thrown into company. His wealth was his primary attraction of course, but he was intelligent, and a fine figure of a man… Why would she not strive to marry him?
She’d had plenty of other suitors, men she liked better, with three or four thousand a year. She ought to have married one of them. Instead, she’d held out for the prize. Ten thousand a year.
Only to realise seven years too late that Darcy couldn’t make her happy.
She’d never been romantic. She’d seen marriage as a business proposition, without love entering into it. Love was a diversion to be enjoyed later, once the heirs had been produced.
It had all seemed so simple. She hadn’t thought it through. At no point had it crossed her mind that she was utterly incompatible with Darcy.
Would Darcy pleasure her in a storage closet at the linen-draper? No. No, he would not. He would want a bed and a priest’s blessing and probably to keep his nightshirt on.
But what choice did she have? She couldn’t marry Wickham, no matter how well matched they were physically. He would squander her fortune in the space of a breath.
She wouldn’t indulge in that fantasy. Wickham was a rogue and a pauper who could give her nothing but disappointment.
Darcy could make her mistress of Pemberley. The belle of the ton. The envy of her classmates from Mrs. Buttercup’s School.
For the past seven years, that was what she’d worked for. She wouldn’t let that dream die now, when she was so close.
Tonight, she would win Darcy at last.
But first, she would see Jane. To that end, she changed out of her plain black gown and into a fashionable walking dress. The Hursts’ coachman took her to Cheapside.
As they neared the address on Gracechurch Street, a familiar figure caught her eye. She closed the coach’s curtain, then lifted the edge just enough to see out the window.
Her eyes had not deceived her. It was Wickham.
She wasn’t jolted by his presence in London. She’d given him the Gardiners’ direction when she learnt Jane had left for town. But it was inconvenient that he should be here now, when she planned to call.
She signalled for the driver to stop. Once Wickham was about a block ahead of her, she pulled up the hood of her cloak and stepped out of the coach. She followed at a distance.
Would Jane receive him? Surely she must. She was being stubborn, but he was the only hope to save her reputation.
What would Wickham do if Jane refused to marry him? Would he go through with his threats to expose Caroline? She couldn’t afford that.
If she could get Darcy alone, she was sure she could get him into a compromising situation. If spirits didn’t work, she could slip laudanum into his drink. He would wake up in her bed with no memory of the evening’s events. He had too much honour to do anything other than marry her.
Wickham climbed up the steps to the house on the corner ahead. As the butler opened the door, Caroline turned into the adjacent alley to stay out of sight.
The ensuing argument was loud enough for her to hear every word. The butler was angry and disdainful. “I’ve told you repeatedly you’re not welcome here.”
“You don’t understand.” Wickham spoke with barely contained fury, a thread of desperation in his tone. “This is a matter of great urgency. I must speak to Miss Bennet.”
“You can’t speak to Miss Bennet.”
The man’s refusal irked Caroline. That a tradesman’s butler should speak to a gentleman in that way! But then, she reminded herself, Wickham wasn’t a gentleman. He was a gentleman’s bastard, raised as the son of a steward.
How had she fallen so low? To have let that man touch her!
She couldn’t explain it. Or rather, she didn’t like the explanation. He stirred her blood more than any man she’d ever known. His looks were like Darcy’s, but he had a sharp edge to him that fascinated her. And he was the most skilful lover she’d ever known.
Wickham’s voice took on a sterner tone. “Good sir, I insist you admit me. It’s imperative—”
“It’s impossible,” the butler countered in haughty tones. “I warned you Miss Bennet was gravely ill, sirrah.”
Jane, ill? Caroline hadn’t known that. A prickle of fear ran up her spine. She recalled how wan Jane had looked just a few weeks ago when she’d suffered no more than a bad cold.
“I’ll take but a minute of her time,” Wickham demanded.
“I’m sorry to say, it’s too late for that,” the butler countered. “Not an hour ago, she passed away.”
Pain rocked through Caroline. Her hand went to her throat. Surely this could not be!
“Jane is dead?” Wickham’s tone conveyed profound shock.
“The family are beside themselves with grief. You’re not welcome here. Now be on your way.” The door slammed closed.
Caroline slinked deeper into the alleyway, her back to the cross street. Tears blurred her vision, and she stifled a sob. Had she done this? Had Jane died of a broken heart?
She warned herself to keep her wits about her. People didn’t die of broken hearts. That was the stuff of novels.
But poor Charles! What would she tell her brother?
Desperate sadness overwhelmed her. But she forced herself to pay attention to her surroundings. She didn’t want Wickham to see her skulking about—she never wished to see him again.
Staying hidden, she waited for him to depart. After a few moments, footsteps moved back the way they’d come. She chanced a look over her shoulder to ensure it was Wickham. Once he’d put some distance between them, she returned to her coach.
During the drive back to Mayfair, she tried to plan her next move where Wickham was concerned. But her mind kept wandering back to Jane.
Charles would never forgive himself. And it was Caroline’s doing.
She hadn’t known until that moment how dear to her Jane had been. But there was nothing for it now. Jane was gone.
It was too late for Caroline to turn back. And she was with child. She must marry, and soon. Darcy would be her salvation.