Chapter 5
On the day of the trial sitting, Caroline dressed with particular care.
It was possible, of course, that Mr Northville would not depict her gown as it really was.
For all she knew, he might portray her as one of the queens of history or as a woodland sprite.
But if the painting were to function as an asset in her campaign to find a suitable husband, it would not do to present herself looking anything less than her best.
Accordingly, Caroline stood long before her wardrobe, thinking.
She knew which gown Louisa would have advised — certainly the yellow silk with Italian lace, which was the richest that might be worn during an afternoon at home without making herself look quite ridiculous.
Furthermore, it would have the advantage of showing the richness of her dowry to any potential suitor without a word being said. It was an entirely practical choice.
Still, Caroline hesitated. She was not entirely sure why, for in addition to all more practical reasons, the dress was marvellously flattering to her figure.
Yet she still remained, not reaching for the gown, nor wishing to.
Again and again, her gaze seemed to go to another dress, as though entirely of its own volition.
Though also of silk, the white gown was almost the simplest she owned. Louisa did not much care for it, for it had hardly a touch of lace — only a delicate little line almost too small to see at the cuffs of the long sleeves.
But something in its simplicity called to Caroline. At last, she gave in. If Mr Northville did not wish to depict her in so simple a gown, he could always paint another. And if it was not the strategic choice, it was at least hers.
Her decision made, Caroline called her maid and began the business of preparing to face the day. To match the gown, she instructed Little to arrange her hair very simply.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Caroline smiled, and then frowned. She looked very well, but it was not yet complete. There was something missing in what the simple gown and hair seemed to express — something she might yet add that would render the whole more painterly, more interesting.
At once, she had it. Opening her jewel box, Caroline drew out an amethyst necklace on a long silver chain. The glow of the pale purple stone against her skin would be exactly right. She lifted the chain over her head, nodded decisively, and went downstairs.
When Mr Northville was announced that afternoon, he appeared in the drawing room carrying only a small bag with him.
Jane remarked on it almost at once after the first greetings. “You have not brought an easel, Mr Northville. I hope its lack will not hinder your work.”
He nodded earnestly. “I shall need one later, if Miss Bingley agrees to continue sitting for me. But for the time being, I need nothing more than a pad of paper and charcoal to sketch with.”
“That shall be interesting to see,” Jane replied. “I have never before seen an artist at work — not a professional, I mean. My younger sister Catherine is talented at painting in watercolour, but of course she has no idea of considering herself a real artist.”
“Then perhaps she is too modest,” Mr Northville replied. “I see a very fine watercolour sitting on this side table — is it her work?”
“Indeed it is. That is Longbourn, our family estate, and a good likeness of it.”
“Then I believe Miss Catherine may deserve the title of ‘artist’ as much as I do,” he told them.
“She has not only captured an excellent likeness, but done what is more difficult, and brought a great deal of personality and character to it. One can feel at once that the artist loves this place. And such of sense of light and warmth! Highly admirable.”
“You make me wish Kitty were here, Mr Northville,” Jane told him. “She would like such a compliment above anything.”
He responded with graceful wishes that he might have the pleasure of repeating his compliments.
Caroline was conscious of a sense of respect for his modesty and appreciation for another person’s talents combined with an odd and nonsensical jealousy, as though she did not wish him to meet Kitty Bennet, nor to repeat his compliments to her.
It was utterly absurd. Why should she wish him not to compliment any other woman, simply because she had so greatly enjoyed his compliments to her?
Her emotions were quite unaccountable. Caroline could hardly say what she disliked more — that she was falling into her old habits of competing with other women, or that she was doing it, of all people, against an absent Kitty Bennet.
Thankfully, the others had not perceived her momentary confusion. It was embarrassing enough simply to acknowledge it to herself. Caroline added her warm compliments on the watercolour to everyone else’s and congratulated herself that her unaccountable jealousy would remain entirely her secret.
“Well, Mr Northville,” Jane said at last, “should you like to begin sketching in here, or in the music room?”
“The music room, please, Mrs Bingley. If I am so fortunate as to be permitted to paint Miss Bingley, it shall give greater consistency to the finished work if I paint in the same room where I have sketched her. It is the light, you see. Everything changes when we see a subject in a different light.”
Jane nodded, seeing the sense in this, but Caroline found that her breath caught in her throat.
He had spoken entirely normally, not seeming to imply any meaning beyond the literal, yet greater meaning presented itself to her without effort.
What was it in him that made even the slightest word or gesture seem full of significance?
Caroline was unsurprised to find that Jane followed them to the music room.
It was like her sister-in-law to take every precaution to protect her reputation.
Indeed, knowing Jane’s sweetness, she probably did it out of a wish for Mr Northville’s social comfort as well.
More practically, she instructed two footmen to follow them, in the event that any of the furniture might be rearranged.
“Here we are, Mr Northville,” Caroline told him upon entering the room. “Arrange me as you like.”
He looked oddly surprised, and for just a moment, something she did not quite understand had played out over his features.
But Mr Northville recovered himself quickly. “Thank you, Miss Bingley. I should like you to sit where the light from the window will fall on your face at an angle. Mrs Bingley, might we have this armchair moved closer to the window, perhaps to the other side of the shelf?”
Jane instructed the footmen to make it so. Mr Northville examined it closely, muttering to himself and personally moving the chair a few inches to one side, before pronouncing it to be ideal.
“Are you ready to begin, Miss Bingley?” Mr Northville asked. “At this stage, I shall not need you to keep very still, but the expression is most important.”
“Certainly we may begin, Mr Northville,” Caroline replied, sitting down in the chair. “But I am not quite sure what you mean by my expression. Like this, perhaps?” And she assumed the small, elegant smile that her mother and Louisa had trained her in, the one most becoming for an elegant lady.
He looked at her narrowly, seeming a little unsatisfied. “No, I think not,” he said at last. Across the room, Jane looked on curiously, her embroidery forgotten in her lap. “If you would indulge me, Miss Bingley, I should like you to assume a rather different expression.”
“I shall try,” Caroline said drily. It would be a rather lowering end to all her strange fascination with the man if he were one of those — the sort of man who did not tell a woman what he wanted her to do, and then blamed her for not doing it.
Mr Hurst was always blaming Louisa for not ordering a ragout, when he had not told her he wanted one, or not dressing finely enough to impress a new acquaintance, when he had not told her the man was to be present or that she ought to wear her best.
But before Caroline could finish deciding exactly how Mr Northville was destined to disappoint her, he was already going on. “If I may be so bold, Miss Bingley, are there any questions that have particularly occupied your mind of late?”
Caroline looked at him, astonished. It was hardly a question for a new acquaintance. Without pausing in threading her needle, Jane cleared her throat in a gentle warning.
He coloured at once. “Excuse me, Miss Bingley. I did not mean to say that you should share your most private thoughts with me. But if you would so indulge me, please call up these questions in your mind — I am sure there must be some, for we all have different questions that occupy us. You need not say anything aloud, but it is the complexity that these questions may bring to your expression that I wish to paint.”
“I see,” Caroline murmured. Inevitably, his prompting recalled the essential question that had gradually come to occupy more and more of her thoughts — who was Caroline Bingley, if not the woman who knew how to play the games of society, and what did she want, if not to win?
She hardly knew. Even the existence of the question seemed to imply a sacrifice, a giving up of all she had been and all she thought she wanted.
“That is exactly right,” Mr Northville murmured, startling her. “Just like that, Miss Bingley, please. That is exactly what I wish.”
It was strangely warming to be praised by him, even on so inconsequential a topic as for her unseen thoughts.
It was nothing, likely. Probably he would have praised her just as much if she had thought of what sort of gown she wished to add to her wardrobe.
It was, it must be only a coincidence that he seemed to value her most for the strangest and most unaccountable parts of herself.
But while the illusion lasted, Caroline would enjoy it.