Chapter 9
On the day of Thom’s exhibition, Caroline could not seem to settle to anything, though it did not open until the evening. Jane kindly attempted to occupy her with everything from requests to play the pianoforte to offers of books and games of cards, but nothing could seem to hold her attention.
“It is foolish of me to be so nervous,” Caroline told her. “I believe I am more nervous than Mr Northville is, and I really have no reason for it.”
“I do not find it at all strange,” Jane reassured her gently. “Your picture will be seen by ever so many people, and a great deal of attention will be on you. I know you will handle it marvellously, for you always do, but I do not wonder at your feeling a little out of sorts.”
“Thank you,” Caroline told her sister-in-law. “You make me feel much better.”
“That is all I could wish,” Jane said cheerfully, and went on futilely attempting to distract her.
At last, the time to dress had come. Caroline felt as though she ought to fuss over her toilette, but in truth, there were no decisions left to her. She had already decided to match the appearance of her portrait as much as possible, to increase the impact of her attendance.
They had arranged to arrive early, before the event would be opened to the public. Charles and Jane, sensible of her nerves, were ready in good time, and the coach dropped them all off a quarter hour before the showing was to begin.
Thom was there, unnecessarily adjusting the paintings, which were already hung with the greatest care and aligned to perfect level. He hurried over to them.
“Mrs Bingley, Mr Bingley, Miss Bingley, how good it is to see you all,” Thom said with a bow.
They returned the courtesy. Caroline felt strangely reassured to see him as nervous as herself.
“May I look at the paintings?” Jane asked, her interest obviously beyond mere politeness.
“Yes, please. Let us all walk through together,” Thom urged them. “You will be doing me a great service. It will be helpful to see them through eyes other than my own.”
Accordingly, they all fell in together and began to walk down the row of paintings. Thom looked down modestly, as though he would not press them for praise, though his faint smile showed clearly enough that he hoped for it.
He would not hope in vain. Jane exclaimed in delight over each piece, and even Charles, who did not have much of a taste for art, was gradually touched by their genius.
For her part, Caroline was torn between astonishment and a strange regret.
All those hours they had spent together, she had not the smallest doubt of his talent, and yet she had not truly understood its extent.
She felt she had never done him justice.
To view his work massed together was to experience a series of emotions in turn, to be consumed by the hope, or doubt, or simple delight he had meant each piece to evoke.
Caroline would have liked to go on looking at them with him forever, but it could not be so. All too soon, it was time to open the doors of the gallery, and the first guests were arriving.
In her excitement over seeing so much of Thom’s work gathered together, Caroline had all but forgotten that she too was on display, in a manner of speaking.
Once the first viewers had reached her portrait, she could no longer be forgetful of the fact.
Whispers reached her from every corner of the room.
A few were doubtful, and some even envious, but far and away the most were admiring.
Thom’s skill was praised, as it ought to be, but to Caroline’s astonishment, she heard her own beauty and mystery praised yet more.
It was exactly why she had agreed to sit for him — or so she had thought at the beginning of their acquaintance. Only over the weeks of conversation, of coming to know him and to know herself more deeply, too, she had forgotten.
She would not be permitted to forget again.
Caroline was used to considering herself a reasonably distinguished guest at parties and assemblies, at least when no one of real consequence was present, but this was quite different.
Requests for introductions came upon her so thick and fast that she could hardly do justice to one before being presented with the next.
Mrs Hallows, one of the lady patronesses of Almack’s, particularly wished to meet her, and upon the conversation being rather a success, gave her more than half a hint that a voucher might be forthcoming.
In all the crush, Caroline could not speak to Thom half so much as she would have wished.
It was selfish of her to wish it, perhaps, for he too was having his moment of triumph.
As he had hoped, this night would be the making of his career.
She had not a doubt that it would become a fashion to order a commission from Mr Northville after such a scene.
Surely she could not begrudge him that, however much she might have wished to congratulate him more personally.
As the press continued to increase, Caroline began to grow fatigued.
She was almost at the point of making an excuse and going into the powder room for some solitude when, suddenly, all the bustle around her seemed to clear away.
Though all the rest of the room was as crowded as ever, some mysterious force had given her much-needed room to breathe.
Looking up, Caroline saw Louisa leading a man towards her. Her sister wore an expression of uncommon excitement.
Some of that excitement was explained when they reached her. “Caroline, this is Lord Hooke, Viscount Moreland,” Louisa said breathlessly. “My lord, allow me to present my sister, Miss Caroline Bingley.”
He smiled charmingly at her. “It is a very great pleasure, Miss Bingley.”
“Likewise, I am sure,” Caroline replied with her most elegant bow.
Behind an even smile, her mind was working furiously.
No wonder Louisa had looked so excited, for though they had never met before, everyone knew the viscount.
In addition to his noble title, his family’s wealth was so great that there could hardly be a more eligible man — particularly as he was only seven-and-twenty, and uncommonly handsome.
To regular, even features, a dimpled chin, and locks of golden hair, he added a boyish charm, resulting in no common degree of social success.
One could have looked throughout all of London and found hardly a drawing room that would not wish to host Viscount Moreland, if they were to be so favoured, or a woman that would not welcome his addresses.
“What a triumph this is, Miss Bingley,” the viscount went on earnestly.
“Mr Northville’s skill is indeed impressive, but the portrait of you is by far the finest work of all — and it is entirely due to the incredible nuance and animation that you have brought to it.
I hope you will not think me dreadfully selfish when I say that, though I know everyone here tonight is wishing to speak with you, I should greatly like to have a little of your time for myself. ”
“I should be delighted, my lord,” Caroline replied. “Though I am afraid we may be often interrupted.”
“I believe I can do something about that,” he replied easily, and nodded to a manservant hovering a few paces away.
Looking around them more carefully, Caroline realised it was he who had caused the crowd to cease pressing her.
Part by his very presence, part by the instructions given his manservant, and part, no doubt, because everyone was watching them covertly but with immense curiosity, the crowd stayed away.
“Thank you,” Caroline told him in an undertone. “I had not previously realised there was such a thing as being too much spoken to and admired, but I was quickly coming to find that it is so.”
He grinned charmingly at her. “I am only surprised you had not discovered it earlier, lovely as you are.”
Caroline smiled, at the point of thanking him for the compliment, when he rather spoiled it by going on.
“I came into my title and estate rather young. With all of this, and looking as I do, I myself quickly grew tired of the very great degree of attention with which society has chosen to bless me.”
At this degree of self-praise, Caroline was forced to suppress a laugh. She silently chided herself. Though the viscount’s brag-complaint was, perhaps, a little vain, surely it was only natural. After all, he was titled, and he was rich, and he was even handsome.
Though not, a treacherous voice inside her murmured, nearly as handsome as Thom.
Instead of puncturing his pride with a pointed remark, Caroline only smiled up at him. “It must have been painful at times,” she replied. “I think there is always something difficult in being singled out, particularly for a young person.”
He looked almost stunned, though really, she had only repeated what he had said to her. “Why, yes,” the viscount said. “How well you understand these things! I think you are a very sensitive woman, Miss Bingley.”
“I was not always so,” Caroline told him, surprising even herself with her honesty.
“I must confess to you that I once understood very little of others’ inner lives, nor did I wish to.
But I happened to meet a wise friend, and I have been gradually coming to adopt a little of the way she sees the world. ”
“You give yourself too little credit, surely,” he protested, before giving her a positive storm of compliments, and leading the conversation into other channels.
It was not until rather after they had intended to leave the exhibition that Caroline was recalled to the time.
“Oh! It has grown late,” she exclaimed. “You must excuse me. I am afraid my brother and sister-in-law have been waiting for me with commendable patience. But I ought not to try their patience any further.”
Even still, he seemed reluctant to let her go.
“Naturally,” he murmured, but held her eyes with his.
“Of course you must go. But, Miss Bingley…would you allow me to call on you? Perhaps to take you on an outing to Hyde Park, if the weather were to permit it, or to a tea shop? You would bring your sister or a maid as chaperone, of course.”
“I would be very flattered,” Caroline told him, and with a final bow and word of farewell, she hurried off to find Jane and Charles.
What she had said was the exact truth — she would be flattered.
But Caroline could not help being conscious of something that had changed in herself as well.
She ought to have been ecstatic. The viscount’s interest in her had been clear.
He was young, consequential, rich, with not so much as a whisper of anything disquieting in his reputation.
It was what she had hoped for, worked for, all her life.
Indeed, being titled and just as wealthy, the Viscount of Moreland was an even better catch than Mr Darcy.
And so Caroline ought to have been triumphant, expectant, delighted — and she was not. Viscount Moreland was all this. He was everything she ought to want.
Only, he was not Thom.