Chapter One The Bell Tolls for Thee #2
They walked in silence for a moment, a strange procession cutting through the bustling crowd.
Caroline kept her eyes fixed forward, refusing to look at the wedding guests still spilling from the church.
She was acutely aware of the Colonel beside her.
He took up a great deal of space. He radiated a heat that was annoying in the winter chill, and his sword clanked softly against his thigh with a rhythm that seemed to mock her quick steps.
"A lovely ceremony," he remarked casually, nodding at a passing chimney sweep who looked terrified of him. "You missed a fine sermon. The Bishop droned on for a solid hour about the sanctity of unions. I believe half the congregation fell asleep. Darcy looked as if he were contemplating murder."
"I am sure Mr Darcy was the picture of decorum," Caroline said stiffly.
"Oh, entirely. He stood there looking tragic and noble, as usual. But I saw his hand shaking when he put the ring on her finger." The Colonel's voice softened, just a fraction. "He is besotted. It is disgusting, really."
Caroline felt the pin in her chest twist. She stopped abruptly at the corner of the street where her brother's carriage waited. The driver was apparently asleep, and jerked awake at her approach.
"I have no interest in your observations of Mr Darcy's affections," she said, turning to face him. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. It put her at a disadvantage. "The man has made his choice. He has chosen rustic charm over breeding. It is his loss."
Richard looked down at her. The amusement in his eyes faded, replaced by a scrutiny that made her want to check her hair for loose pins.
"You really believe that, do you not?" he asked, not unkindly. "That it is all about breeding and furniture?"
"It is about standards, Colonel," she replied, snatching the hatbox from under his arm. "Something you would know little about, given the state of your cuffs. They are frayed."
He glanced at his wrist, then shrugged. "Soldiers are rarely known for their haberdashery, Miss Bingley. We spend our coin on other things. Staying alive, mostly."
He handed the remaining parcels to the footman, who began loading them into the carriage. Caroline opened her reticule. She withdrew a small coin.
"For your trouble," she said, extending it to him. It was a calculated insult. To tip an Earl's son like a porter.
Richard looked at the coin. Then he looked at her. A laugh, barked and genuine, erupted from his chest. He took the coin, flipped it into the air, and caught it with a snap of his wrist.
"I shall treasure it," he said, his eyes crinkling. "I might even buy a bag of lemons with it, as a reminder of our encounter. Good day, Miss Bingley. Try not to terrorise the carriage horses."
He turned on his heel and strode away, the scarlet coat vivid against the grey stone, whistling a tune that sounded irritatingly cheerful. Caroline stood frozen, her hand still outstretched, the insult having bounced off him like a musket ball off a fortress wall.
The carriage ride to Portman Square passed in a blur of resentment. Caroline sat rigidly, listening to Schmidt breathe, plotting a thousand retorts she should have made. I shall buy a bag of lemons. What sort of man said such things? Did he compare her to lemons?
When the carriage halted before the Bingley townhouse, the contrast was vast. St George's had been a riot of noise, colour, and life.
Her brother's house, her home actually, because her own establishment on Pont Street remained shuttered to preserve her dowry, stood silent and imposing.
The windows were dark, save for the drawing room on the first floor.
She swept inside, stripping off her gloves as the butler took her parasol.
"Where is Mrs Hurst?" she demanded.
"In the drawing room, Miss," the butler replied. "She is indisposed."
Caroline ascended the stairs. She found her sister Louisa sprawled upon a chaise longue, a damp cloth over her eyes.
Louisa was five months with child and had taken to pregnancy with the same grace she applied to losing at cards.
She complained ceaselessly and blamed everyone else for the inconvenience.
"You are back," Louisa moaned without moving the cloth. "Did you get the ribbons? The noise from the street is intolerable today. Why must people be so loud? Where is Charles?"
"He is at the wedding, Louisa." Caroline walked to the window and peered out at the empty street.
"Oh. There." Louisa waved a limp hand. "Thank heavens we did not go. I could not have borne the smell of the pews. And Mr Hurst has been asleep in the library since breakfast. The house reeks of brandy."
Caroline looked around the room. It was elegant. The furniture was of the first stare. The curtains were silk. And it was stifling. Charles was a cheerful puppy. Louisa was lost to her condition. Hurst was lost to the bottle. She stood by the window.
She was the only one left standing.
"I saw Colonel Fitzwilliam," Caroline said, more to the glass pane than to her sister.
"That penniless rogue?" Louisa sniffed. "I hope you did not speak to him. He is likely looking for a loan."
"He seemed…" Caroline paused. She saw his reflection in the glass, the craggy face, the mocking eyes, the frayed cuff. "He looked entirely too pleased with himself."
"Ignore him," Louisa advised. "He is of no consequence. A second son with nothing but a sword and a name. He is beneath us."
"Yes," Caroline whispered, pressing her hand against the cold glass. "Beneath us."
But as she stood there, in the quiet, expensive tomb of her ambition, the memory of his laugh lingered in her ears, louder and more vibrant than anything else she owned. She hated him for it. She hated him, and she gripped the curtain, vowing that next time, she would be the one to laugh.