Chapter Eleven Tea and Torment
Caroline Bingley had read Jane's invitation approximately four thousand times. The paper was beginning to show signs of structural fatigue. The wax seal had cracked. Her fingers had left smudges on the elegant script.
I would very much like your company.
What did that mean? Was it a threat disguised as courtesy? A trap baited with tea and pleasantries? An opportunity for Jane to deliver a well-deserved lecture on the evils of interfering sisters who dragged their brothers from Hertfordshire before proposals could be uttered?
Caroline paced the length of the drawing room at Portman Square, her morning dress of peach muslin swishing with each agitated turn.
The clock on the mantel ticked two o'clock.
The invitation specified three. She had one hour to decide whether to walk willingly into the lion's den or send her regrets and hide in her bedchamber until the Season ended.
Behind her, sprawled across the settee like a beached whale, Mr Hurst snored. He had been drunk since breakfast. This was not unusual. What was unusual was that Caroline had stopped caring enough to be embarrassed by it.
She paused mid-pace and stared at him. His cravat hung loose.
His waistcoat was stained with what appeared to be gravy from three days prior.
He smelled like a distillery that had caught fire.
She walked over and kicked his shin. Not subtly.
Not gently. With the pointed toe of her slipper and the full force of her considerable annoyance.
Hurst grunted, shifted, and continued snoring.
"Useless creature," she muttered.
She turned away, clutching the invitation, and considered her options.
Option One: Decline. Claim illness. Remain safely ensconced at Portman Square where the only people who could judge her were Louisa (currently confined to her chambers with swollen ankles and murderous thoughts), Charles (who had left for his club at ten and would not return until he had emptied his pockets at cards), and Hurst (who was a sentient lump of brandy-soaked wool).
Option Two: Accept. Attend tea at Matlock House.
Face Jane Bennet—now Viscountess Keathley—the woman Caroline had convinced Charles to abandon.
Face Elizabeth Bennet—now Mrs Darcy—the woman who had snatched Fitzwilliam Darcy from Caroline's grasp after years of strategic cushion-making and screen-painting.
And face Miss Darcy. Sweet, quiet Miss Darcy, whom Caroline had cultivated as a friend solely because befriending Darcy's sister seemed tactically sound.
It was a terrible plan. It would end in humiliation. They would be polite, of course—they were gentlewomen. But their kindness would be worse than outright hostility. Pity dressed in civility.
She crumpled the invitation in her fist. Then smoothed it out again.
She should send word to the Colonel. He would know what to do. He was infuriatingly good at knowing what to do, even when what he knew was completely wrong and delivered with maximum arrogance.
Her hand reached for the bell pull. Stopped.
No.
She did not need his assistance. She did not need anyone's assistance. She had survived worse than tea with women who had every right to loathe her. She had survived the death of her parents, Charles's spinelessness, Louisa's bitterness, and Hurst's descent into alcoholic oblivion.
She could survive tea.
To hell with it.
Caroline rang for Schmidt. "Fetch my blue spencer. The one with the black frogging. And my bonnet. The one without feathers."
Schmidt's eyebrows climbed. "The subdued one, Miss?"
"Yes. I am going to Matlock House for tea, and I will not give them the satisfaction of thinking I dressed loudly to impress them."
"Very good, Miss." Schmidt paused. "Should I send for the carriage?"
"No. I will walk. It is only fifteen minutes, and the air will clear my head."
Or give her time to reconsider and flee to Scotland.
Twenty minutes later, Caroline stood on the steps of Matlock House, her hand raised to knock, while she questioned every decision that had led her to this moment.
The door opened before she could retreat.
A butler, ancient and disapproving, looked down his nose at her. "Miss Bingley, I presume. Lady Keathley is expecting you. This way."
He led her through an opulent hallway until they reached a drawing room. The butler announced her. She stepped inside and immediately regretted being there.
Jane sat on a sofa upholstered in cream silk, an angel who had descended to Earth and decided to stay for biscuits. She wore a gown of pale rose muslin that made her look like a sunrise. Her smile was warm, genuine, and entirely undeserved.
Beside her sat Elizabeth Darcy, dressed in deep green that brought out the intelligence in her dark eyes. She seemed amused. This was ominous. And in a chair near the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap, was Miss Darcy. She looked nervous but offered Caroline a tentative smile.
"Miss Bingley!" Lady Keathley rose, moving forward with the grace of a woman who had been born to glide. "I am so pleased you could come. Please, sit. We have tea. And lemon cakes. Cook made them fresh this morning."
Lemon cakes. Of course.
She curtsied. "Lady Keathley. Mrs Darcy. Miss Darcy. Thank you for the invitation."
"We are so glad you accepted," Elizabeth said, her smile sharp and knowing. "Please, sit. You look as though you have walked through a battlefield to get here."
Caroline sat on the edge of a chair, her spine rigid. "The streets of London are treacherous. One never knows when one might be accosted by overly aggressive street vendors or runaway dogs."
"Or Colonels on horseback," Mrs Darcy added innocently.
Caroline's eyes snapped to her. "I beg your pardon?"
"I heard about the incident at Rotten Row," Mrs Darcy continued while pouring tea, entirely comfortable with her mischief. "A bolting horse. A dramatic rescue. Very romantic."
"It was not romantic. It was dangerous."
"Most romantic things are," Lady Keathley said gently, accepting a teacup from her sister. "I once fell into Robert's arms in Piccadilly. I thought I would die of mortification. He thought it was fate."
"It was fate," Mrs Darcy agreed. "Just very ungraceful fate."
Miss Darcy laughed, a soft, surprised sound. "I tripped over my own hem at Pemberley once and nearly knocked a footman into the ornamental pond. My brother still brings it up at dinner."
Caroline stared at them. They were laughing. At themselves. As if humiliation were not a mortal wound but merely an anecdote to be shared over tea.
"I do not trip," Caroline said, her voice stiff. "I plan my steps carefully."
"And then your horse bolts anyway," Mrs Darcy observed, offering her a plate of the cakes. "Life is inconvenient that way."
Caroline took a cake. She did not want a cake. She wanted to flee. But fleeing would look weak, and Caroline Bingley did not look weak.
"I am surprised you invited me, Lady Keathley," she said, carefully neutral. "Given our history."
Lady Keathley's expression softened. "Miss Bingley. I know we did not part on the best of terms in Hertfordshire. I know you discouraged Mr Bingley from pursuing me."
Caroline's throat tightened. "I did."
"I know. And I forgive you."
The words hung in the air like a bell that had been struck and could not be unrung.
Caroline stared. "You forgive me?"
"You were protecting your brother. You thought I was unsuitable. You were wrong, but I understand why you thought it." Her smile was sad but sincere. "And I think you have been punished enough by your own loneliness. I do not wish to add to it."
Caroline's hands clenched around her teacup. She would not cry. She would not give them the satisfaction.
"That is very generous of you," she managed.
"It is not generosity," Lady Keathley corrected. "It is self-interest. I want us to be friends. True friends. Not allies of convenience or strategic acquaintances. Friends."
"Why?"
"Because," Mrs Darcy cut in, grinning, "you are the only woman in London who is not afraid to tell Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam that his cuffs are frayed. And I find that delightful."
Caroline was forming a response—one that involved neither crying nor throwing her teacup—when the drawing room door opened. Two men entered. Caroline's stomach dropped to her slippers.
Mr Darcy walked in first, tall and imposing in a coat of charcoal grey that made him look like an elegant thundercloud. He wore his polite neutrality face—the same one he had worn whilst listening to her play the pianoforte at Netherfield for three consecutive hours.
Behind him came Lord Keathley, resplendent in a waistcoat of peacock blue that should have looked ridiculous but instead looked expensive. He carried a stack of books under one arm and wore a grin which suggested he knew he was interrupting and did not care.
"Ladies!" the Viscount exclaimed, as if he had discovered a new continent. "What excellent timing. We were in the library discussing estate management—"
"You were napping on the sofa," Mr Darcy pointed.
"—and I heard the dulcet tones of feminine conversation. So naturally, I came to investigate." Lord Keathley's eyes landed on Caroline. His grin widened. "Miss Bingley! What a delightful surprise. I did not know you were joining us."
Caroline stood, curtsied, and contemplated whether leaping from the window would be considered rude. "My Lord. Mr Darcy. I was just... Lady Keathley invited me for tea."
"How marvellous." The Viscount deposited his books on a side table and claimed the chair nearest to his wife. "We are hosting a proper salon. All we need now is a philosopher and a string quartet."
Mr Darcy inclined his head towards Caroline. "Miss Bingley. It is good to see you."
It was a lie. A polite, well-bred lie and she knew it.
"Mr Darcy," Caroline replied, her voice steady. "You are looking well. Marriage agrees with you."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "It does. I recommend it."
"I shall keep that in mind."
Mrs Darcy's eyes danced. "Do sit down, Fitzwilliam. You are making Miss Bingley nervous."