Chapter Fifteen The Matlocks Descend
Caroline Bingley had not left her bedchamber in two days.
This was not a retreat. It was a strategic withdrawal. A tactical reallocation of resources. She was conserving her energy for future battles, not hiding under her counterpane like a child afraid of thunder.
The counterpane was very comfortable, though. Egyptian cotton. Obscenely fine weave. Worth every penny.
Schmidt had taken up residence in the chair by the window, emerging only to fetch tea, biscuits, and the occasional novel that Caroline pretended not to read.
They had reached an unspoken agreement: Schmidt would not ask questions, and Caroline would not dissolve into a puddle of humiliating tears more than twice per day.
She had kept to the schedule admirably. Yesterday had only required one and a half dissolutions, which she considered progress.
"You should eat, Miss." Schmidt's voice drifted from the window, where she was ostensibly mending a stocking but was actually standing guard like a very domestic gargoyle. "The toast is getting cold."
"I am not hungry."
"You said that yesterday. And the day before."
"My appetite has taken a leave of absence." Caroline pulled the counterpane higher. "It will return when it is ready. I refuse to rush it."
Schmidt made a sound that somehow conveyed both maternal concern and the desire to force-feed her mistress like a reluctant goose being fattened for Christmas.
The knock on the bedchamber door was soft. Apologetic. The knock of a man who had learned, through years of painful experience, that disturbing his sister in her lair carried significant risks.
"Caroline?" Charles's voice was muffled. "May I come in?"
"No."
"There are... visitors."
Caroline's eyes narrowed at the ceiling. "I am not receiving."
"Yes, I told them that. Several times, actually.
They were not interested in my opinion." He paused.
"Caroline, it is the Earl and Countess of Matlock.
They are in the drawing room. They are refusing to leave.
And the Earl has eaten three of our scones and is asking pointed questions about the quality of our butter. "
Caroline sat up so quickly that her head spun.
The Earl and Countess of Matlock. The Colonel's parents. In her drawing room. Eating her scones and critiquing her dairy.
"Tell them I am indisposed."
"I did."
"Tell them I have the plague."
"I suggested a mild fever. The Countess said, and I quote, 'How convenient. We shall wait.'" Charles's voice carried exhaustion. "Caroline, I do not think they are leaving. The Earl has asked for more scones. He seems to be settling in for good."
Caroline pressed her fingers to her temples.
Her hair was unwashed. Her eyes were swollen.
She had been wearing the same nightgown for days.
She looked, in short, exactly like a woman who had spent forty-eight hours crying over a man who had called her a lemon and then had the audacity to claim he loved her.
"Schmidt."
"Yes, Miss?"
"The grey silk. The one with the pearl buttons. And the cameo. And—" She caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror and winced. "A miracle."
Schmidt was already moving. "I'll do what I can, Miss. But I'm a lady's maid, not the Almighty."
"You have thirty minutes."
"I'll need forty."
"You have thirty-five."
Forty-two minutes later, Caroline descended the staircase at a deliberately measured pace.
The grey silk had been an excellent choice.
It was subdued. Dignified. It said I am a woman of impeccable taste who is absolutely not devastated by your son's betrayal.
The cameo at her throat added a touch of classical severity.
Her hair, thanks to Schmidt's frankly heroic efforts, was pinned into a style that suggested elegance rather than recent emotional collapse.
She looked, if she said so herself, almost human.
The drawing room doors stood closed. From within, she could hear the low rumble of the Earl's voice and the lighter tones of the Countess. And, somewhat surprisingly, Charles.
Her brother had not fled.
This was unusual. Charles's standard response to confrontation was to develop a sudden pressing engagement elsewhere—a friend to visit, a horse to inspect, a cloud formation that required immediate study.
The fact that he had remained suggested either that the Matlocks had blocked the exits, or that Charles had been temporarily replaced by a changeling with a spine.
Caroline straightened her shoulders. Lifted her chin. Became, once more, the immaculate Miss Bingley—all polite ice and hard-won composure.
She opened the doors.
The tableau that greeted her was not what she had expected.
The Earl of Matlock stood by the fireplace, a half-eaten scone in one hand, looking grudgingly impressed. He was a large man, built like a bulldog that had learned to wear waistcoats, and his eyebrows alone could have commanded a regiment.
The Countess sat in Caroline's favourite chair—the one by the window with the excellent light—looking as serene and threatening as a cat watching a mouse hole.
Her grey silk gown was finer than Caroline's, which was irritating.
Her posture was perfect, which was more irritating.
Her eyes, when they landed on Caroline, held a calculating gleam that was most irritating of all.
And Charles—
Charles stood between the Matlocks and the door. His arms were crossed. His jaw was set. His entire posture radiated a stubborn determination that Caroline had not seen since he was twelve years old and had refused to give up his pet trout despite their mother's hysterics.
He looked, impossibly, like he was protecting her.
"Miss Bingley." The Earl's voice was a rumble that seemed to originate from somewhere around his boots. "You have emerged. Excellent. The scones were adequate, but I prefer conversation with my tea."
"My lord." Caroline dropped a curtsey precisely calibrated to convey respect without warmth. "My lady. I was not aware you intended to call."
"We did not send a card. Cards can be refused. We find the direct approach more effective."
"That is true." Caroline moved to the settee, positioning herself with the window at her back—a tactical choice that put the light in her visitors' eyes. "To what do I owe this honour?"
The Earl exchanged a glance with his wife. A silent communication passed between them, born of decades of marriage and shared campaigns.
"We are here," the Earl said, "about our son."
"I have nothing to say about Colonel Fitzwilliam."
"And yet you will say it anyway." The Countess's smile did not reach her eyes. "That is generally how conversations work, Miss Bingley. One party speaks, then the other. It is a system that has served humanity for millennia."
Caroline's fingers tightened in her lap. "If the Colonel has sent you to plead his case—"
"Richard sent no one," the Earl interrupted.
"He is currently locked in his chambers at Matlock House, refusing food, refusing company, and refusing to explain why he burst into my bedchamber in the middle of the night to announce that I should ship him to the West Indies to die of the yellow fever. "
Caroline's mask did not slip. She had spent too many years perfecting it. But something behind her ribs contracted sharply, a physical pain that stole her breath.
"I see," she managed.
"Do you?" The Countess leaned forward slightly. "Because I confess, Miss Bingley, I do not. My son has declared his life effectively over because a woman laughed at his proposal. I find myself curious about this woman."
"I did not—" Caroline stopped. Drew a breath. Started again. "The Colonel did not propose. He made a declaration that was—that could only have been—a stratagem."
"A stratagem," the Earl repeated flatly.
"He has to marry well by Easter, and I have a significant dowry. The arithmetic is not complicated, my lord."
"No," the Earl agreed. "It is not. Which is precisely why I am confused."
Caroline blinked. This was not the direction she had anticipated.
The Earl set down his scone and fixed her with a stare that had probably made generals weep.
"If my son were fortune-hunting, Miss Bingley, he would have proposed weeks ago.
He would have secured your acceptance before you had time to think.
He would not have spent a month trailing after you to musicales and card parties, sabotaging your other suitors and making himself comprehensively miserable in the process. "
"He was ensuring I had no other options—"
"He was ensuring no one else could have you." The Earl's voice was blunt as a hammer. "Those are different things. One is strategy. The other is stupidity. My son, God help him, is stupid."
Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it. The Earl's logic was battering against her conclusions like waves against a seawall, and she could feel the stones beginning to shift.
"Miss Bingley." The Countess's voice was softer now, though no less blood-chilling.
"I have watched my son all his life. I have seen him court duty, court honour, court the approval of his father and the respect of his men.
I have never—not once—seen him court a woman.
He did not know how. He had no practice, no interest, and no inclination. "
She paused, letting the words settle.
"Until you."
"I am merely—"
"You are not merely anything." The Countess cut her off. "You are the woman who taught my son to laugh at himself. The woman who matched his wit and returned his volleys and made him feel, I suspect, rather less alone in the world. That is not merely. That is everything."
Caroline's throat had closed. Her eyes were burning. She was absolutely not going to cry in front of the Earl and Countess of Matlock.
She was not.
"He called me a lemon," she heard herself say, and her voice came out smaller than she intended. Younger. The voice of a girl who had spent her whole life being found wanting.
The Countess softened, just for a moment.