Chapter Four #2
Indignation stung as hard as a wasp. “I believe I already have a thorough inventory of them, thank you,” Caroline retorted, buttering the toast so hard, her knife gouged through the bread and scraped the plate.
“I do not think there is a single rock left in my soul that your brother has not pried up and shone a light underneath.”
She cut a corner off and crammed the toast into her mouth, then buttered a second slice with even more venom than the first,
risking removing the very pattern on the admittedly beautiful china plate. Georgiana chewed slowly, her eyes tracking every
erratic movement of Caroline’s knife. “May I ask a question?”
Caroline swallowed, hardly tasting her mouthful. “Certainly.”
“Did you ever love Fitzwilliam?”
“Of course,” she replied immediately. “We all love your brother. Such a dear man.”
“I mean, were you ever in love with him?”
Caroline’s knife halted above the butter dish. What a ridiculous question. “Goodness, no.”
“I did not think so.” Miss Darcy cocked her head. “When you talked about him, it was clear you thought him handsome and interesting,
but I never really got the sense you truly . . . adored him.”
An astute observation, and closer to the truth than Caroline had been prepared for at such an early hour. “Do you think that
is why he was never interested in me in return?”
“Partly, yes.”
“Oh.” She put the knife down.
“Have you ever been in love?” Georgiana persisted.
“Never. Love renders one foolish and nonsensical.”
“So why do you wish to be in it now?”
“Well, I . . .” She floundered. That was a very good question, and one she didn’t really have an answer for, other than it was something Darcy had seemed to think she couldn’t possibly achieve.
What higher motivation could there be to want to accomplish something than someone declaring that you could not possibly manage it?
“And why on earth do you think I am capable of assisting you with such a thing?” Georgiana continued.
“You always master everything you try,” Caroline said, though to her mind, the answer was obvious. “Bach. Haydn. All the most
difficult contredanses.”
“You are a person, not a piece of music. Nor are you a series of steps.”
“Even so.” She picked up her steaming cup, savouring the heavenly scent. “I have every faith in your ability to master and
manage the most complicated of affairs. Perhaps this is an excellent test for you, too. A chance for you to succeed in something
far more impressive than needlework and concertos.”
“Oh yes,” Georgiana said, sarcasm lacing her tone. “I can easily see all the ways in which teaching you will benefit me. I
am definitely not thinking about all the ways in which trying to reform you into a mirror-image of Lizzy will drive me into
an early grave.”
The idea of Elizabeth Bennet’s face in a looking glass distracted Caroline for a moment.
That was another thing; the girl was appealing to anyone with eyes to see her feminine charms. She had not her sister’s looks to be sure, for Jane was by far considered to be the real beauty of the family by anyone with taste and sense, but the animation in Lizzy’s fine, dark eyes certainly did lend a certain warmth to her countenance.
Even her mouth was appealing, with pink lips that curved in an impertinent smirk at every available opportunity, yet softened into genuine loveliness whenever she . . . whenever she . . .
Caroline couldn’t quite remember what line of thought had brought her to this conclusion. A faint, incomprehensible blush
heated her cheeks as she stared down into her tea. Shaking her head to free herself from the attractive mental image of Miss
Elizabeth Bennet—witty and amiable paragon of all Hertfordshire, may God burn it to the ground whenever He so desired—she
returned to the destruction of her toast with renewed vigour.
Georgiana sighed. She’d been doing a lot of that over the past day, Caroline had noticed. “I have two further questions.”
Caroline arched an eyebrow. “Only two? My, my, this interrogation is light. Are you feeling quite well?”
Georgiana ignored this jab; she was far too well-versed in the art of sparring to be waylaid by such a simple riposte. “My
first is this: one is generally advised on such things by one’s relations rather than one’s friends. Why, therefore, do you
insist on receiving my help in particular?”
“I told you precisely why last night. You are the societal ideal of what a young lady ought to be. Everybody thinks so. I
have quite lost count of the number of times I have overheard that declaration from other young ladies and their mamas, as
well as from eligible gentlemen.”
“Mmm.” She poured herself another cup of tea. Caroline wasn’t quite sure why she had the feeling that these questions were
a test, or why she suddenly felt like she was failing. “And secondly,” Georgiana continued, picking up her fork and spearing
another piece of ham, “how exactly do you propose to begin?”
“Well, I . . .” She faltered. “I assumed that you would know what to do next.”
“You thought that you could demand I assist you in this endeavour and that once I agreed, I would take on the entire responsibility for producing all ideas and activities related to it?”
“Exactly.” She smiled, relieved. “I’m so glad we’re on the same page, Georgie.”
This time, Miss Darcy sighed so hard that the curtains actually fluttered.
“Don’t sigh so, my dear friend,” Caroline chided. “You’ll give yourself sad lung.”
Georgiana blinked, a forkful of ham faltering on the way to her mouth. “What on earth is sad lung?”
“It’s something Mother used to remind Louisa and I about when we were small. One should only ever emit delicate, ladylike
sighs or else one depresses one’s lungs to such an extent that one will not be able to breathe properly in one’s old age.”
Georgiana stared at Caroline over the rack of toast, which was rapidly dwindling. “I do not think that is a real condition.”
“Why, it certainly is. Mrs Rotheringham died of sad lung in Bath only four years ago.”
“Mrs Rotheringham drowned,” Georgiana corrected.
“A terrible accident which she might well have survived,” Caroline pointed out, “had she not possessed sad lungs to begin
with. Weakened, you see, by all the vigorous sighing.”
Georgiana mouthed the words sad lung at her plate, then evidently gave up pursuing that particular line of inquiry. “If we are committed to this scheme, I suggest
we begin here.”
“At the breakfast table?”
“In the house,” Georgiana clarified. “Once you have eaten your fill, we shall go around the place, room by room.”
“And do what?”
“You shall see. Do you intend to eat the rest of your toast this morning, or would you prefer to continue mutilating it beyond all recognition?”
“It will be far more mutilated where it is going,” Caroline muttered, but she put down her knife anyway and acquiesced to
choke down another piece of toast, calmed a little by the idea that the Great Endeavour was about to begin.