Chapter Eight #2
like two frustrated chess players. A high-backed armchair, in a shade of lighter pink that neither matched the couches nor
complemented them, sat at the opposite end of the room, as if overseeing the whole tasteless affair. The walls were painted
a cold, passionless white, quite unbecoming of a supposedly cosy room, and the presence of three people already seated there
did nothing to alleviate the stark effect. The party stood when their hostess led Caroline and Georgiana inside, smiling towards
the newcomers. An impossibly tall young man in a black jacket bowed jerkily, his movements hampered by the equally tall young
woman who clung to his arm as if she were drowning and he was the only slender log for miles around.
“May I introduce Mr and Mrs Grimley?” Miss Merryhill said, stepping aside to allow for a fuller inspection.
Good grief, Caroline thought. Their children will be able to build chimney stacks without need of a ladder.
She swept the two with a glance that took everything in at once: A loose thread hanging from the sleeve of his jacket, which would have looked old-fashioned on her father.
A grass stain on the side of the lady’s left shoe.
His hair, mussed so much it looked as if it had never so much as heard of a comb, far less seen one.
Her rouge, which looked as if it had been drawn on by a shaky-fingered, weak-sighted child.
“Good morning,” the Grimleys chorused in unison, sending a shiver of horror down Caroline’s spine.
Aware that Georgiana was watching her closely, Caroline offered a nod that was far more gracious than either of the Grimleys
deserved. “Good morning.”
“And this,” Miss Merryhill said, turning to the other gentleman, “is Mr Acton. This is Miss Bingley, a friend of Miss Darcy’s.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Darcy, Miss Bingley,” Mr Acton said, nodding to each of them in turn. His manners were handsome enough,
as was his face, though his waistcoat was frayed, and his hands, though evidently scrubbed, still bore traces of paint.
“Come, sit down,” Miss Merryhill said, ushering them in. Caroline waited until Georgiana had seated herself on one of the
couches before hurriedly sitting beside her. Their hostess disappeared into the hallway as the other guests seated themselves,
too.
“Who is Mrs Wimple?” Caroline murmured.
Georgiana blinked in confusion, evidently taking a moment to recall the brief mention of the name from their arrival. “She
is Miss Merryhill’s recently widowed sister.”
Ah. Caroline nodded. That explained a lot, though it left one glaring question: Why was this lady’s sister out delivering babies?
Did not babies generally deliver themselves? There was, after all, only one route outwards into the world. Where else would
they go? She had a sudden image of a woman holding a candle, coaxing a baby out into the light like an animal from its burrow,
and had to stifle the giggle with a cough.
Miss Merryhill returned a moment later bearing a tray, upon which sat an assortment of sandwiches.
She set them down on the low table in front of Caroline, who eyed them cautiously, before she disappeared again.
When Miss Merryhill returned a second time, she was laden with two trays—one holding several plates piled high with cake, and a larger dish which contained a variety of fresh fruit.
It wasn’t a terrible spread, Caroline had to admit.
Nothing close to Pemberley’s standards, of course, but it didn’t look entirely like something a ploughman might be presented with after a hard morning’s work doing . . . whatever ploughmen did.
Ploughing, presumably.
“Thank you very much,” Mr Acton said, casting an appreciative glance at their hostess as Caroline reached for a cheese sandwich.
“Is this your famous apple cake?”
Miss Merryhill blushed. “It is indeed.”
Caroline nibbled the sandwich cautiously and then, finding it tolerable, continued. The cheddar was creamy and tart, and the
bread was soft with a delicious, seeded crust—a far cry from the stale loaf and tasteless cheese she had envisioned. Perhaps
the poor ate better than she’d previously thought. Mrs Grimley reached for a slice of apple cake, though she made no attempt
to eat it. Instead, she brought it to her husband’s lips. “You simply must try this cake, Mr Grimley.”
“Why thank you, Mrs Grimley.” He accepted the cake with far more gusto than Caroline thought appropriate outside of the bedchamber,
his lips coming dangerously close to his wife’s fingers and lingering suggestively.
“What do you think of the flavour, Mr Grimley?” his wife inquired anxiously, as if awaiting the most important news of her
life.
“Why, Mrs Grimley,” said he, staring into her eyes with the kind of rapturous adoration Caroline had only ever seen on the faces of cherubim on church frescoes, “I think it the most marvellous cake I ever tasted. You simply must try it.” As if executing the moves of some hitherto agreed-upon dance, he picked up a piece of cake in turn and fed it to his wife.
“Why, Mr Grimley, I am quite in agreement,” she said breathlessly, as soon as the morsel touched her lips. “It is marvellous
cake indeed.”
Caroline felt hysteria bubbling inside her. She wanted very much to look elsewhere—in fact, would have paid quite a lot to
remove this entire scene from her mind forever—but seemed unable to actually turn her head away. The exchange held all the
grim interest of a carriage accident; one did not necessarily wish to see any actual carnage, but simply could not help gawking
at it just the same. She would have given half her entire fortune to have Lady Catherine de Bourgh present in this moment;
the ensuing verbal slaughter would have surely satiated Caroline for the rest of her life.
“My excellent wife, you have the most perfect taste of anybody I have ever met,” declared he.
“My excellent husband,” said Mrs Grimley, blushing, “I think the very same of you.”
“So, Mr Acton,” Georgiana said, more loudly than she ordinarily spoke, and Caroline at last managed to tear her eyes from
the awful scene unfolding in front of her. “How goes your painting? The last time I saw you, I believe you were painting something
for the tenant of the estate near the valley, were you not?”
“It goes well enough, Miss Darcy.” Mr Acton smiled at Georgiana, and Caroline thought she could sense a touch of relief in it.
“You are kind to ask, and your memory is as excellent as ever.” He cradled a cup of tea in his hands, his expression tender.
“It took a little longer than I had expected, but I finished my latest commission a fortnight ago.”
“You surely cannot yet know, Miss Bingley, that Mr Acton paints wonderful landscapes,” Miss Merryhill said, her voice warm
and affectionate. “I never saw such beautiful paintings in all my life.”
“And yet you will not let me give you one,” said he, smiling, and the tips of Miss Merryhill’s ears pinked.
“You mean I will not let you give me another one,” she corrected, “for I keep Chrome Hill During a Rainstorm upstairs.” Her ears turned a darker shade of pink. “The morning light suits it best,” she added, as if justifying her decision.
Upstairs? Caroline wondered, suddenly far more interested in the conversation. In her bedchamber, perhaps?
“I seem to recall,” Mr Grimley said, still gazing at his wife with tender affection, “that you once admired a painting of
Mr Acton’s, did you not, Mrs Grimley?”
“Oh, Mr Grimley, how sweet you are to remember such a trifling detail!” she cried. “Indeed I did.”
Caroline reached for another sandwich and stuffed it into her mouth.
If my mouth is constantly full, she told herself, then I am at no risk of saying something which will displease Georgiana and cause me to fail my test. She chewed, doing her best to focus on the sharp taste of the chutney, but the temptation was so strong, and these people
were so unbelievably ridiculous. This is how victims of torture must feel, she decided miserably. Minus the cheese, of course.
Mr Grimley turned to Mr Acton. “Do you still possess that painting, sir?”
“Do you recall which one it was?” the artist inquired.
Mrs Grimley frowned. Evidently, thinking of something other than Mr Grimley required significant effort. “It was a lovely rendering of the village,” she eventually managed, “and I believe that the stream ran in a bright slash down the right-hand side.”
“Ah, yes, A Sunday Morning Before Church Bells Toll. I still have it.” Mr Acton’s smile was rueful. “I still have most of my paintings, unfortunately.”
“Would you consider selling that painting to us?” Mr Grimley asked.
“I would be delighted to,” said he, smiling. “Though the lord who commissioned my latest piece has been kind to me, as have
several people in the surrounding area, I am afraid it is not what you might call a steady income. I am very grateful indeed
to make any sale.”
“There, Mrs Grimley,” her husband said with some satisfaction. “You shall have your heart’s desire, and Mr Acton shall have
his, too.”
“Oh, but you are my heart’s desire, Mr Grimley,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him in a manner no doubt designed to
be coy, but which merely made her look as if she were about to faint.
That was the last straw. “If I have to hear one more address from either Grimley to the other,” Caroline murmured, as the
conversation continued around them, “then I am going to throw myself out of the window.”
“We are on the ground floor, Miss Bingley,” Georgiana pointed out, barely moving her lips.
“Thank you for the reminder, Miss Darcy. In that case, I shall run upstairs first.”
Georgiana shot her a sidelong glance which spoke as loudly as any shout.
Sullenly, Caroline subsided and helped herself to a third sandwich.
Did Georgiana really expect her to spend an entire afternoon with these people?
She wasn’t even sure if she could get through the next hour.
She’d expected a test, certainly, but this was less of a gentle examination and more of a trial by fire.
There weren’t enough cheese sandwiches in the world to ameliorate this descent into hell.