Chapter Fourteen #3
They passed the next half hour testing Miss Emily’s capacity, with results that amused Caroline and elicited a few more glares from Miss Laurel.
Caroline did not really see what the problem was; the girl had a tendency to be a little overly honest in her statements, but since they were all gossiping together, it hardly seemed to matter.
Too many people in society placed importance on not uttering their true beliefs or waiting until they had ascertained what the majority thought in order to fall in line, and Caroline found herself appreciating Miss Emily’s candour.
By the time the sun was highest in the sky, the men began to gather near the pier, some removing their jackets and loosening
their cravats in preparation for the race. Mr Radcliffe’s tight shirt did very little to hide his bulging muscles, and several
ladies—both married and unmarried—seemed to find their eyes inexplicably drawn to his figure as he neatly stepped into his
boat and took his seat. Caroline appraised his figure studiously, though her lustful urges seemed to have dissipated for the
moment, and wondered what her mother would make of him. Three thousand a year was not to be sniffed at, though it would probably
fall short of Mrs Bingley’s expectation for her last unmarried child.
Caroline was surprised when the rowers began leisurely making their way across the lake with long, slow strokes of their paddles.
Presumably they had decided to make the event more dramatic for everyone else by rowing to the other side first as a warm-up
exercise before racing back towards the crowd on the southern shore. The boats reached the northern shore and milled around
before arranging themselves into a neat line, evenly spaced so that no rower would be in danger of crashing into another.
Good-natured shouts drifted back over the water, though they were too far away for her to clearly make out what was said.
A cry went up, though she knew not from whom, and the rowers were off, skimming across the water with powerful strokes. Caroline peered into the distance, shading her eyes from the glare of the sunshine. A welcome relief fell over her face as Georgiana provided a parasol.
“They are certainly going at speed,” Miss Darcy commented. A slight breeze had picked up, teasing the curly tendrils which
framed her face and wafting her familiar rosewater scent towards Caroline, who could not help drawing a deep breath. “Why,
it hardly looks like they are touching the water at all,” she added.
“Indeed.” Caroline leaned close, indulging in Georgiana’s perfume as the crowd around them buzzed with nervous anticipation.
Miss Darcy smelled good enough to eat, a thought which distracted Caroline from the ongoing action. It was bad enough that
she could remember precisely what had happened the last time she’d stood next to a lake. A ripple of warmth threatened to
unseat her entirely, but she gritted her teeth, determined to pay attention.
A young man, barely older than six-and-ten, waited in another rowboat just a few feet away from the pier and as the rowers
reached this unseen line, he was evidently the one who must indicate who had won the race. “The victory is Mr Radcliffe’s!”
the boy called, though it was hardly necessary to do so. Mr Radcliffe’s boat had been a full length and a half ahead of the
others at the moment of triumph.
The crowd burst into applause and cheers, and Caroline clapped along politely as Mr Radcliffe climbed out of his boat.
He was a lot less graceful on land, and walked, she noticed now, with a slightly bow-legged strut, as if he were a rooster parading the barnyard, master of all he surveyed.
The other rowers did not seem to care much that they had lost, and crowded around Mr Radcliffe to clap him on the back and offer congratulations.
Miss Laurel sighed. “He’s so wonderfully talented.”
He might be an excellent rower, Caroline thought, but that is a skill rarely called for, and which surely cannot translate well on land.
She shook herself. Remember to seek the good in people.
Mr Radcliffe is evidently well-liked and respected here.
He must have plenty of good qualities, therefore I shall make it my
mission to discover every one.
“So, Miss Bingley,” said he, appearing at her elbow. “May I call upon you two days hence to take you and Miss Darcy to lunch?
Say, around noon? You are staying with her at Pemberley, are you not?”
Caroline blinked. She hadn’t expected the invitation to happen quite so swiftly, though she supposed if he were soon headed
back to Wales, Pemberley would not require much of a deviation from any intended route south. “Indeed, sir. I am very much
looking forward to it.”
“Excellent.” He bowed. The action brought with it a blast of male musk, earthy and dry, and it was all Caroline could do not
to wrinkle her nose.
After a hearty lunch, which had consisted of nearly half a chicken and two large platefuls of salad, Caroline found herself
nodding off in the carriage on the way home. Her eyelids drooped as the warmth of the air, to say nothing of the comfortable
silence which lay between her and Miss Darcy, had lulled her into a daze. Georgiana’s own eyelids had fluttered shut some
minutes ago and her chest now rose and fell with gentle, steady breaths. Before Caroline could drift off entirely, Georgiana’s
head slumped onto Caroline’s shoulder, sending a frisson of excitement through her.
She bit back a groan. Not this again. She’d managed to get through most of the day without thinking of Georgiana in this strange way. Steeling herself, Caroline
pictured Mr Radcliffe again: strong arms, broad shoulders, handsome face. They would no doubt have beautiful, if rather short,
children. But could she picture herself actually married to the man? Did the idea excite her as it should?
Not even remotely.
She frowned, adjusting the mental picture this way and that. She could see him shaking hands with Charles, charming Louisa,
and yet . . .
She could not picture herself sitting across the table from Mr Radcliffe at dinner, nor walking arm-in-arm along the promenade
in Bath. Nor could she picture herself in bed with him, a thought which ought to have drawn the most scandalous of blushes
to her cheeks, but which only left her feeling helpless and perplexed. What was one supposed to feel? And what if, despite
one’s best efforts, one did not feel anything at all?
Did that make her strange? Odd? Broken?
And what did that mean for the Great Endeavour?