Chapter Fifteen
My dearest sister,
I hope this letter finds you extremely well. You asked me what it is like to be in love—it is impossible to describe something
so all-encompassing in mere words, but nevertheless, I shall attempt it here.
I now understand what the poets
She makes me
Nothing seems to do this feeling justice, but I shall try again. My good mood seems to spill like sunshine into every moment
of every day. It is a passionate joy beyond all my wildest dreams, and yet a domestic harmony so blissful I cannot imagine
how I ever managed without it. Marriage is wonderful, and I thank God every day that He sent me the most perfect angel.
There, how is that?
Speaking of, Jane sends her most fervent best wishes to you too and hopes that she may see you once we return from our sojourn to Bath.
I hope that one day you shall experience such delight in matrimony!
Perhaps you were asking about love because you have lately felt its firm grip around your heart?
I hope that is the case and look forward to meeting the fellow.
Your devoted brother,
Charles
Caroline descended the stairs the next morning to find Georgiana waiting in the great hall, armed with a bulging wicker basket
and a rolled-up blanket.
“I thought you might enjoy a proper picnic today. Shall we head down to the lake?” Miss Darcy suggested.
“Oh.” Caroline’s stomach sank. She didn’t think she could bear any more lake-based activities. “Why don’t we go to the meadow
instead? It would be so lovely to eat there amongst the flowers.”
To her relief, Miss Darcy acquiesced without complaint. After Caroline had secured her bonnet, they strolled out of the house
and down towards the shrubbery. Though the breeze was slightly cooler than she’d expected, the sun kissed the back of her
neck with pleasant heat, making her shiver as they made their way towards the fields at the right of the estate. The meadow,
a large one lined on three sides by trees which offered some privacy from the view of the house, was dotted with purple wildflowers,
the vivid colour as loud as trumpets among the muted yellows and greens of the tall grasses. Georgiana spread a blanket upon
the ground in a likely spot, partially under the shade of a large oak tree, and they settled themselves comfortably.
“I expect you’re looking forward to lunch with Mr Radcliffe tomorrow,” Georgiana said, casting a sly look at Caroline.
Caroline untied the strings of her bonnet and pulled it off, then patted her hair down.
She rarely took her bonnet off outside but there was no need for formality with only Georgiana present, especially since Miss Darcy hadn’t even worn one out of the house.
The action bought Caroline a moment’s thought, and a chance to school her features into something more amiable.
She was aware that she ought to be excited for the forthcoming event, but whenever she thought about it, nothing sparked in her chest. Love was always being described in poetry and books as being like a kind of fire, but she couldn’t summon up even a single candle’s worth.
Again, she couldn’t help worrying whether something was wrong with her.
Any sensible unmarried woman would be delighted to have lunch with a handsome gentleman who had singled her out for attention.
Why, then, did she not feel excited by the prospect?
I did tell Georgiana that one ought to know the true nature of one’s intended partner before one considers one’s self in love, she reminded herself. My feelings may change once I know him better, or I may discover that he is not the right man for me. Either way, I shall
be a step closer to understanding what I do want.
Lacking an answer, she decided to turn the tables on Georgiana. “Lord Ashbrook was very handsome, was he not? Would you like
a viscount for yourself?”
“Oh, no,” said she, looking surprised. “Not that I—I mean, his rank would not matter to me. I much prefer a person to a title.
But I seek nothing at all, at least for the moment. Here, try the salted ham. It is quite delicious.”
Not all young ladies had the privilege of such a position. “You never told me—would you prefer a love match for yourself?”
Caroline asked, realising she had no idea what Georgiana might want in a husband. Her lip curled; it was difficult to imagine
her closest friend on anyone’s arm.
“You really do not like the idea of love, do you?” Miss Darcy asked, misinterpreting Caroline’s expression.
“I am not against it, as a general rule. I simply do not understand it.”
“What I do not understand,” Georgiana said, buttering a piece of bread, “is why on earth you are seeking something you do
not believe in.”
“I never said I do not believe in it,” Caroline corrected. “I said I do not understand it. The two are quite different. Love
exists, of course, and I cannot argue otherwise. It is obvious between Charles and Jane, and between your brother and . . .
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
The breeze changed, coming now from the south, bringing with it the scent of lavender. Georgiana’s lips twitched with amusement
at the mention of the cursed name, and although she did her best to hide a smile, Caroline saw it and couldn’t help feeling
irritated.
“And yet . . .” Caroline hesitated again, wondering how to phrase the thought that had been plaguing her since Darcy’s harsh
words the night of the party. “Perhaps my greatest worry is that I am not actually capable of such a thing. That I lack whatever
quality is necessary to allow love to blossom in the first place. Otherwise, would it not have struck me already? I am three-and-twenty,
after all.”
“Of course you are capable of it!” Georgiana took Caroline’s hands in her own and squeezed them.
“I think all people are capable of falling in some kind of love, though that may look different from person to person. Some may be content to have friends and companions, while some may find that kind of contentment only amongst family. While others seek passion and a different sort of . . .” She cleared her throat.
“Intimacy. You may find that what is right for you may not be right for others, and vice versa.”
Caroline felt her cheeks heat. They were still holding hands, which was perfectly natural, though perhaps Georgiana was not
aware of the way her thumb had begun to stroke over Caroline’s knuckles. The sensation made Caroline feel a little like she
was falling, though she was seated on the ground with nowhere to go.
“I believe that you were in love once, were you not?” she murmured.
For a moment, she thought that Georgiana’s temper might rise.
Instead, Miss Darcy’s dark eyes fluttered to meet Caroline’s, then away again, like two restless summer butterflies.
They’d never talked about George Wickham at any length before; Caroline knew that there once had been an attachment of sorts, and that, under mysterious circumstances, the man had disappeared from the Darcys’ life only to turn up again in Meryton as part of a regiment.
Darcy had been more furious than she’d ever seen him on hearing the name, though his fury tended to be the silent type.
He was not the kind of man who would storm into a room and demand a duel at dawn, though she did not think for a moment that, if honour demanded such a thing of him, he would not immediately rise to the occasion.
Caroline had watched as Wickham, handsome and sly, with tousled brown hair and broad shoulders befitting a member of the militia, had flirted openly with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
A mere common soldier, and yet, Miss Bennet had entertained his suit, laughing at his jokes.
Caroline, who owed her nothing, had even deigned to warn Lizzy that Wickham was not as he seemed, that he had used the Darcys most terribly, but the impertinent girl had brushed her away with barely concealed scorn.
How often her thoughts slid back to the infernal woman. Really, the road was a well-trodden one at this point. She must try
harder to—
“I believe I was,” Georgiana murmured, drawing Caroline’s attention back with a jolt.
“What was it like?”
Miss Darcy’s hands did slip away then. The breeze changed direction once more, ruffling the stray tendrils of Georgiana’s
hair, and Caroline’s fingers twitched as she fought the sudden urge to tuck one back behind Georgiana’s ear. If she startled
her friend now, perhaps she would not find out the story which she had always wanted to know.
“To be in love?” Georgiana let out a rather humourless laugh. “It is difficult to describe.”
That was what Charles had said, though Caroline did not think that Georgiana necessarily shared his feelings of spilled sunshine upon the subject.
“It is . . .” Georgiana trailed off. “I mean, it was complicated. I was but fifteen at the time, and I enjoyed his attentions
and affections. The way he looked at me as if I were the most interesting creature alive. And he actually listened to me.”
I listen to you, Caroline thought. Unexpected jealousy, as bitter-green as raw asparagus, simmered in her stomach. At once, the idea of not
knowing Georgiana’s secret self was absolutely unbearable. Had her friend discussed opera with Wickham? Had she showed him
how to play the harp, leaned close enough for him to feel her breath upon his cheek?