Chapter 22 Miss Bingley Plots
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MISS BINGLEY PLOTS
In Scarborough, Caroline Bingley devoured the society pages the moment they arrived at her uncle’s home.
Although the London papers always came days late, she hovered for them like a hawk, snatching the bundle from the pile the instant it was set down and turning straight to the columns that mattered most to her.
Usually, there was little of true importance—endless chatter about people she did not know, but longed to. Names she should have been able to drop, invitations she should have received, had she succeeded in capturing the notice of Mr Darcy.
But no. That honour had gone instead to an impertinent country nobody.
Elizabeth Bennet—with neither beauty, fortune, nor consequence—had somehow achieved what Caroline had pursued with every art and contrivance.
The knowledge burned like a thorn that could not be drawn.
That such a woman could supplant her, Caroline Bingley, was intolerable.
She had always considered herself nearly a diamond of the first water; how could anyone in society, particularly Mr Darcy, prefer that pert little nobody, with her rustic manners and meagre accomplishments? The very notion was laughable.
She tried to assure herself that the nascent courtship she had observed at Netherfield had come to nothing.
Her brother and sister had written—both with irritating vagueness.
The postmarks told her something: the Hursts had gone to his estate near Bath while Charles was in London.
His letter had been particularly galling—it had been brief and businesslike—merely informing her that solicitors were arranging the transfer of her dowry.
He meant to restrict her to living on the interest alone and only after her debts were cleared.
If she wished to live apart from her aunt and uncle, she would be expected to fund her lodgings, her servants, and her gowns from that paltry sum.
Caroline was not blind; she knew the interest on twenty thousand pounds could never sustain her in London in the manner she required. At least Charles had not reduced the principal to cover her excesses of the last several years—she could scarcely have endured on less.
Yet even the thought of curtailing her expenses was insupportable, and his letter made it plain that he intended to enforce the matter.
He would not live under the same roof with her ever again, nor would he cover any charges she would make from now on.
The horror of being forced to send away a maid or appear twice in the same gown made her stomach twist. What would the world say if Caroline Bingley could no longer maintain even the appearance of elegance?
She supposed she could remain with her aunt and uncle, but the very idea was mortifying.
They were in trade—solid, respectable, and utterly unfashionable.
They could introduce her to no one of consequence.
To stay with them was to consign herself to the shelf, branded as a spinster and forced to live alone.
It was a far cry from the life she had expected to live as the wife of Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.
Then came the blow she had half-dreaded, half-expected. There it was in print: “Mr F.D., of Derbyshire,” seen in town, escorting a young lady. She was unnamed, but her initials—Miss E.B.—told Caroline all she needed. Eliza Bennet.
Worse still, the paper reported Charles with the woman’s sisters—one fair, the other dark—and that “Miss G.D.” appeared to view her brother’s supposed attachment with favour.
The article stopped short of declaring an understanding between any of them, but Caroline was not deceived.
If Mr Darcy was publicly escorting Elizabeth Bennet about London, they were either engaged or perilously close to it.
A courtship might yet be broken. An engagement, especially if articles had been signed, was another matter.
Not that she could do anything. Banished to the north, she was powerless to interfere, however much she longed to.
Clearly her letters to Jane Bennet had been wasted; that sly creature still pursued Charles.
Perhaps she could poison that relationship still; her brother had not completely forsaken her since he was still responding to her letters, but what could she say?
What galled her most was the image she could not banish: Eliza Bennet presiding at Pemberley, receiving guests as though she had been born to such consequence.
Caroline almost laughed aloud at the absurdity.
That provincial chit, who had likely never stood in a true London ballroom, strutting about with the consequence of a duchess—at Pemberley!
The thought made her blood boil. She, Caroline Bingley—accomplished, elegant, accustomed to moving with ease among the ton—set aside in favour of a country nobody.
Pemberley ought to have been hers. Her fingers tightened on the paper until it crumpled, and still she stared at the hated initials: E.B.
Even from Scarborough she was not without recourse.
Mr Darcy might be beyond her immediate reach, but Jane Bennet was not.
Since her brother had raised no objection to her letters, she could only assume he did not know of them.
Surely that was telling in itself, and that meant she would only need to refine her approach.
Jane had not replied to her letters, which had been vexing, but that silence did not necessarily signify rejection.
If Caroline adjusted her tone—less hauteur, more sympathy—she might coax the naive girl into replying.
With patience and the right words, Jane could be drawn back into her confidence.
Through Jane, Caroline might keep Elizabeth’s triumph in check, guiding her as one might guide a foolish younger sister until influence was restored to its proper place.
Jane was precisely the sort of soft creature to swallow such words whole, Caroline told herself, and she meant to provide them.
Yes, she would sit down at once and compose another letter to Jane Bennet, cloaking her words in the guise of friendship.
An artful apology for her abrupt departure from Netherfield would do, delicately phrased so as to appear sincere without conceding more than necessary.
A show of contrition for any “misunderstanding” between them would soften the edges, while a feigned interest in Jane’s welfare could lend the letter an air of warmth.
On paper, it would be simple to shape herself into whatever facade was required.
Once Jane’s trust was regained, Caroline might carefully suggest that she, too, had learnt a lesson from her past conduct—though she would proceed with caution, uncertain how much Elizabeth had revealed to her sister about her time at Netherfield.
My dear Jane,
I trust this letter finds you in the very best of health and spirits, and that your stay in town has brought you both pleasure and variety.
My brother has mentioned that he has been fortunate enough to enjoy your company these past several days, and nothing could delight me more than to know he has shown himself more constant and attentive than, I confess, I once believed possible.
I reproach myself most bitterly for leaving Netherfield with such suddenness and without a word of proper explanation.
It was most ill-judged, and I fear it may have given rise to misconceptions I would never, under any circumstance, have chosen to create.
My brother was exceedingly displeased with me at the time, and in the heat of that moment, we both spoke more sharply than we ought.
Pray believe me when I assure you that nothing has ever been further from my intention than to cause you unease, for your friendship is dear to me, and I hold you in the very highest esteem.
Your sweetness of temper, your generosity of spirit, and the kindness with which you treat all who have the privilege of knowing you set you apart in every company.
I think often of the hours we passed together at Netherfield and long to renew them, for I have seldom met with a companion whose gentleness and sincerity I admired more.
Pray indulge me, dear Jane, and write soon, for I should count myself truly blessed to hear from you and to know that I remain in your good opinion.
I am afraid that my sudden departure may have given you a wrong impression, and made you believe things that are not true.
The letter continued in this vein for several more paragraphs, lamenting in increasingly tender tones the supposed loss of their friendship and expressing Caroline’s earnest hope that they might soon see one another again.
She even embroidered their time together at Netherfield with imagined incidents, carefully chosen to suggest that she and Jane had shared confidences and intimacies that had never truly taken place.
Each line was calculated to draw Jane into believing their acquaintance had been warmer and closer than it had ever been.
Composing it, however, was not easy. The first draft had seemed cold, even to Caroline’s own critical eye; the next was far too effusive to be believable; and the one after that too obviously contrived.
Several iterations were written, revised, and discarded before she finally struck the balance she sought—gentle self-reproach, blame delicately shifted onto her brother, and a lavish sprinkling of admiration for Jane’s sweetness.
The effort had consumed no small portion of her time, but Caroline considered it necessary.
Jane was mild, malleable, easily led—but even pliable natures required the right tone.
If she judged it correctly, Jane would be guided by the pen as readily as she might be led by the hand.
Caroline regarded the final draft with undisguised satisfaction.
At its close, she hinted that she might soon be in Jane’s company again, suggesting a possible return to the south “if a certain desirable event were to occur.” Of course, in Caroline’s mind, that desirable outcome would be nothing less than her own marriage to Mr Darcy—or her brother’s to Georgiana Darcy—though neither ambition was likely to be furthered by the Bennet sisters.
Still, she could hope, and she resolved she would do all she could to make it so.
Satisfied, she folded the paper neatly, sealed it with a flourish, and laid it aside for posting.
The crumpled society page still lay on her escritoire, and with a steadying breath, she smoothed it flat again.
Names, titles, initials—printed proof of all that had been denied her.
Her anger at her brother grew yet again since he had been the means of separating her from Mr Darcy.
As she read the hated lines once more, her lips tightened with resolve.
If she could not yet alter the news in the papers, she could at least help to rewrite the story herself, one letter at a time.