Chapter XII
Morning came, and Caroline Bingley looked about her chambers at Netherfield with distaste. She had never liked this estate, had deplored the neighborhood as provincial and unworthy of her time. Even now she still thought that, despite everything.
Caroline had not slept well the previous night.
Her lip curled in disgust, for she knew that the other residents of Netherfield would have expected weeping, bitter recrimination, or even tantrums and broken glass.
As Caroline always practiced honesty with herself, she could acknowledge that concern had some merit.
Instead, Caroline had spent the night angry and unsettled, examining the last three years in her mind, wondering where it had gone wrong.
She was not without understanding—Caroline had seen the titters behind hands pressed to mouths, recognized that barely concealed disdain that hid behind strained civility.
Any lady in London who had any pretense to rank had looked on her pursuit of Mr. Darcy with scorn.
The upstart would learn her place. She reached too high.
But it had all seemed so simple. Mr. Darcy and Charles were great friends—that truth was inescapable to anyone who had ever seen them together.
With such a connection, Caroline had sought to expand that friendship.
Surely a marriage to the sister of such a close acquaintance must be a desirable outcome.
It appeared as if she had not understood Mr. Darcy at all.
While she might rail and deplore his choice of an unfashionable country miss, Caroline could not deny that his attention to Miss Elizabeth Bennet was genuine.
If he had paid half so much attention to Caroline at any time in their acquaintance, she would have planned the wedding breakfast.
Of greater immediate import was Charles.
The brother who had always been so compliant appeared to have slipped the silken leash Caroline had thrown around his neck.
He would not be managed, had determined to make Miss Bennet his wife.
To be thwarted by two such insignificant country misses was more than Caroline could bear.
And to crown it all, Louisa had acted against Caroline’s wishes and lured Charles back to Netherfield.
The previous evening had been a disaster from the first moment.
Even with the evidence to the contrary, Caroline had believed that putting herself near Miss Elizabeth would show the contrast between them.
Mr. Darcy could not fail to see who the superior woman was.
Yet he had danced twice with her, and all Caroline’s efforts had not yielded a single set, even though he had danced with both Miss Elizabeth’s wild younger sisters and the awkward wallflower sister who almost never danced.
The worst part of it was that she had lost control of her temper; her behavior would prove to those who looked down on her that she was nothing more than the daughter of a tradesman. Caroline had worked hard to leave her origins behind—even now they followed her like a faint miasma in the air.
Jane might be inferior and Eliza impertinent, but it seemed there was nothing to do but confess defeat.
It was galling, but Caroline knew there was little choice.
She was not blind to the knowledge that dropping her objections and keeping her acquaintance with Mr. Darcy would assist her in society, but when compared with what she thought she had, it was a paltry consolation.
She could only hope that her behavior had not damaged her position in society.
If word of the previous evening made its way to London, the giggles behind hands might become open laughter complete with pointed fingers and unconcealed glee.
It was fortunate that no one in this neighborhood had any connection to London—even the knight in their midst was nothing more than a puffed-up shopkeeper who now lived on a tiny estate. She should be safe.
Swallowing her pride and withdrawing her objections to the Bennet sisters would not be easy, but she must. The alternative was unthinkable.
“brOTHER, MIGHT I ASK you a question?”
Darcy quirked an eyebrow at her, and Georgiana giggled. It was an old jest between them, one that felt like an anchor after the storm of the previous evening, a turn to normality if only just a little.
“I shall take that as permission and ask another,” said Georgiana, a trifle primly, Darcy noted—it must be the company she was keeping of late. “Are you set on offering for Elizabeth?”
As he had expected something of this sort, Darcy sat back and considered.
The Bingley family had all dispersed after breakfast, though both Darcys had noticed that Miss Bingley did not appear—that had been enough permission for them to retire to the sitting-room attached to Darcy’s bedchamber.
Though he had attempted to read, his thoughts wandered, such that he had not turned a page in ten minutes.
“Do you wish to have her as a sister?” asked Darcy at length, not avoiding the question—or not that exactly.
“Do you not know that it is impolite to answer a question with another question?”
Darcy was helpless to prevent the grin from appearing on his face. “Perhaps. Let us make a pact, then—if you answer my question, then I shall answer yours.”
Georgiana glanced heavenward, but her trembling lips negated her show of pique. “Of course, I would welcome Elizabeth as a sister. Now, will you not speak plainly?”
Knowing he could no longer dissemble, Darcy nodded. “The truth is that I do not know yet—but yes, I am leaning in that direction.”
A curious look, and Georgiana said: “What prevents you?”
The book could no longer hold his attention—if it ever had—so Darcy set it aside. “Many factors, to own the truth. The state of Miss Elizabeth’s heart, lingering doubts of duty, my affections, and Lady Catherine’s probable reaction, to name a few.”
Georgiana blanched. “Lady Catherine will be frightfully angry, will she not?”
“Yes,” replied Darcy, “though I shall not allow her ladyship’s disapproval to stop me if I determine to move forward.”
Darcy leaned back and folded his arms. Outside in the corridor, he heard the heavy footsteps of a footman, while outside the window clouds drifted in the gray sky, blotting out the sight of the sun. It was a typical February day, one that clung to the season rather than promising a change.
“I admire Miss Elizabeth, Georgiana,” said Darcy after a moment’s reflection. “To own the truth, I cannot see how anyone could not feel the same.”
With a sigh, Georgiana offered him a contented smile. “That is good to know, Brother, for I have often thought you would not be happy in a society marriage.”
“I have come to understand that myself,” agreed Darcy. “It took an impertinent young miss possessing some of the finest eyes I have ever seen to teach me.”
“Does Miss Bingley understand your intentions? Will this become unpleasant?”
The questions cut to the core of what Darcy had considered that morning.
More than Lady Catherine and her bluster, the earl’s concern should Darcy inform him that he would wed a country miss, or any notion of how society would view his imprudence, Miss Bingley was a consideration he could not ignore.
Her behavior the previous evening did not inspire confidence, and while he did not think she would descend to madness, he could not be certain.
“It occurs to me that Miss Bingley has long mistaken my civility for something more.”
Georgiana understood the comment at once. “Yes, I suppose she has.”
“Perhaps I should have discouraged her more firmly, yet I cannot regret my growing attachment to Miss Elizabeth.”
For several moments, Georgiana considered his confession.
Then she shook her head. “Perhaps you might have made your disinclination clear, but addressing such considerations is not usually done. Miss Bingley should have taken your refusal to address her in such a way as to give her hope as a sign of your disinterest.”
“Rather,” muttered Darcy, “every time I spoke to her, it was evidence of my attachment.”
“Just so.”
Though Darcy wanted to believe the fault was all on her side, he could not do so and remain honest with himself.
“Miss Bingley has her part in this,” said he, “but I must own to some culpability of my own. While it is not proper to speak to her of the matter, I could have said something to Bingley. I did not want to embarrass him, so I tolerated her and kept silent.”
“Which speaks well to your character.”
“Thank you, Georgiana,” said Darcy with only a trace of sarcasm. “To have my aloofness held up as a strength rather than a flaw is a singular experience.”
Georgiana laughed, and Darcy felt lighter because of it.
“I hope you can convince her, Brother,” said Georgiana. “Since I came, I have observed that Elizabeth makes you happier and your manners softer than I have ever seen before.”
“Yes, she does at that.”
SINCE HE WAS SEARCHING for the signs, Bingley saw them at once. Or perhaps it was more correct to say that he did not see what he had feared, which was a relief.
Charles Bingley was aware of his faults.
He was accommodating—a fault or a strength depending on how one looked on it—abhorred conflict, and had a distinct lack of firmness, ambition, and that steady sense of purpose which governed Darcy’s character.
As he was still young, maturity and responsibility would resolve those defects, he thought, but that did not mean they were absent from his character.
In some strange way, this business with Miss Bennet had forced him from his comfortable, passive existence, and pushed him to take a stand.
Perhaps this would be the beginning of his journey to a more forceful Charles Bingley.
For the moment, he would accept nothing less than his sister’s capitulation.