When she did remember and thanked him very nicely, her father's remarks provided an appropriate opening to their subsequent conversation, which, as these things often do, led from one matter to another and extended without difficulty over the entire duration of the banquet.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth, overwhelmed by her responsibilities as hostess and her desire to ensure that every detail was right for the great occasion, was totally distracted from her resolution to observe the pair. She therefore failed to notice that Fitzwilliam and Caroline had been together during the meal, nor did she note the ease with which they then settled down to converse exclusively with one another over the next two hours.
As for her husband, Mr Darcy had been observing, with his father-in-law Mr Bennet, the performance of Mr Collins at his most obsequious best as he tried using every possible stratagem to ingratiate himself with Doctor Grantley. It was a plan he had conceived ever since he had learned from Lady Catherine herself that the learned gentleman was a theologian of repute at Oxford and likely to rise to high places in the church. Hopes of preferment had risen in Mr Collins's breast.
“The fellow never gives up, does he, Mr Darcy?” quipped Mr Bennet and his son-in-law had to agree.
“No indeed, sir, I have never seen anything or anyone that could stop him when he is determined to promote himself.”
Mr Bennet, whose regard for his son-in-law had risen on every occasion upon which they had met, was determined to tell Mr Darcy of at least one instance when the intrepid Mr Collins's efforts had been brought to a halt: when he had first arrived at Longbourn intending to marry one of his five young cousins and had set about pursuing Lizzie with great determination.
“He began his campaign with a sermon on matrimony and financial security, but Lizzie would have none of it and put a stop to him very firmly. So astonished was he at being turned down by her, having no doubt assumed that any one of the girls would be grateful for his offer, he left in high dudgeon to visit the Lucases, returning less than twenty-four hours later engaged to Miss Charlotte Lucas. Mrs Bennet was furious, but Lizzie and I were mightily amused. We were sorry for Miss Lucas, though; the man's an idiot,” said Mr Bennet, chuckling at the memory of that encounter.
Mr Darcy, who had heard his wife's version of the story and enjoyed Mr Bennet's dry sense of humour, was about to ask his father-in-law a question about his own role in the failed proposal of Mr Collins when a gentleman rose to speak. A colleague of Doctor Grantley, he had travelled with him from Oxford to be his best man.
“Let us hope he is not going to be as longwinded as Mr Collins or we shall be here all day,” said Mr Bennet, who tired easily of sermons and high sententiousness, and Mr Darcy agreed.
“It is difficult to believe that Mrs Collins is not heartily tired of him; he would try the patience of a saint!” he said, only to be assured by Mr Bennet that as far as he could judge, the lady was a loyal but not uncritical wife.
“Jane and Lizzie are her closest friends,” he said, with a wry smile. “I do believe they know rather more of the matter than we do. Mrs Collins, I would say, has the measure of the man.”
With the attention of the guests concentrated upon the bridal couple, their retinue, and families, Fitzwilliam and Caroline found time to talk of the myriad of matters which they had stored up to tell each other over the weeks when they had been apart.
Fortuitously for them, Georgiana's companion, Mrs Annesley, sat to one side of Fitzwilliam, sobbing quietly through most of the meal, so devastated was she at losing her “dear Miss Georgiana", while young Robert Gardiner, who was more interested in the food than in small talk, sat beside his sister and ate very well, undisturbed by any attempt at polite conversation. It was the ideal situation for a couple who had so much to say to one another that all other conversation must be an unwelcome distraction.
Yet Fitzwilliam, mindful of his situation and solicitous of Caroline's feelings, was amiable and pleasant but said or did nothing that would have led to any embarrassment to her or her parents.
Behaving with perfect decorum at all times, he struggled hard to keep his feelings concealed, for Caroline's beauty and sweetness of disposition were especially appealing upon this day.
Caroline, unaware that the man she was falling in love with was as concerned about his feelings as she was, despite the delight she had experienced at seeing him again and being singled out by him for attention, was a little disappointed that he had said nothing that gave her any indication of his intentions. She wrote in her diary that night:
It is difficult to believe that he does not care for me when he singles me out and behaves with such graciousness towards me and shows so much respect to Mama and Papa, but I wish he would let me see if his feelings are more than a general affectionate friendliness as one might feel for a sister or indeed a cousin like Georgiana, of whom I know he is very fond indeed. It would mean so much to know if one was truly loved.
Poor Caroline; it seemed there never was a young woman more deeply loved who had so little knowledge of it. For Colonel Fitzwilliam was involved in a great deal of soul searching and, like Caroline, had determined to keep his feelings to himself until he had resolved his own dilemma. That he was in love with Miss Gardiner he had already acknowledged to himself. Indeed, the question had engrossed his mind for several weeks. Uncertainty on that score did not pose a problem.
The colonel's difficulty arose from the fact that he was clearly the only person in the Gardiner family, or among their relations and acquaintances, who did not still regard young Caroline as a child.
To him she had been transformed over their years apart into a lovely young woman with a mind of her own and a very particular appeal. To her parents, her aunts, and uncles, however, she remained their little girl.
He had no doubt that to Mr Gardiner, who had spoken often and with great affection of his family on their journey to London, she was still “my little Caroline.”
He had tried to discover how Elizabeth might regard the situation, perhaps even canvass the possibility of approaching Mr Gardiner, but he had found no appropriate occasion in the midst of preparations for Georgiana's wedding to broach the delicate subject with her.
Impossible then to continue to let a warm and affectionate association grow between himself and Caroline, whose fondness for him seemed to be increasing each time they met. It was something he had become very aware of and while uncertainty existed about the propriety of his situation, he was beginning to feel some degree of guilt in allowing it to develop.
What, he wondered, would Mr and Mrs Gardiner say if he declared his feelings for Caroline and asked for their permission to propose marriage to her? Would they welcome it because they liked and respected him? Or would they be appalled that he, a man of three and thirty years, worldly wise, and well versed in society, was asking to marry their fifteen-year-old daughter? Might they be angry and accuse him of taking advantage of her youth and innocence?
Even worse, what if they were so outraged, they forbade him to see her again and perhaps sent her away from Oakleigh to her uncle's place in the next county?
What would that do to Caroline and how might she regard him then? Would she not feel he had trifled with her tender feelings, like some insensitive scoundrel, and betrayed her at the first sign of difficulty?
And what of Darcy and Elizabeth, he wondered? Would they understand and sympathise with him or take the part of the Gardiners, who were their dearest friends?
These and other terrible possibilities assailed him, and the speculation, though without foundation in fact, kept him sleepless on many nights.
How was he to resolve them, he wondered, for resolve them he must or give up all hope of Caroline and flee to London, abandoning his plans of settling permanently in the district.
Thus, in the midst of one of the happiest occasions seen at Pemberley in years, with every reason to be pleased with the world and a strong feeling that the young woman he loved was almost certainly willing to return hi
s affection, Fitzwilliam could not avoid a sense of unease and apprehension, lest it should all suddenly come to naught.
That matters came to a head much sooner than either Fitzwilliam or Caroline had anticipated was due largely to chance.
The year following Fitzwilliam's return produced in England a mood of sullen anger and depression, following a collapse in the textile industry, and the loss of thousands of jobs. The rural poor, many of whom had been evicted from their small holdings and cottages by enclosures, had migrated to the industrial towns in search of work. They had been promised jobs in the mills of Manchester and other textile towns, but the work had not lasted and many found themselves on the streets again, this time on the cold, unfriendly streets of the towns, where along with hundreds of others, they waited upon the charity of strangers.
Fitzwilliam had been summoned to a meeting of men of the reform movement, who, together with prominent Whigs like Sir Francis Burdett and Lord Brougham, were demanding reform of the Parliament, while pamphleteers like Cobbett argued for more radical measures.
The atmosphere in the Midlands was not conducive to amicable discussion; there had been a spate of violent machine breaking and attacks on mills and mill owners, and the government had increased the penalties for such offences to hanging or transportation.
Returning from a business trip to Liverpool, Mr Gardiner arrived at Pemberley to report that there were fears that goods on the docks may be burned, there was real anger in the streets, and many traders were boarding up their warehouses.
The news infuriated Fitzwilliam, who had arrived not long before him.
“What do they propose to do?” he demanded, “hang or transport half the population of the Midlands?” Impatient and angry, he jumped up, vowing to join Cobbett and the radicals, no matter what the government might bring against them. His voice rising with frustration, he declared, “If that is the only way to get our voices heard, I fear I shall have no alternative. I can no longer stand by and do nothing.”
Clearly, Fitzwilliam was outraged, and both Mr Darcy and Mr Gardiner were generally in sympathy with him, but neither were likely to advise that he join the radicals. Draconian measures brought in by the government would soon see him exiled or worse. With no seat in Parliament and no formal endorsement from a party, not even the protection of a title, he would surely be placing himself in great jeopardy. Mr Darcy advised moderation and Mr Gardiner, whose daughters had been spending the day at Pemberley with their cousin, counselled caution. Having extracted a promise that Fitzwilliam would do nothing without consulting him, he left with the two girls for Oakleigh.
Later, Elizabeth sought out her husband, determined to take up with him a matter of some importance, which had been causing her considerable concern all evening.
When first he heard what she had to say, he was both surprised and unwilling to take the matter as seriously as she did.
“Lizzie, dearest, are you sure? Is it not possible that young Caroline has misunderstood the situation? She is, after all, at a very impressionable age, and while I am aware that Fitzwilliam is fond of her, I had believed it to be quite an innocent affection when you consider that she is a mere child.”
But Elizabeth was adamant; there was no misunderstanding, she was certain of it. She told him how she had found young Caroline in tears after hearing Fitzwilliam's outburst and his threat to join the radicals. On further questioning, she had been left in no doubt that there was, at the very least, a very close bond between them, one that suggested to her the existence of feelings far deeper than friendship.
“She confessed that she loved him and has as yet told no one of her feelings. She was absolutely miserable, Darcy. Could you not speak to Fitzwilliam?” she pleaded, and seeing his reluctance, said, “He is your cousin and respects and values your advice in all things.”
Darcy's lack of enthusiasm for such a mission was plain and with good reason.
“My dear Lizzie, you more than anyone will understand my absolute determination never to interfere in the romantic affairs of my friends and relations ever again, having caused so much misery by my last effort,” he protested, but Elizabeth pleaded, “I do understand, dearest, but can you not see that we cannot turn a blind eye to this situation, now it has been revealed to us? I know I shall blame myself if Caroline were to be hurt and my aunt Gardiner will never forgive me for not trying to prevent it.”
Darcy was sceptical of their hopes of success.
“Do you honestly believe, my love, that we could prevent it, if both Fitzwilliam and Caroline had their hearts set upon it? As I said, I have noticed no more than a general fondness on his part, which I thought quite natural. She is accomplished and beautiful, with a most endearing nature. I did not believe there could be more to it, but I may well be wrong. However, while I appreciate your concern for Caroline, remember, Lizzie, he is no Wickham and I do not believe for a moment that there is any similar danger to her. Caroline is much more sensible than Lydia, and I would wager my entire estate on Fitzwilliam's honour and integrity.
“But I do understand your anxiety, and if it would ease your mind, I am prepared to see him to ascertain, if he is willing to confide in me, what his intentions are. Will that satisfy you?” His wife's gratitude, affectionately and extravagantly expressed, assured him that it would.
Some days later, Elizabeth went to visit her sister Jane Bingley at Ashford Park in the next county, her arrival preceded by a note which stated that her purpose was “to acquaint you with a matter of great delicacy and importance to someone very dear to us all.”
Her husband, on the same day, travelled the short distance to Matlock, hoping to find his cousin alone at the farm, where he was supervising some refurbishments to the house he had recently purchased.
Fitzwilliam was pleasantly surprised to see him arrive. “Darcy, it is good to see you—much as I enjoy having this place improved, there is little I can do except watch the men at work. I was just beginning to be bored and your company is most welcome.”
Darcy was at first awkward, apologising for intruding upon him and then urging him not to misunderstand the purpose of his visit.
“I do not mean to interfere in any way in your life, Fitzwilliam; I believe you are sufficiently responsible to conduct your personal affairs with good sense and honour, and if you were to tell me to be gone and say no more, I shall do so at once.”
By this time, his cousin was thoroughly bewildered. “Darcy, to what do you refer? Why would I ask you to be gone? Have I offended you in some way? Surely, there is nothing we cannot discuss after all these years? I understand that you may find my views on some political questions rather radical, but you have known my mind on these matters…”
Darcy had to interrupt to explain that his concern was not with matters political at all. Apologising again for what he might deem to be gratuitous interference in his personal life, Darcy asked in the most conciliatory tone he could muster if Fitzwilliam would care to reveal to him, in strict confidence, his intentions towards young Miss Caroline Gardiner.
Awkwardly, but reasonably, he explained that his wife Elizabeth was anxious lest Caroline, being both young and impressionable, may have misunderstood fondness for something deeper and more serious.
“Elizabeth's concern is for Caroline and for her parents' feelings. She has no criticism of you whatsoever, Fitzwilliam, and neither have I,” he said.
Fitzwilliam listened, his face flushed, his eyes downcast. He was unaccustomed to subterfuge, and the strain of concealment as well as the fear of causing offence had taken their toll upon him. Darcy was pleased to see there was neither anger nor resentment in his voice when he spoke, conceding Elizabeth's right as Caroline's cousin to enquire and exonerating Darcy of any charge of interference.
First, he assured his cousin that Caroline, despite or probably because of her tender age and innocence, was in no danger at all of being hurt in any way by him.
“I love her dearly, Darcy, and wish to marry her,” he
said simply, taking Darcy's breath away with his forthright declaration. He had not expected such a clear answer.
Continuing, Fitzwilliam revealed that he had realised after Christmas, certainly after Caroline's birthday celebration, that he was falling in love with her. Afraid at first to admit it even to himself and terrified lest her parents should discover his feelings for the daughter they still regarded as a child, he had done his best to conceal them.
“To make matters worse, it was becoming increasingly clear to me that Caroline reciprocated my undeclared feelings for her, sensing probably, as women intuitively do, that she was loved. Each meeting only confirmed my belief, and while I was naturally delighted, I was also fearful, lest we betray our feelings to others. Try as I might, I could not suppress my own affections nor discourage hers, innocent and tender as they were, without wounding her, which was the very last thing I wished to do.”
“Why did you not come to me or confide in Elizabeth?” asked Darcy. “We would have listened to you, at least.”
My Cousin Caroline: The acclaimed Pride and Prejudice sequel series The Pemberley Chronicles Book 6 Page 6