But the scene was plain enough. Mr. Charlton was seated on a low stone bench, and the girl, whomever she was, was seated on Mr. Charlton.
Caroline shrunk back, horrified and enraged.
She had heard the rumors about Mr. Charlton and his habits; he had, in fact, confirmed them. But somehow, she had not believed him.
Of course, she was acquainted with the ways of polite society, but she had always been fortunate to remain in the company of those—her brother and Mr. Darcy—who had adopted a higher moral code and who would never lower themselves to such dissolute displays.
Now she was witnessing Mr. Charlton’s debauchery for herself. It was true; he was fond of titillating maids.
Caroline’s first instinct was to confront him, for fighting was part of her nature. He was supposed to be meeting her to propose marriage after all! She ought to be in the place of the dissolute woman!
She peeked again around the corner and very nearly stepped into the open, but then she thought the better of it.
Making a scene would benefit no one.
Besides, this behavior should neither shock nor offend her, for as she had so lately reminded herself, it was the way of their class, and if Caroline desired to fit in amongst them, she must learn to accept it.
As she turned and retraced her steps to the entrance of the ruins, Caroline felt the full force of her discovery. It was the strangest sensation. Here she was attempting to convince everyone—including herself—that she belonged as mistress of Oak Park and wife of a baron, but her soul cried out against the very thing her mind wanted.
Could she truly live with a gentleman who would behave in such a manner?
Or was her bourgeois upbringing causing her to view the situation in too moralistic a manner?
These morals were hallmarks of the middling classes, so was not her current state of mind to be blamed on her unfortunate background?
Caroline could no longer think. She simply crunched along the path back toward the Grove where she had left Rosemary. Her mind was in a whirl of emotions and thoughts, and she could not settle upon one or the other.
She simply continued to walk toward Rosemary, and when her companion saw her pale face and shocked expression, she asked, “Miss Bingley, are you well?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“You look pale.”
“Yes, you look dreadful, dear. Will you not sit?” Lavinia suggested, but she did not move to aid Caroline to a chair. Instead, she just stared at her.
“No,” Caroline said. “I shall not sit. We must be away.”
“What? So early?” Lavinia asked, sounding completely unconcerned.
“I am afraid I have had quite enough of Vauxhall for one evening.”
“Yes?” Lavinia asked. “Well, I suppose my brother is still amongst the revelers.”
It was more of a statement than a question, but Caroline responded anyway. “Indeed, he is.”
Eighteen
Caroline and Rosemary rented another hackney and returned to Mr. Rushton’s home in Grosvenor Street in silence. If in fact Rosemary had attempted to begin a conversation, Caroline had not noticed, for her mind was too full and confused to allow one more thought to enter.
She only wanted the forgetfulness of sleep to come and take away her tumultuous worries, and when Caroline’s bedchamber door finally closed behind her, she sighed aloud. Although almost all the energy had drained from her body, she managed to walk across the room and sink onto the dressing table stool.
She looked at the mirror, but she did not see her own reflection. She only began removing the pins from her hair by rote, dropping them in a small pile on the table and then combing her hair absently until a knock at the door arrested her.
She decided to ignore the sound.
It came again.
“What?” Caroline asked. She had hoped to speak the word with a biting tone, but her voice came out weak and breathy.
“May I enter, Miss Bingley?” The voice that floated through the barrier of the closed door issued from Rosemary Pickersgill.
“No, you may not.”
The pause was so long that Caroline thought—or rather hoped—that Rosemary had gone away, but then the door opened and her companion entered unbidden.
Caroline did not even bother to turn around when she said, “Did not you mark me? I said you may not enter.”
“I apologize, Miss Bingley, but I felt the strongest urge to speak with you tonight.”
Caroline glared at her in the mirror.
Rosemary continued, “Do not make me regret my decision.”
“I find I do not have the vigor to protest. What is it you must say to me?”
Rosemary seated herself on the edge of the bed and looked at Caroline in the mirror. “What happened with Mr. Charlton this evening?”
“Nothing you ought to concern yourself with,” Caroline said.
“He has not proposed?”
“No.”
“I have already warned you that his sister may not be your ally, but—” she began.
“I will not hear such talk!” Caroline’s fist descended on the dressing table, causing the hairpins to jump.
“—I ask because,” Mrs. Pickersgill hesitated. “Because I do not want to see you suffer as I did.”
“Do not compare yourself to me. We are nothing alike.”
“We are more similar than you realize,” Rosemary insisted as she rose to stand behind Caroline. “I too was raised in the arms of the middling classes—”
“I will not hear my family so degraded!”
Rosemary held up a hand and their eyes met in the mirror. “Allow me to finish, Miss Bingley, and then you may rail at me as much as you please.”
Caroline crossed her arms before her and said, “Hmph.” But she listened, eyes locked on Rosemary’s reflection.
“I was once just as eager as you to rise in society, and one day, I caught the eye of a gentleman, a wealthy gentleman, and I believed all my tribulations were at an end. I married him, Miss Bingley, but as you see, it did not gain me one measure of enduring status, for here I stand, nothing more than a paid companion.”
The two women stared at each other in the mirror’s reflection, but Caroline had no will left in her to fight or even question the woman’s story.
“Leave me,” she begged.
“Yes, I shall leave you in a moment.” A long pause ensued, but Rosemary did not depart. Finally, she said in a quieter voice, “Miss Bingley, you must understand this about me: I was not born to this station.”
“Yes, yes, as you said.”
“I was a gentleman’s daughter and more.”
“I hardly believe that,” Caroline said. This woman could not possibly be what she claimed.
“I care not for your belief in my veracity, Miss Bingley, for your perception cannot alter the facts. I have experienced all that you fear and more. I have fallen in the eyes of society, and yet I live on, and I have even managed to be tolerably happy even if I have been reduced to being the companion of a pretentious young lady.”
“Insolence!” Caroline said, though her voice lacked venom. “My brother will hear of this when he arrives.”
“Your brother knows precisely what I am, Miss Bingley, and until this very day, I was willing to accept my fate. But you have taught me something valuable. Watching you persist no matter the obstacle, even when it was a foolish attempt, has shown me how easily I have given in to my circumstances. Well, no longer! Mark me. I will do anything to return to my station.”
Rosemary turned on her heel, her strawberry blond hair shaking loose from its pins with the vehemence of her spin, and exited the chamber, leaving Caroline to stare at herself stupidly in the mirror.
Caroline knew not how long she remained in that position before lying down in an attempt to sleep, but she could not manage to drift off. She was angry, confused, and most of all hungry. The food at Vauxhall had not filled her.
She flung the
bed linens from her, donned her wrapper, and stomped across the room toward the door. Here, she managed to mute her steps as she headed toward the kitchen in search of something to eat. She stole a slice of bread and a hunk of cheese, and for fear of encountering Mr. Rushton in another of his own midnight meals, she took her plate to the library, where the fire would likely still be smoldering and provide her enough light to read.
She opened the door and the voice she had hoped not to hear said, “Ah, Miss Bingley.”
Caroline discovered Mr. Rushton lounging sideways on one of the Grecian sofas, his back propped against an armrest and a book splayed open across his chest. Such shocking posture! A gentleman ought not recline, but sit up straight.
His next words were also a shock. “How did you find Vauxhall this evening?” he asked.
She nearly dropped her food, but she managed to retain her hold and place her plate on the small table beside the unoccupied sofa as she forced herself to speak to him.
“Vauxhall?” she asked innocently. “Why would you think I went there?”
“My manservant hailed your hackney. Did you expect him to lie when I asked its destination?”
Caroline sighed, lowered herself to the sofa, and said, “Yes, I went to Vauxhall, and I did not enjoy myself if you must know.”
“I suspected you would not, for though you claim no influence by your past, you will never be able to mount such a flagrant disregard for morals as does most of polite society.”
Caroline selected a piece of bread, bit into it, and did not reply.
“And did Mr. Charlton make his proposal?” He asked this question in an altogether different tone. It was almost vulnerable, and so Caroline suspected immediately that he must be about some sort of trickery. “Do not bother asking how I discerned your desires in that direction, for you have hardly been subtle in your arts.”
She thought to argue with him, but managed only to say, “How kind of you, Mr. Rushton.”
But in truth, it was likely that only her trusting mother and Mr. Newton remained oblivious to her schemes, so she admitted, “No, he did not make an overture, but it is only a matter of time.”
“You will be a fool indeed to accept him,” he said.
“I thank you for opining on this topic, sir, but if you will forgive me, I will make my own decisions.”
“I may forgive you, but will you forgive yourself? I thought you a great many things—foolish among them—but I dearly hope that you will not condemn yourself to the sort of life Mr. Charlton will offer.”
She laughed. “He can provide all that I require.”
“That is where you are wrong, Miss Bingley. He may cast an image of himself as a wealthy, carefree soul, but he is not unlike others of polite society who disregard their debt and gamble at every opportunity.”
To Mr. Rushton’s list of charges against Mr. Charlton, she could add dissolute debaucher, and he had confessed to being poor at money management, but she had heard nothing of his gambling. But what did that matter? It was entirely natural for the upper classes to behave that way, for they were born to their wealth and status and could not lose it. They could show no economy or moderation and indulge until their coffers emptied, and it was the duty and privilege of the lower classes to uphold them, was it not? After all, had not the landed gentry upheld them for years as tenant farmers?
It was only right, and it was the way of society.
But what of her father? He had earned his fortune with no aid from the titled landowners in the county. And the elder Mr. Rushton? He had lost his, and no amount of kindness on the part of his creditors had saved him.
It ought to be so simple. The titled were wealthy, and the poor were poor. That is how it used to be, but now trade and title were blurring, a most confounding condition. Caroline sighed. She simply could not understand the way of the world.
So instead of pondering that subject, she studied Mr. Rushton as she ate. He was still lying on the sofa opposite hers, and though his posture appeared relaxed, he radiated a sort of anxiety that Caroline could not comprehend.
Now finished with her small meal, Caroline stood. Hoping to intimidate him using the advantage of height, she loomed over him and said, “Your words do you no credit, sir, for I have heard nothing amiss about Mr. Charlton outside of what is expected of the aristocracy.”
“Neither do your actions, Miss Bingley, do any credit to you.” He looked at her with stern eyes. “I see you. I see exactly what you are thinking.”
She shook her head, realizing that her hair fell loosely about her shoulders in a most improper manner. “You cannot presume to know my intentions, and moreover, you are very rude.”
“I am well respected both in London and in the country, Miss Bingley, and that means I may be as rude as I desire and say whatever I choose, and still people defer to me and seek my good opinion. It is a most charming—and maddening—arrangement.”
Caroline leaned down until she was much too close to him. “Charming or not,” she whispered into his ear. “I would never seek your good opinion, so please do not endeavor to give it. And if you wish me to defer to you in any matter, you may as well abandon that hope immediately, for it shall never happen.”
“Miss Bingley, you will fail in your quest.”
Caroline blinked at him slowly as she formulated her retort. Finally, she said, “Indeed, I wish you would not think on my endeavors, Mr. Rushton, for it only leads to conversations of this nature. We are always at odds, and I fear you are not up to a true battle of wits.”
“And you intend to supply these wits?” he snorted. “How amusing.”
Caroline returned to her full height. “I wish I could say I found your behavior amusing, but alas, our reacquaintance has taught me to expect the contrary.”
Upon those words, she spun on her heel, but before she could step out of his sphere, a hand grasped her wrist and prevented her from stalking away. Caroline whirled around prepared to spew angry words upon him and discovered that Mr. Rushton had risen from the sofa.
Worse, she found herself drawn even closer to him than she had ever been, even when he had caressed her face in the carriage. Now his eyelids were lowered in an expression she had only once seen on his face and still could not precisely identify.
Her face heated.
Traitorous blood, Caroline thought.
“If you find my behavior shocking, you would indeed be surprised, my dear Miss Bingley, if you could read my thoughts.”
“I doubt very much that your thoughts would be appropriate for a lady to know,” she whispered.
“You are correct.” His voice had softened, and he released his grip on her arm and stepped back, but somehow, his presence still overwhelmed her. “It is best to keep my thoughts to myself, for you are too genteel to be acquainted with them.” His words were laced with a particular sarcasm that told her he did not find her genteel at all.
Caroline stepped back too, eager to put more distance between them. His gaze was too intense. “Yes, it is best that you do not speak,” she said. His intensity did not waver, and she added more weakly, “For you never speak a word of sense.”
“Well, I will endeavor to do so for the first time now, Miss Bingley.” His voice had returned to its normal tone, setting her at ease just a bit. “You must realize that Mr. Charlton is not suited to a woman of your ilk.”
Caroline gawped at him, unsure whether he was complimenting or insulting her.
“Your marriage to him would be most unhappy.”
“That is simply not true.”
Mr. Rushton’s face took on a sardonic bent. “So you desire a husband who, rather than admiring your impudent and independent spirit, would choose to take your inheritance and then ignore you?”
“Mr. Charlton would do no such thing,” Caroline protested.
“I wager you would be living in separate abodes before the first year of your marriage concluded. He wants a wife who will bring him a fortune and then foolishly turn her back
as he fritters it away at cards and women. You, Miss Bingley, while certainly wealthy and foolish, are something more.” He gave Caroline the most intense look. “You are something more.”
The combination of his countenance and his words caused Caroline to turn and flee to her bedchamber, where she passed a restless night in trying to discern his motives.
Nineteen
Caroline was quite shocked when upon rising late the following morning, taking a prolonged breakfast in her chamber, and finally descending the staircase of Mr. Rushton’s town home well after noon, she discovered a red-faced Lavinia awaiting her.
She caught sight of Caroline as she descended the stairs and marched over to face her.
“Good God!” Caroline blurted, completely flummoxed by her friend’s vexed demeanor, and then added more civilly, “I did not realize you were here.”
The entirety of Lavinia’s being radiated agitation. Even the feather in her hair seemed to quiver with anger. Lavinia, always calm and dignified, was more distraught than Caroline had ever observed her.
It was a fearsome sight to behold.
“My brother. He has not been here?” she demanded, her shrill voice echoing through the entryway.
Caroline’s confusion deepened. “Mr. Charlton? No, we have not had the pleasure of seeing him since Mrs. Pickersgill and I were in your company last evening. Come,” she said as she led her friend to the privacy of the sitting room, “we can speak in here.”
“You saw him last at Vauxhall?” Lavinia demanded as she followed Caroline.
“Yes,” Caroline said as she shut the door behind them. “At Vauxhall.”
“After your assignation, no doubt?”
“What? No! I never encountered….”
Obviously not listening, Lavinia began to look around the room in anger, as if considering which decoration she ought to hurl into the fireplace. “Why did you come to London?” she demanded. “Why would you even think to? Are you that thoughtless and imprudent?”
Caroline stepped back at Lavinia’s words. “You have me at a disadvantage,” Caroline said, deliberately forcing her voice to project calm, as if she were dealing with a small child in the midst of a temper tantrum. “I cannot think of what has caused you to become so distressed. Do sit down and tell me what has happened.”
Caroline Bingley: A Continuation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Page 19