I smiled. "You ought already to be terrified of vexing me at any time."
And now the ball is over, and I must--as promised--go and speak with Caroline.
Sunday 8 January 1815
I did speak to Caroline last night. Though I'm not at all sure I accomplished anything.
Out of the whole of the party, I was chosen to be the one to speak with her about her behaviour because I'm the closest thing she has here at Pemberley to a friend.
By which I mean that before Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam married, back when Caroline was still hoping that my brother would marry her, she did her best to fawn on me and cultivate my acquaintance as a means of growing closer to my brother.
At any rate, I went along to her room last night after the close of the ball and knocked on her door. I hadn't been entirely successful in talking myself into pitying her. Well, to be strictly honest, I hadn't been at all successful; I could still cheerfully have seen her, if not strangled, at least bundled into a carriage and sent away from Pemberley at once.
Caroline made some reply to my knock, too muffled by the wooden panel for me to understand. But I thought I caught the words, "Come in," so I turned the knob and entered.
Caroline was by the wardrobe, undressed and wrestling with the laces on the back of her long corset. She let out a little scream at the sight of me, snatched up a purple silk dressing gown from the bed and clutched it to her chest. "For goodness' sake, Georgiana, I said don't come in," she said snappishly. "Have you been afflicted with deafness?"
"I'm sorry," I said. And then I frowned. "Why on earth are you trying to unlace your own corset? You brought Mason with you."
Mason is Caroline's lady's maid, who accompanies Caroline wherever she goes. And Caroline doesn't seem at all the sort to do anything for herself when someone else might do it for her.
"I didn't want Mason." Caroline's voice was still short, and she avoided meeting my gaze. "She was being stupid and clumsy tonight, and I sent her away."
She finally succeeded in untying the knot at the base of the corset, loosened the strings and stepped out of it, all the while holding the dressing gown one-handed in front of her, like a shield. She stepped behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room, and when she came out she had put on the dressing gown. And her eyes were narrowed with accusation. "You did that deliberately," she said. "Spilled soup all over my gown at the supper table."
I was relieved, in a way, by the directness of the attack, since it meant I didn't have to bother with pretence or with dancing politely around the subject. "Can you wonder that I did?" I said. "It's one thing to flirt outrageously with my brother and try to make Elizabeth jealous." Caroline made a small sound of angry protest at that, but I spoke over her. "That is more pathetically futile than anything else, since you'll never manage to make real trouble between them. But it's another thing entirely to deliberately cause a scandal that would drag Kitty's name into the gutter and cause Elizabeth a great deal of pain, as well."
"Well?" Caroline tilted her chin up and met my gaze defiantly. "And why shouldn't I?"
I took firm hold of my temper with both hands. "Why should you? What have my brother and Elizabeth ever done to you, that you should repay them in such a way?"
For a moment, Caroline continued to look defiant. And then quite suddenly her face seemed to crumple, and she broke into noisy sobs. "They're ha-ha-happy together," she choked out. "Isn't that enough?"
"Oh for goodness' sake, Caroline, do be quiet!" I snapped. I still wasn't of a mind to be terribly sorry for her.
At least she was surprised enough to leave off crying and look up at me with a sound midway between a gulp and a snuffle. I looked at Caroline. Her face was tear-blotched, her nose reddened. But her fingers were also so tightly clasped together in her lap that the skin stretched over her knuckle bones. I took a breath and tried to speak more quietly. "Caroline, what is all this about? Is it--" I ventured a guess: "Is it something to do with Edward's brother Frank?"
Caroline made a harsh, ugly sound that was like a laugh. "Frank? Yes, you could say that it has everything to do with Frank. Since I'm going to have his child."
I was so startled I must have stared at her for a full half-minute before I could gather my wits enough to speak. "You're--"
"Going to bear Lord Silverbridge's by-blow?" Caroline's mouth twisted as she cut me off, her voice hard. "Yes. I am. Unless I'm lucky enough to miscarry."
"You don't mean that!"
To my surprise, Caroline's chin quivered and she started to cry all over again. "No. I don't. Of course I don't. I'm just so miserable, and--" She broke off, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and swallowing the rest of her sobs. "You can't tell anyone." She gripped my hand, so hard I could feel her nails leaving dents in my skin. "I mean it, Georgiana. You can't tell one single person what I've told you tonight, or I'll ... I'll say the child is your brother's."
I would have thought myself past being shocked by anything Caroline could say, but that momentarily took my breath away. "You'll do what?"
Caroline's eyes slid away from mine, but she said, "I'll say the child is Darcy's. That it was conceived while we were in London these past weeks."
I drew in my breath. "And if you do, I'll make it publicly known that you stole my aunt de Bourgh's pearl necklace last spring at the instigation of Jacques de La Courcelle."
Caroline's eyes widened and she gasped. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh yes, I would. I will."
Caroline stared at me, shocked. Though her expression quickly changed to one of aggrieved resentment. "What's happened to you, Georgiana? You used to be such a meek, quiet little thing."
"I'm sure you would very much prefer it if I were, still," I said. And then I asked, "Does Frank know?"
"It doesn't matter." Caroline's voice wavered as though she were fighting tears, but she gritted her teeth and said, "It doesn't matter. And you can't tell anyone, either, Georgiana. It doesn't matter what you threaten me with." She folded her arms protectively over her middle with another sobbing breath. Her whole body was tensed, shivering. "I'm ruined in any case."
Tuesday 10 January 1815
Edward asked me to come for a walk today after breakfast. We couldn't go far. It's been so cold that the snow hasn't yet melted, though our gardeners have cleared off enough paths that we could walk down to the lake.
It's been two days since the Twelfth Night ball. Two days since Caroline told me of her expectations. Which of course explains why she's been dressing herself and sending her maid away; I suppose she wishes to keep Mason from finding out for as long as may be.
What I cannot understand is what is really the state of affairs between her and Frank. Frank obviously followed her here to Pemberley. And he's been nothing but attentive to her ever since. While Caroline has been nothing but scornful of him, and done her best to push him away at every turn.
Maybe Frank does know about the child, and offered her an irregular arrangement rather than marriage? And Caroline is angry? That doesn't seem entirely like Frank. But it would explain Caroline's behaviour, I suppose.
At any rate, I had made up my mind to tell Edward the truth today. Whatever Caroline threatened two nights ago, I cannot imagine her actually risking arrest for thievery--which means she won't really try to claim the child is my brother's. And I don't think any of us wishes to have her stay much longer at Pemberley unless something about her situation is sorted out or changed.
Last night at dinner, Frank seemed entirely unlike himself. Morose, and lost. He drank more than he ought, as well. He wasn't angry or ill-tempered with it, because Frank could never be that. But his speech did grow slurred and his eyes were glazed. And Caroline sniffed a great deal and made pointed, haughty comments about men who couldn't hold their drink.
So I was going to tell Edward today--he of course can speak with Frank much more easily than I could. But I never got the chance.
Edward was very quiet as we started out for our walk. His
brows were furrowed and he seemed lost in thought. About halfway to the lake, he turned to me and said, "There's something--something I wanted to talk to you about. About whether or not I should stay in the army." He stopped walking and turned to look down at me. "What do you think I should do?"
I felt my heart contract. Because part of me--a large part--wishes that he'd sell his commission now, at once. And some days, maybe I can persuade myself that that would be best for Edward, too. But would it really--or am I only being selfish in wishing that? It's so hard--I never realised quite how hard--to see matters objectively when someone you love is involved.
Besides, didn't I read some hideously sentimental poem once--something about true love speaks not of chains, but of freedom's wings? The verse may have been uninspired, but maybe the sentiment is true.
So I swallowed and said, "What do you want to do, Edward?"
Edward let out a long breath and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, frowning down at the ground. "I want--I believe I want to stay in the army. Or at least, not exactly want. But I feel I ought to, somehow. At least for now."
A strange feeling swept over me, then. A kind of biting cold that had nothing to do with the icy wind whipping at our faces and tearing at my hair. I could imagine it gnawing its way through to my bones.
But I pressed tight against Edward, twining my arm through his, and said, "Then that's what you should do."
Edward smiled and bent down to kiss me. But he still seemed ... abstracted, I suppose is the word. And I couldn't bring myself to add to his worries by telling him about Frank and Caroline.
Thursday 12 January 1815
Baby James took ill tonight. It was so sudden--that was the most terrifying thing. He's so tiny, still. And he doesn't smile yet--babies don't until they're a few weeks older than he, according to Mrs. Reynolds. But the last few days, he's just begun to open his eyes and truly seem to take in his surroundings. Yesterday when I held him he stared and stared at my face, very solemnly. He has Elizabeth's eyes, but for the rest he looks so much like my brother that I kept halfway expecting him to open his small mouth and speak in Fitzwilliam's voice.
He was perfectly well when we all retired to bed. Elizabeth refused to have a nursery maid, so James sleeps in a small cradle next to her and Fitzwilliam's bed--or bundled into the bed between them, Elizabeth says. Because they both like to have him close.
But tonight--or I suppose I should say last night, since it's nearly dawn now--James woke up crying and coughing at once. Short, harsh, barking coughs that made my own chest ache to hear them. Elizabeth came to my room, holding him, and asked me to go and fetch Mrs. Reynolds. And my brother went to wake one of the footmen and send him for Mr. Broyles, the physician. Fitzwilliam was doing his best to reassure Elizabeth, but I could see how worried he was.
Babies do die. Especially in winter. And looking at James' small face, all scrunched up with the effort he was making to breathe, his life seemed so fragile--barely three weeks old. Even a slight sickness could be enough to snatch him away. And this was not slight at all. Besides the cough, I could hear a whoop of air with every one of his laboured breaths.
The whole house wound up being roused, Edward and Frank and Caroline, as well. And it was decided that Edward and Frank would ride out for Mr. Broyles. They could take their own horses and cover the distance to Lambton more quickly than one of the footmen. And it was safer for two of them to go than one, in case one horse foundered or lost its footing in the snow.
They left just as Mrs. Reynolds came bustling into Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam's room. I know she was worried, too. But she was splendidly calm. She took one look at baby James, clasped tight in Elizabeth's arms, and said, "Ah, it's the croup, that's what ails the poor lamb. I'll go and tell the kitchen maids to start boiling water. We'll need clean towels and a great deal of steam."
When the copper kettles of boiling water arrived, she fixed a kind of tent using the towels and two chairs, and directed Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth to sit inside with James, letting him breathe the moist air.
While my brother took a turn with James under the tent, Elizabeth came over to Caroline and me. She was terribly pale, but she tried to smile. "There's no need for the two of you to go without sleep for tonight," she said. "I'm sure he'll be all right. My youngest sister Lydia had croup when she was one or two, and my mother treated it just this way. Which I would have remembered if I'd not been so panicked before."
Her eyes still looked dark with fear, though. Because of course there is a great deal of difference between a baby of just three weeks and a child of one year or two. I took her hand. "Of course I'm not going back to bed. Unless you'd rather I didn't, I'll stay right here in case there's anything I can do to help."
Elizabeth squeezed my hand and said, "Thank you."
I would have expected Caroline to leave. I was a little surprised that she had come out of her room in the first place. But she said, her voice only a little awkward rather than snappish or short, "I have some camphor in my room. I always travel with it in the winter time. I'll fetch it if you like, and you could add it to the boiling water. I've heard friends of mine--the friends who have children--say that it's very effective in cases of croup."
Elizabeth's eyes widened slightly with surprise, as I'm sure did mine. But she was too distracted by worry for James to say anything but, "Thank you. Yes, please fetch it." She turned to look back at the steam tent, where Fitzwilliam was holding James cradled against his chest. "Thank you, that's very kind."
Caroline must have run all the way to fetch the camphor from her room, because she was back in what seemed no time at all. "Here you are." Elizabeth had gone back under the towels to sit with my brother and James, so Caroline gave the packet of camphor powder to Mrs. Reynolds. But then instead of leaving, she crouched down to kneel beside the steam tent on the floor and touched Elizabeth's arm. "He really will be all right, I'm sure of it," she said. She spoke quietly and more gently than I'd ever heard Caroline speak before. "My school friend Maria Gibbon's little daughter had croup when she was not much older than your little boy. And she recovered perfectly well. She's three years old now."
And the camphor or the steam or both did help at last. Fitzwilliam looked down at James, still curled small as a kitten against his chest, and said, "I think--" He stopped and cleared his throat. "I think he's breathing more easily, now."
He was. The laboured rasp of his breathing was nearly gone, and his tiny face was relaxed, peaceful in sleep.
Edward and Frank returned a few minutes later with Mr. Broyles. Who had nothing to do but examine his small patient and say that James was well on his way to being cured, and that his treatment had been exactly what was required.
Everyone broke into gasps and exclamations of relief. Mrs. Reynolds started to cry, and Elizabeth laughed, her eyes bright with tears, too. My brother drew her to him with one arm, resting his forehead against hers, with James cradled close in between them.
And then all the commotion woke baby James, who blinked indignantly at us from Fitzwilliam's arms, as though wondering why we were disturbing him, just as he'd finally got to sleep--which made everyone laugh. Even Caroline. Though it was just after that that she ducked out of the room and into the hall.
I was standing next to Edward, leaning against him. Edward was saying something to my brother. But I saw Frank turn and go after Caroline a moment later.
I murmured, "Excuse me a moment," and went out into the hall, too.
Caroline and Frank were standing together at the head of the stairs at the far end of the hall. Frank's back was to me, and his voice was too low for me to make out the words. But I could see Caroline's face, pale and icy-hard as she shook her head. "No. I'm not listening to any more."
She whirled and ran away down the hall, back towards her own room. And Frank stood still a moment at the top of the stairs, watching her. He hadn't noticed me. But I could see the mixture of anger and pain on his handsome face, the bleak unha
ppiness in his eyes. And then he passed a tired hand across his face and started down the stairs, his shoulders bowed.
I hesitated. And then I went after Caroline.
I caught up with her just around the corner of the passage to the east wing. It was as though once she was out of sight of Frank, all her energy had abruptly deserted her. She had not even reached her room, but was sitting slumped on one of the velvet benches that lined the hall. Tears were running in silent tracks down her face.
She looked up at my approach. But she didn't bother to hide or even try to check her crying.
"Caroline--" In that moment, I did begin to feel sorry for her. She looked the picture of exhausted misery. I sat down beside her on the bench and said, "Can you tell me what's wrong? What did Frank say to you just now?"
A flicker of resentment crossed Caroline's gaze as she drew the edges of her dressing gown more tightly together. "Why should you care? It's not as though you even like me. Why should you? I've been horrible to you--to all of you. You and your brother and Elizabeth." More tears slid down Caroline's cheeks, and she dashed them impatiently away with the back of her hand. "I don't mean to behave so. But I'm so unhappy, all the time. It makes me feel as though there's something terrible inside me, goading me to be rude and spiteful. As though I want to ... to lash out at the whole world." Caroline's breath went out in a hiccuping sob. "But what does it matter? You've every reason to despise me"
I suppose that's one of the saddest truths of life. That so often people who are the most in need of friendship and kindness are the very ones who behave in a way calculated to drive everyone around them away.
I said, "I don't despise you. And Frank is my cousin. He'll be my brother-in-law in a few months' time. And I saw his face just now when he you left him. He looked ... he looked more unhappy than I've seen him since the girl he was betrothed to died. Is he unwilling to marry you, despite the child?"
Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2 Page 10