Miss Bingley Requests

by Judy McCrosky

  * * *

  Caroline was kept very busy during the days leading up to the ball, overseeing the servants to ensure that every detail was carried out exactly according to her requirements. Floors were cleaned and cleaned again. Furniture was polished until each wooden armrest and back glistened and the air was filled with the scent of lemon oil. In the kitchen, the cook’s face shone also, from her exertions and from the heat, as hordes of footmen and maids carried huge platters from the pantry to the larder to the cold room. Outside, an army of gardeners pruned and trimmed and plucked and raked. Uniforms were washed and pressed, and donned for inspection, while the family’s clothing was tended even more carefully, to prepare it for the special night. ‘The house must be perfect,’ Caroline was fond of saying, ‘but the family must be resplendent.’

  By the afternoon of the ball, she was exhausted. Sitting at her dressing table, she surveyed her reflection in the mirror. ‘Puffy eyelids!’ she pointed out to her maid. ‘Genney, go to the kitchen and fetch me some cucumber slices.’ She placed her hands flat on her cheeks, and exclaimed in horror, ‘And my skin!’

  Genney, who had just about gone out the door on her errand, returned to her side. ‘Miss Bingley?’

  ‘Look,’ Caroline cried. ‘Look at how the skin along my jaw, just here, and here, is sagging! I look hideous!’

  ‘Do not speak so, mademoiselle,’ Genney said. ‘You are beautiful as always. I can see not a single detail that is unlike how it has always been. You merely require a time to lie down and rest, for you have been working very hard.’

  Caroline stared even harder into the mirror, hoping to see this truth. Genney placed a hand beneath Caroline’s elbow, and she allowed the maid to help her to her bed.

  ‘I will be back,’ Genney said, ‘with your cucumber. And perhaps you would enjoy a refreshment, to bring the colour back into your cheeks.’

  ‘I am pale?’ Caroline started up from where she’d been about to lie back. ‘You said nothing was changed.’

  ‘Nothing is different,’ Genney said soothingly. ‘Poor mademoiselle, you work too hard, looking after all the others, and there is only Genney to look after you.’

  ‘It’s true; I do work hard—too hard.’ Caroline lay back against the maroon velvet cushions, and let out a deep sigh. She waved a hand in Genney’s general direction. ‘Be quick. Fetch those cucumbers.’

  She must have fallen asleep then, for she woke some time later. She couldn’t see, and something cold and clammy rested over her eyes. She sat bolt upright with a frightened shriek, but as soon as she was up, her eyes began to work, and she looked down to see two rather shrivelled slices of cucumber sitting on her lap. Picking them up, she flung them away, uncaring where they went, for Genney or one of the housemaids would clear them away.

  Looking at the window, she saw to her horror from the shadows that it was now late afternoon. ‘Genney,’ she shouted. ‘Why was I permitted to sleep so long?’ Genney came rushing in, looking frightened.

  Caroline made an attempt to soften her tone, for the maid, being French, was very emotional. Still, she could not stop herself from saying, ‘There is no time for your tears, unless you can use them to fill my bath.’

  Genney pouted, and her lower lip trembled, but obediently she did not cry, and called a footman to fetch Miss Bingley’s hot water. Caroline sometimes found it exhausting to be around her maid because of the exaggerated emotions, but only the most fashionable ladies in London had French maids. As they were difficult to find, Caroline wanted to keep hers. Typical French, she thought, think they are too good to work for just anybody. Before Genney, she’d interviewed two other French maids, and had offered each of them the job, but both had refused her. She’d been affronted, until she discovered that each had ended up in a titled household. Genney, however, had accepted the offer, and her performance, while a little rustic at first, had steadily improved under Caroline’s tutelage.

  Due in no small part to Genney’s quick hands, by the time the first guests arrived, Caroline stood in the front hall with Charles. Her hair was swept up on her head, with tresses laced with diamonds tumbling down over her shoulders. Her gown, a pale yellow with brown lace trim, fit perfectly, emphasising her small waist and upright posture. Its décolletage was perhaps overly daring for outside London, but Caroline wanted everyone to recognise that she wore only the latest fashion.

  The Bennets were one of the first families to arrive. ‘Of course,’ Caroline said over her shoulder to Louisa, who stood a little behind her, before pasting on her finest welcoming smile.

  When there was a time no new guests were announced, Caroline turned to survey the room, to ensure those who had arrived were well looked after by the servants, and she noticed Elizabeth, who moved from place to place in the large room, her head turning back and forth. Clearly, she was looking for someone; and Caroline thought she knew who that someone was.

  ‘I told you,’ Louisa said. ‘I saw Maria Lucas in the village today, and she said that Wickham had been to dine three times at Longbourn during the past fortnight alone, and that once, during a larger party, she saw Elizabeth and he walking together in the garden.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. Apparently, this new gossip was too recent for her to have heard it.

  ‘Maria said,’ Louisa continued, ‘that their heads were very close together as they conversed, and that at one point Elizabeth laughed very loudly.’

  ‘That last,’ Caroline said, ‘is no news to me, for Eliza laughs far too often and too loudly, for my taste. I am distressed though, for I would not wish to inflict George Wickham on any young lady.’

  ‘With the possible exception,’ Louisa said slyly, ‘of Miss Lydia Bennet!’

  Caroline laughed, almost as loudly as she knew would be considered too loud if it came from Miss Eliza. ‘Oh, that is marvellous, Louisa. What a pretty couple they would make.’

  The butler appeared in the wide entry to the ballroom and took in a deep breath, clearly in preparation for announcing some new arrivals. Caroline stepped back beside Charles, and nudged him to turn around, as he’d been facing the room—no doubt following Jane’s every move.

  The rest of the guests arrived in good time, and Caroline was then free to circulate through the room. She corrected one servant who wasn’t carrying his tray of canapés at the proper height, and another who had paused to put down a tray of glasses so as to wipe his forehead with a grimy handkerchief. He was sent to the kitchen, to assist the cook, and she found another footman to replace him, keeping the first man in mind in case she decided to release him from her service.

  As she moved about, she saw Elizabeth speaking with one of the officers. The man was clearly giving her news that was most unwelcome, for she looked pleadingly at him, then grimaced. And then, and Caroline was shocked, Eliza looked about the room until she saw Mr Darcy, and she sent him a look so filled with venom that Caroline was sure, had Eliza had the power, Mr Darcy would right now be writhing on the floor, his body flooded with poison.

  Caroline’s attention was caught by Lady Lucas, who wished to compliment her on the wonderful party. And so it went for a little while, as she chatted and laughed with one guest after another, all the time keeping a firm eye on the servants.

  She sat for a time with Charles and Jane, mentioning how delighted she was to have this time with her dear friend, but Jane was more interested in discussing George Wickham, of all things. Caroline and Charles did their best to answer Jane’s questions, although they must have appeared puzzled, for Jane explained that Elizabeth had been enjoying his company and was disappointed not to find him present this evening.

  ‘He appears,’ Jane said, ‘a very good sort of young man, one who would be well-suited for almost any profession. I understand that at one point he was keen to go into the clergy.’

  Neither Charles nor Caroline said anything.

  ‘Was there not,’ Jane asked, ‘a living destined for him by the present Mr Darcy’s father?’

  Cle
arly, despite the subject matter, Charles was unable to resist the open and innocent manner in which she asked her question, for he said, ‘There was, but I understand it was only left conditionally to Mr Wickham, and so was at the discretion of the present Mr Darcy, who, although I cannot go into all the details, acted entirely properly. It was not Mr Darcy’s doing that led to Wickham being denied the living.’

  ‘But surely,’ Jane said, ‘since Mr Darcy is so honourable, and Mr Wickham has every appearance of all that is best in a young man, there can have been no blame on either side.’

  Caroline and Charles looked at one another, and Charles said, with great delicacy, ‘Wickham and Darcy have a long history, but I am not aware of all the details.’ He then, with equal tact, changed the subject.

  Caroline continued moving among her guests, smiling and sometimes stopping to speak. She noted when the musicians began tuning their instruments in preparation for the dancing that was to come, but she didn’t think much about it, not expecting to dance the first dances herself, until the first set began and she heard laughter. At first it was circumspect, but gradually it grew until Caroline just had to look to see what had so enthralled her guests that they would behave in such a rude manner.

  Turning, she realised that the laughter was well merited, and indeed, she had to work very hard to control her own mirth. For there was the Bennets’ cousin, Mr Collins, moving in quite the wrong direction for the dance, bumping into one gentleman, stopping to bow and apologise, which put him even more out of step.

  Oh, and it got even better! For who was the unfortunate young woman who stood up with this caricature? Why, none other than Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Caroline did snicker at that point, even though she tried to hide it behind her hand. Eliza appeared absolutely miserable, as well she might, and such shame could have descended on no more worthy a person.

  Caroline moved away, knowing her duties meant she could spend no more time enjoying Miss Eliza’s plight. Shortly thereafter, one of the officers approached—she never could bother to remember their names—and requested the next two dances. He appeared to be a personable fellow, and he was fairly high up in rank, so she accepted, although she did wonder why Mr Darcy had not yet asked her to stand up with him. It was only once the set began, and she stood facing her officer that she saw why. He stood not far away, only three down the line of dancers, and opposite him stood—Miss Elizabeth!

  Surely, no, not even Miss Eliza would be so bold as to ask a gentleman to dance with her, so he must have asked her! Caroline was frozen in shock, so much so that she missed the musical introduction and was a moment late in taking her first step. A vision of Mr Collins filled her mind, and she determined to think no more about Mr Darcy, lest she appear as clumsy as the Bennets’ cousin.

  Once her feet took her through the well-known first steps, and appeared to be able to continue without too much attention, her mind wandered back to Mr Darcy, and she glanced down the line to where he held up his hand, Eliza’s gloved fingers resting on top of it, as they turned about each other.

  As she watched, Miss Elizabeth said something and Mr Darcy smiled before replying. Eliza looked rather disapproving, but Mr Darcy appeared to be enjoying himself.

  Caroline had to get close enough to hear what they were saying. It was impossible that the two of them were dancing, especially after his comment at that awful ball in the Meryton assembly room. What had he said? Oh yes, that Elizabeth was not handsome enough to tempt him, and that he couldn’t give consequence to young ladies who were slighted by other men. Yet, here he was, dancing with Miss Eliza, and he’d even said that he thought she had fine eyes. What was he thinking as he gazed into those fine eyes now?

  It took some doing to get closer. At first she tried leaning forward whenever the dance step had her facing them, and then she stepped further back than the rest of the line, hoping to move a tiny bit closer so as to hear without appearing out of place in the dance. Neither of those tactics was successful, though. At last, out of desperation and to the surprise of her partner, as she and he moved down the line of dancers, instead of moving to the end, she ducked into a position just one couple away from Mr Darcy and Elizabeth. The officer stumbled as he hastily stopped his forward motion, and he at first ended up right next to Mr Darcy, being unable to move into place as quickly as Caroline did. Caroline took this as a sign that somebody favoured her and, apologising to the lady next to her, scurried around her until she stood right next to Elizabeth.

  Now she could listen to her heart’s content, although between the noise of the conversations held by non-dancers, and the orchestra, which surely was playing much too loudly—she’d have to speak to them about it—she was unable to catch every word. Still, she could hear enough to follow the conversation.

  ‘… new acquaintance,’ Eliza was just saying, and by Mr Darcy’s raised chin and the colour which rose to his cheeks, Caroline was certain Eliza was speaking of Mr Wickham. She soon learned she was correct, and she glared at Elizabeth. How dared that young woman cause unnecessary pain to Mr Darcy!

  He seemed to struggle for a moment, but at least replied in a reasonably measured tone. ‘Mr Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them is less certain.’

  ‘He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,’ replied Elizabeth with emphasis, ‘and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.’

  Caroline sucked in her breath, knowing, just knowing, that no matter how rude it might appear, she had to grab Eliza by the hair and toss her out of the house and out of Mr Darcy’s life. Poor man, she could witness his suffering no longer. Just as she was about to reach out to grasp a handful of Eliza’s dark curly tresses, a new step in the dance was announced by the music, and the officer grabbed her hand and turned her about.

  By the time she was once again in position to show Miss Eliza just what sort of people she was dealing with, she saw that Sir William had paused near to Mr Darcy and was addressing him.

  ‘Such very superior dancing is not often seen,’ Sir William was saying. Caroline lost the next words as she had to step diagonally away from him towards her partner. She swivelled her head as she danced, trying to hear all she could.

  ‘… your fair partner does not disgrace you,’ the pompous fool was saying. ‘I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desired event, my dear Miss Eliza,’ and here he turned to gaze suggestively at Charles and Jane, ‘shall take place.’

  Eliza’s eyes, and Mr Darcy’s also, followed Sir William’s. Eliza’s countenance softened when she saw her sister, but Mr Darcy’s lips thinned, and his brows lowered.

  Caroline turned back to the dance, in time to hear Sir William say something about how Mr Darcy would not thank him for taking his attention away from his bewitching partner, before he finally moved away.

  Darcy and Elizabeth continued speaking, but Caroline was no longer interested in hearing what they might have to say. Her mind was filled with an image of her brother, and the warm, gentle, and, yes, loving, smile she had just seen him bestow on Jane. Could Sir William be correct? Did everyone here count it as certain that her brother, Charles Bingley, would marry a woman with such low connections?

  The second dance drew to a close, to Caroline’s relief, for she had much to consider. Darcy and Eliza were still conversing, and the final dance steps once again took her near enough to hear.

  ‘Merely to the illustration of your character,’ Eliza said. ‘I am trying to make it out.’

  ‘And what is your success?’ he asked, with interest.

  She shook her head. ‘I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.’

  ‘I can readily believe,’ he said, and Caroline was once again impressed with the man’s self-control, for despite the impudence in her words, he replied as if what she said had merit, ‘that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I cou
ld wish, Miss Elizabeth, that you not sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.’

  ‘But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.’

  Caroline relaxed at that, and she gave her partner such a warm smile that he involuntarily took a step closer to her, but she ignored him. At least Eliza realised she would not be spending much time with Mr Darcy in the future. Caroline smiled again, and upbraided herself for her silly fears that Mr Darcy could ever feel an attraction towards such a creature.

  He apparently shared her feelings, for he coldly said to Elizabeth, ‘I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.’ They moved down the dance, then, and parted in silence.

  Caroline was so well satisfied by her eavesdropping on this conversation, something Eleanor had shown her was not rude at all if done circumspectly, and could often be most entertaining, that she actually felt a moment’s pity for Elizabeth. If that lady continued in her pursuit of George Wickham, sorry her lot would be.

  Spying Eliza standing alone, Caroline hesitated a moment. Really, did she deserve this kindness? Caroline thought of herself as a kind person, one who gave something back to the world.

  Torn between satisfaction over the good she was capable of doing and her disdain for the receiver of the charity, she spoke. ‘So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man has forgotten to tell you, among his other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr Darcy’s steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr Darcy’s using him ill, it is perfectly false, for, on the contrary, he has always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr Darcy in a most infamous manner.’