by Meg Osborne
Darcy could no more free his arm from Caroline’s vice-like grip than he could, in all good conscience, leave her, and so they both walked closer to the window, where an icy blast blew in and cooled whatever fever had caused Caroline sudden onset of dizziness.
“There, now!” she exclaimed, turning a smile that might have been called sly towards him. “Is this not a much better position to be in?”
“I rather thought you wished to dance, Miss Bingley,” Darcy said, at last extricating himself from her grasp and putting a foot of space between them. “But if you are unwell, perhaps I ought to fetch your brother?”
“No!” One harsh monosyllable was softened by a short laugh. “No, do not worry Charles. I am quite well: or, rather, I will be quite well. Only do not rush away, Mr Darcy.”
“Perhaps you will permit me to fetch you a chair?” he asked, seeking some occupation, anything that might give him a task to complete. This was agreed upon as being a good idea, and he turned to find a chair, moving it closer for Caroline’s use. He noticed, then, the flutter of something white towards the ground, and had bent to retrieve her handkerchief, intent on returning it, before he caught sight of her expression and realised his folly.
They were quite sheltered in this particular corner, and Caroline had, he fancied, moved still closer to the terrace, where shadows might conspire to conceal them further from view. It was the last place of all that he would normally have sought to go with any young lady, for fear of their behaviour being misconstrued, wilfully or otherwise. Caroline had no such scruples, he knew, and he was certain, as the tableau played out, that this was her intent all along.
As he reached up to return her handkerchief, she moved still further away, dancing across the threshold of the ballroom to the darkened terrace.
“Miss Bingley -” he began, irritably hoping she might cease in whatever ridiculousness she was attempting before she went any further. She ignored him, and with a sigh, he stepped into the cold night air. “Your handkerchief.”
“Oh, Mr Darcy!” Caroline cried, moving closer to him. “You are very kind.”
Reaching to take the proffered cotton square, she caught her foot on something, real or imagined, and pitched forwards. Instinctively, Darcy reached out to break her fall and found himself pulled down with her into a pile on the floor.
He struggled to right himself quickly, glancing over to ensure they had not been seen, but he heard a couple approaching even before he managed to see them, and certainly before he managed to free himself from under Caroline’s weight.
“Are you sure you do not prefer to dance, Miss Parker?” Charles asked, a little unhappily, as they approached the terrace. “I wonder - oh! Caroline! What on earth?”
AT LAST CAROLINE BINGLEY was pulled to her feet, and Darcy moved away from her quickly - but not quickly enough. He opened his mouth to justify their compromising position as an accident, nothing more, but Caroline Bingley somehow managed to speak first.
“Oh, Charles! Forgive us. We could not help ourselves, we -”
“Be quiet, Caroline.” It was the sternest sentence Darcy had ever heard his friend utter and laced with the contempt that suggested he, like Darcy, grasped the true nature of what had happened. They had been found in a compromising position, certainly, but it was no more Darcy’s fault than it was the accident he had been about to claim. It had been engineered - by none other than his sister.
“What’s happening over there on the terrace?” A curious, middle-aged woman asked, and the two couples moved quickly back into the light.
“Nothing, Mama!” Annabelle Parker called, shooting a knowing glance at Mr Bingley. “We four were just seeking a little fresh air.”
“Good, good.” Mrs Parker looked a little crestfallen as if she had scented some trace of scandal in the air and was disappointed to be denied the chance of some delicious gossip.
The musicians began to play once more and the party shifted, allowing the quartet quiet enough to speak without fear of being overheard.
“Charles -” Darcy began, sensing that, of his three companions, his friend alone possessed the sense to listen to reason.
“You are a good friend to me, Darcy.” Charles looked as confused as Darcy felt. “But Caroline is my sister. If anything - that is, I trust -”
“Nothing happened,” Darcy said. “What could have happened? Caroline sought some fresh air and tripped. Would you rather I let her fall?”
Charles’ frown darkened, and Darcy turned towards Caroline, silently willing her to corroborate his story. He knew, from one glance at her serene features, that it was a vain hope. She had done exactly as she wished, and with witnesses that would be difficult to avoid. He caught sight of a knowing look pass between the two women and his heart sank further still. He did not doubt Charles’ happening to pass by the window at just such an unfortunate moment was no coincidence.
“Is that what happened?” Charles asked, directing his question to Caroline. Darcy held his breath. Everything rested on what Caroline’s response would be: surely she would not lie to her brother’s face?
“It is just what Mr Darcy said.” Caroline’s response was barely a whisper, and she dropped her eyes to the ground as if she could scarcely bear to meet her brother’s gaze. Darcy felt the slightest of smiles tug at his lips and wrestled to maintain a neutral expression. Very clever, Caroline, he thought, realising that she had managed both to avoid lying to her brother and insinuate that Darcy’s entirely truthful account was anything but accurate.
When Charles looked at him next it was with an expression that Darcy had never before seen on his friend’s usually happy countenance. Reputations were at risk: his, Caroline’s, but at that moment his friendship with Charles was the most precarious of all. Darcy’s stomach rolled. Could he risk bringing such scandal close to his door again, so soon after he had barely managed to avoid it with Georgiana? Would he condemn Charles’ sister to the tragedy he had averted for his own? Caroline was silly and manipulative, but perhaps she would change in time. Surely he owed his friend that much.
Trapped, what other option was open to him? He sighed and turned to Caroline. His words, when they came, were forced out from between clenched teeth, giving them a taut, angry tone.
“Miss Bingley, will you allow your brother and me to discuss the details of our engagement. I trust you wish to marry?”
“Oh, Mr Darcy!” Caroline cried, with what might have been genuine delight. “Of course. Come, Annabelle, let us get some refreshments and allow the gentlemen to talk.”
They had been gone but a moment when Charles let out a heavy sigh of relief.
“Well! I must confess I did not foresee those words coming out of your mouth.”
“I did not intend on uttering them.”
Charles’ eyes narrowed.
“Come, Charles. You must have seen how that little performance was entirely engineered by your sister. Do you really think me foolish enough to attempt a seduction in a room full of people? Or a scoundrel enough to even countenance such behaviour?”
Charles shook his head, slowly.
“Then Caroline...?”
“Yes, Caroline,” Darcy grumbled. “Still, I suppose she will make me no worse a wife than any other woman.”
“She - she can be kind, Darcy. I know you will grow to care for her, if you do not at present.” He sounded strangely sad, but Darcy was in no mood to placate his friend. It was for Charles’ happiness he had sacrificed his own, what more did his friend desire?
“So you will marry her?” The slightest trace of doubt had crept into Charles’ voice.
“I said as much, didn’t I? Or do you intend to impugn my word now as well?” Darcy was already regretting his offer of marriage. Surely there would have been some other way out of it that did not mean his being bound to Caroline Bingley for life.
“Well, I’m glad,” Charles said at last. He reached a hand out and clapped Darcy on the arm. “I could not wish for a better husband for
my sister.” He said nothing of there possibly existing, somewhere, a better wife for Darcy. “Let us not speak of specifics tonight, though.” He eyed the crowd, who had begun to dart curious glances to their corner, one or two having spoken directly to Caroline and whose gazes were not curious, but knowing. “Surely now is the time for celebration?”
“Celebration,” Darcy muttered, his eyes returning to his feet once more. How quickly everything had shifted. And how little he felt the need of celebrating such a change.
Chapter Seven
When Darcy woke to find himself safely in his London house, he felt a flare of relief, followed closely by anxiety. Was it a dream, or a memory played over as a dream? He threw off his covers, crossing the room to the window, and opening it, to breathe in the icy winter air. He forced himself into alertness and tried to retrace his last true memory. Caroline was there, yes, and Charles, too. But it had been a small gathering, not a ball. He felt a second, deep wave of relief. It was merely a dream that had him bound to marry Caroline Bingley.
I shall guard myself to avoid any dark corner she finds fit to go to, he thought, with a wry smile. Clearly, his sub-conscious mind thought as fondly of Caroline as his conscious self did, and credited her with quite as much cunning and manipulation.
What strange dreams are plaguing me tonight! he thought, closing the window and returning to his bed. His sheets were creased from much movement, and he felt scarcely rested at all. Still, he felt a resistance to clambering back into bed and attempting sleep a third time. What nightmares wait for me now? he thought, as he nonetheless smoothed his sheets and pulled them up to his chest. He stared up into the darkness and willed himself to stay awake, merely to wait for the dawn, which must surely arrive soon, and not risk his senses to dream again.
He was exhausted, though, and despite his intent, it was but a few moments before his lids grew heavy, and his thoughts gave way to oblivion once more...
Chapter Eight
The halls of Pemberley were colder than Darcy remembered, and it was not just a matter of temperature. Caroline Bingley - now Mrs Caroline Darcy - had terrified his staff into submission, so that there was no friendly banter between them, no whistling or murmured singing as a task was completed.
He was grateful for the solace of his study, yet lately, even that had felt less like a comfort and more like a prison cell to him. It was the one room he could call his own, for none but he would dare step inside, but the result of that was more and deeper isolation, rather than the sanctuary it had been in former times.
“Fitzwilliam!” He winced at the harsh tone of voice his wife applied to that name in particular. He had hoped, once married, that Caroline’s edges would soften. If anything, they grated even more on his nerves, and he could not help but think of her with resentment.
“Fitzwilliam, darling!”
He gritted his teeth. As did her insistent use of his Christian name and any one of several endearments that were neither wanted nor encouraged. He had suggested that she might call him William, as Georgiana did, reminding her that Fitzwilliam was formal and rarely used by anyone with whom he shared any real intimacy. She had ignored the suggestion, insisting that Fitzwilliam was altogether more elegant and thus would be the name she used when they spoke to one another.
Realising he could hide no longer, unless he wished to continually be interrupted by her calling for him, he pulled the door of his study open and stepped into the corridor.
“Is something the matter?”
“Ah!” She beamed at him. “I wondered where you had got to. Do remember that my brother intends to call on us this afternoon. Why, is that what you intend on wearing?” She cast a critical eye over his clothing, and her lips turned down in disapproval.
“Must we wear our finery whenever friends call on us now?” he asked, irritated at the way she sought to control every element of his life, even that which had little importance.
“I am disappointed you do not think my brother worthy of the honour of a change of clothes.” Caroline sniffed. “I know he is not quite so well-established as us -”
“Caroline -” Darcy held up a hand to stop her familiar tirade, and bowed, obediently. “If it is important to you then, of course, I will change.” He could not bear to hear her hold forth yet again on the subject of their position in society, and how it compared or contrasted with the people they called friends. He had thought her obsession with rank would dissipate once they relocated from London to Pemberley, but, if anything, it had merely worsened.
“Is Georgiana at home?”
“Georgiana?” Caroline feigned ignorance, but Darcy was not deceived. He sighed.
“Tell me you two have not had another of your disagreements?” If he, himself, found Caroline difficult to manage, Georgiana found her barely tolerable, an opinion she was not shy about sharing. He felt the burden of unending battle settle over his shoulders like a weight. He had thought the two ladies well enough acquainted before the announcement of his marriage reached Georgiana’s ears: in fact, he had even presumed them to be friends, or disposed to be so. Georgiana had seemed amiable to Caroline when they had met in the past, and Caroline claimed to find Georgiana utterly enchanting. In fact, she had gone out of her way to enquire after Darcy’s sister in the weeks before their engagement, as if the two were fond friends and naturally curious about one another. Once the wedding had taken place, however, it was as if both ladies had undergone a complete transformation. Caroline strove always to come out on top in Darcy’s affection, an effort which was largely fruitless, for he could not quite forgive her for the manner in which they became engaged in the first place, nor had she ever succeeded in truly winning his heart. She guarded her position as mistress of Pemberley jealously and used every opportunity afforded her to attack Georgiana, disguising her thrusts behind smiles and words of encouragement. Darcy knew she was counting the days until his sister was married off and out of their hair, and as such, continued to push Georgiana towards matches he, himself, despaired of. He was more than ever pitched on the side of his sister, determined that she would not be forced to make the same mistakes he had and would marry a good man whose chief concern was her happiness. He might have considered Bingley agreeable enough to the task, were it not for Charles’ sudden and regrettable marriage to Annabelle Parker, one week after his and Caroline’s own wedding. His friend’s marriage at least appeared a little happier than Darcy’s, although whether that was because Charles was better resigned to his fate than Darcy or his wife a little more agreeable than Caroline regularly made an effort to be, he could not say.
“Georgiana is out,” Caroline said, with a shrug of her shoulders. “She would not say where she was going or when she would be back. I, at least, insisted upon her taking her companion with her.”
This companion was a new initiative of Caroline’s, instituted in an attempt to keep watch on Georgiana when companionship with Caroline directly seemed unpalatable to Darcy’s sister. The maid was retained under Caroline’s name, although she was despatched at Georgiana’s bidding. Darcy knew, and fancied his sister was only too aware, that the maid reported back on her movements directly to Caroline, and as such, she had well practised the art of dodging her maid at any opportunity that she wanted a little privacy. Darcy frowned. Word that the two ladies had gone out together was of little comfort to him. Who knew what mischief Georgiana might fall into with such a companion? Caroline seemed to care little, in fact, she almost seemed to relish the thought of Georgiana suffering some catastrophe, and he wondered if her insistence on having Georgiana’s every move observed was designed to push her into behaviour she would otherwise not have considered.
“She will be sorry to miss Charles, in any case,” Darcy offered, as a parting shot before taking his leave to change. “She is very fond of your brother, and of Mrs Bingley.”
Annabelle Bingley was an afterthought, for she was firmly Caroline’s friend, and thus of little consequence to Georgiana. But Charles was a s
econd brother to her, and someone she would turn to for advice more readily than she would to Darcy of late. The realisation hurt him, though he would not own it.
“Perhaps she will return before they leave. They are staying for dinner, are not they?”
Caroline’s response was but a sniff, and Darcy took it as a dismissal, hurrying to change and return in good time for the arrival of their guests.
“CHARLES! HOW WONDERFUL to see you. Annabelle, I do hope you aren’t sickening for anything. You look a little flushed.” Caroline had voiced this last with the utmost concern, yet Darcy knew his wife well enough to recognise the hint of an insult nestled amidst her professed fear for her friend. Ignoring her, he reached for Charles’ hand, grasping it warmly.
“It is good to see you again, Charles. How do you find Derbyshire?”
“Beautiful,” Bingley said, with a brief glance towards his sister. “At least, what we have seen of it is pleasant to look at. We have not had so much time for walking and exploring as I might have hoped.”
Annabelle sniffed, and tossed her hair, turning her attention pointedly away from her husband and towards his sister.
“Caroline, dear, you look so different with your hair pinned so. Almost matronly!”
The ladies fell to discussing the friends they shared, sharpening their cruel tongues on shared enemies rather than on one another, and Darcy felt free to speak to his own friend unhindered by the ears of his wife.
“I hope you will take full advantage of the grounds while you are here, in that case.” He smiled. “We might walk, or ride, as you wish. If we are lucky we might even see our way to some shooting, assuming the ladies are content to allow us our freedom.”