Page 12 of Sweet Caroline
The autumn air in Lady Milton’s conservatory had become stifling, though perhaps it was merely my own discomfort at being surrounded by endless prattle about Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I had placed myself behind a particularly robust fern, ostensibly to admire its fronds, but truly to avoid yet another conversation about her alleged charms. As if I needed to hear more about her particular brand of...vivacity.
“...and when poor Mrs Langford’s daughter took ill, you would hardly credit it,” Lady Milton’s voice drifted over the greenery, “but Miss Elizabeth herself called upon them. In those awful rooms above the milliner’s shop, no less!”
“How very like my niece’s friend,” came the Countess of Matlock’s measured response. “Though I confess, I am not surprised. She has always been remarkably gracious to those in reduced circumstances. It is precisely why I have mentioned her favourably to my nephew, despite certain—objections.”
I nearly laughed aloud. Gracious? Elizabeth Bennet? A country miss who traipses through muddy fields? I had personally witnessed her nearly trip over her own feet at the Meryton assembly, and her dancing, while energetic, hardly qualified as—
But something in the Countess’s tone gave me pause. She had not emphasised the word as one might when discussing deportment or physical grace. And Lady Matlock’s opinion carries considerably more weight than... well, than mine, if I must be honest with myself.
I drifted closer, the fern’s leaves providing sufficient concealment for my eavesdropping.
“Indeed,” Lady Milton continued, “I found her quite different to what certain people had led me to expect. Such genuine warmth in her manner, and so very attentive in her treatment of my rather diffident niece. The girl has not stopped talking about Miss Elizabeth’s kindness in engaging her in conversation about poetry, of all things!” And was that barb aimed in my direction? Surely not - she cannot know I am here.
“Miss Elizabeth has a particular talent for making the neglected feel valued,” the Countess replied. “A quality I find far more meaningful than the mere superficial accomplishments of ...certain people.” Oh! Oh dear.
I felt my cheeks grow warm, knowing full well I was among those “certain people” who had painted a rather different picture of Elizabeth Bennet. Though in my defence, I had been chiefly concerned with her abysmal curtsy. Which now seems... rather beside the point.
Excusing myself shortly after, I retreated to my chambers, my thoughts in an uncomfortable tangle. I retrieved Johnson’s Dictionary, though I knew perfectly well what I would find:
GRACIOUS, adj. [gracieux, French]
1. Merciful; benevolent.
2. Favourable; kind.
3. Acceptable; favoured.
4. Virtuous; good.
5. Excellent. Obsolete.
How telling that I immediately assumed a judgement of her physical deportment, when they spoke of her character. The words seemed to mock me from the page. Benevolent. Kind. Virtuous. Everything I had dismissed as beneath my notice, yet here was Elizabeth Bennet, without title or fortune, exemplifying qualities I had never bothered to cultivate.
I closed the dictionary with trembling fingers. Perhaps it is time to acknowledge that my own definition of superiority requires...revision. Before it costs me more than dignity alone.
—
Thursday, the Tenth of September, 1812
Disaster. Utter disaster. I attempted to join a discussion about Shakespeare's sonnets at Lady Melbourne's, thinking myself well-prepared after my recent reading. But the moment Mr Wilcox turned his attention to me, I found myself falling back into old habits—that awful simper, that practised head tilt. Worse, I could hear myself trying to imitate Elizabeth Bennet's wit and failing miserably. "Indeed, sir, I find Sonnet 116 rather... imperfect itself. Does it not shake your constancy?" The silence that followed! I sounded exactly like what I am—someone trying too hard to be clever. Even Miss Maxter winced in sympathy. I must remember: the goal is not to become Elizabeth Bennet. The goal is to become a more genuine Caroline Bingley. Though at present, I am not entirely sure who that might be.
—
Thursday, the Seventeenth of September, 1812
A small victory today.
I was walking in the park, my parasol tilted just so against the autumn sunshine, when I genuinely admired Lady Worcester's new bonnet, its azure ribbons fluttering in the morning breeze.
Instead of using the compliment as currency, my usual strategy of flattering those whose favour I seek with carefully memorized phrases from La Belle Assemblée I simply said what I thought: "What a lovely shade of blue, my lady.
It reminds me of the forget-me-nots in my brother's garden." The words felt strange upon my tongue, unpolished and spontaneous.
She seemed startled, then pleased, the fine Mechlin lace of her collar trembling slightly as she laughed.
We had a very pleasant conversation about gardens, of all things, as we strolled past the carefully manicured hedges of the promenade.
I found myself mentioning my secret preference for wildflowers over hothouse blooms—something I would never have admitted in the perfumed confines of a drawing room—and she confided that she lets part of her estate grow wild specifically for butterflies.
Her gloved hand touched my arm in genuine fellowship, not the studied gestures of social ceremony.
No calculation.
No advantage gained.
Mere...
discourse.
The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we walked, and I noticed, for the first time in an age, the simple pleasure of morning air untainted by strategic thinking.
How singular.
—
Thursday, the First of October, 1812
I catch myself sometimes, still playing the old games. Tonight at the Morrisons' Ball, I deliberately positioned myself near the card-room, knowing Mr Harrison would have to pass by. But then—and this is the strange part—when he stopped to talk, I forgot to pose. I was too engaged in watching his reaction to my thoughts about Byron's latest work (which I genuinely find overwrought, no matter what Mr Darcy thinks). He made a discussion of horticulture fascinating. Can one be calculating and genuine at the same time? Is there perhaps a middle ground between Elizabeth's natural manner and my carefully constructed one?
—
Friday, the Second of October, 1812
I have been thinking about last night. Perhaps there is nothing inherently wrong with choosing advantageous positions in a ballroom—positioning oneself where the candlelight falls most becomingly through the crystal chandeliers, or wearing flattering colours. The problem was that I never went beyond that—I treated discourse itself as merely another form of positioning.
I felt so alive when I spoke with Mr Harrison. I had not paid him much mind before—he is merely a younger son with a modest estate. But his conversation... his conversation made me think. Made me wish to think. He spoke of his gardens not as mere ornaments but as experiments, challenges, triumphs and failures, his enthusiasm causing him to gesture with his quizzing glass in a most unstudied manner. When he described the difficulties of cultivating a particularly delicate variety of rose, the Autumn Damask, celebrated as the 'Four Seasons Rose of Paestum,' whose perfume filled the conservatory at his estate, I found myself offering genuine suggestions rather than mere pleasantries. For the first time, I was not calculating the effect of my words or monitoring the precise angle of my fan. I was simply engaged in the pleasure of real discourse. How strange that in forgetting to be strategic, I should find myself truly charming.
—
Saturday, the Ninth of October, 1812
An illuminating evening, the light of a hundred beeswax candles reflecting off the gilt-framed mirrors. I overheard someone refer to me as "greatly improved" while I was adjusting my Kashmir shawl near the Pembroke table. I felt simultaneously pleased and offended. Improved from what? Then I remembered myself six months ago, endlessly agreeing with everyone of consequence, my only goal to secure an advantageous match, my voice as practiced and hollow as the tinkling of the musical boxes. I still wish to marry well—I see no shame in that. But I find I now have other wishes too. I want to be listened to, not merely heard. I want to have genuine discourse, not mere exchanges of pleasantries that sound as rehearsed as a pianoforte exercise. I want... Good heavens. I want to be interested in people. How absolutely shocking.
—
Monday, the Eleventh of October, 1812
I had tea with Mrs Garth today—her best Wedgwood china with the blue-and-white pattern, and those delightfully unfashionable seed cakes she insists upon serving. Yes, really. I can hardly believe it myself. But she has such interesting perspectives on everything, and she does not simper or play games. I find myself admiring that more and more. As she poured the Earl Grey, she said something that struck me: "You seem more at ease with yourself lately, Miss Bingley." Am I? I am certainly less comfortable in my social mask. It feels tighter these days, more constraining. Like a gown I have outgrown, with old whalebone stays pinching with every breath.
—
Tuesday, the Twelfth of October, 1812
Where it began, I cannot begin to know—though I suspect it has something to do with that mortifying business of watching Mr Darcy's face soften every time Elizabeth Bennet opened her mouth to disagree with him, her dark eyes sparkling more brilliantly than the diamonds at my throat. (Really, the man might have saved us all a great deal of trouble by explaining his preference for argumentative females years ago.) Tonight, after the Rutherfords' dinner-party, I watched Miss Maxter charm the entire dining-room and finally understood something: her great secret is that she has no secrets. She simply is who she is. But that does not mean she is artless—I have begun to notice the skill with which she guides conversations, includes wallflowers, smooths over awkward moments. The subtle sweep of her gown through the gathering shows as much design as any battle plan. There is an art to appearing artless, it seems. But it must grow from something real.
—
Tuesday, the Ninth of November, 1812
Mr Harrison asked me today why I have changed. The Caroline of six months ago would have demurred, simpered, hidden behind her painted fan, denied any change at all. Instead, I found myself saying, "Because I was tired of being tiresome." The words tasted strange on my tongue, like the first sip of strong tea without sugar. He laughed—not unkindly—and said he preferred honesty to artifice, his fingers idly straightening his perfectly tied cravat. Then he asked my genuine opinion about the new landscaping at Vauxhall Gardens. I gave it to him. Every devastating criticism, every genuine appreciation. The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we walked, my kid slippers growing quite damp with dew. He looked rather stunned, then intrigued. We ended up talking for nearly an hour, long enough for my cheeks to grow pink with the evening chill.
—
Later That Evening
I have again been thinking about artifice versus authenticity, as I sit here in my chambers, the beeswax candle burning low and my writing desk scattered with visiting cards and unopened invitations..
Perhaps they are not as opposed as I once thought.
Perhaps the real art lies in knowing when to deploy each—when to be diplomatic and when to be direct, when to position oneself advantageously beneath the crystal chandeliers and when to simply let matters proceed naturally.I came to the conclusion that Elizabeth Bennet is not actually as artless as I once assumed.
She chooses her moments, her battles.
She is natural, yes, but also clever about when and how she deploys that naturalness.This strange new inclination toward honesty, it is growing strong, for me.Like a particularly stubborn vine, it keeps sprouting up in the most inconvenient moments.
as persistent as the morning glory that defies the gardener's shears.
I find myself blurting out actual opinions when artificial ones might seem to serve far better.
Most alarming of all, I am beginning to enjoy it.
I am beginning to think that true sophistication lies not in constant calculation nor in complete carelessness, but in knowing how to balance both.
To be genuine does not mean one must be artless.
Ishall never be Elizabeth Bennet. Nor do I wish to be. I have yet to develop an affinity for mud. But I find I am becoming rather interested in discovering who Caroline Bingley might be, when she allows herself to simply... be.
—
Wednesday, the Tenth of November, 1812
Mr Harrison called, arriving just as the morning light was casting long shadows through the drawing room's tall windows. He brought a volume of satirical writings on modern garden design, its leather binding worn soft at the corners, its pages bearing the evidence of frequent study. We sat in the pair of gilt chairs near the French doors, where the autumn air carried the clean, sharp scent of the last late roses from the kitchen garden, those stubborn blooms that defy the season. He read aloud the most amusing passages, his quizzing glass catching the sunlight as he gestured to emphasize particularly witty observations about the follies of artificial grottos and geometrically trimmed shrubbery.
I found myself laughing—not the practiced, musical laugh I had perfected at Mrs. Tyler's seminary, but something far less elegant and far more genuine. My Indian muslin gown was quite crushed from leaning forward in my eagerness to see the satirical sketches in the margins, and I had entirely forgotten to maintain the proper degree of distance between our chairs. I am beginning to think I might rather prefer being myself, even if it means occasionally forgetting to hold my fan at the most becoming angle. How entirely unfashionable. How very... freeing. Like stepping out without a bonnet and feeling the sun on one's face, propriety be hanged.
—
Thursday, the Twelfth of November, 1812
The Eve of Lady Rotherham’s Grand Ball
Tomorrow evening’s ball shall host the finest of society, including His Grace the Duke of Clarence’s second son. I have instructed Adèle to lay out my newest gown—the champagne silk with golden threaded roses. She has practised the latest Parisian method of hair dressing until her arms grew weary. All must be without fault.
I must confess to a most troublesome feeling of disquiet. Never have I felt such trepidation regarding a social gathering these past months. Though indeed, never have the stakes seemed of such consequence.
—
Friday, the Thirteenth of November, 1812
The Morning Following—Written with an Unsteady Hand
I scarcely know how to commit to paper the events of yesternight. Yet perhaps I must, if only to guard against such folly in future times.
The evening commenced most favourably. My appearance was beyond reproach—even dear Louisa remarked that I cast all others in shadow. Upon my introduction to Lord Julian, I felt all my former uncertainties rise within me like the tide. And then...
I hardly know how to record last night’s mortification. But perhaps I must, if only to prevent myself from ever making the same mistake again. Oh, how it pains me to record it. I reverted to my former manners. Completely, utterly reverted to my old self. Like putting on a comfortable old dress without realizing it had become hopelessly outdated. “Your lordship speaks with such wit!” When he had said naught of humour.
“I quite agree, the weather has been shocking.” I had just spent yesterday rhapsodizing about the perfect autumn days.
“How utterly fascinating!” In response to his rather mundane observations regarding his stable.
Simper, simper, simper.
I could hear myself doing it, like watching a theatrical performance of my former self. Worse, I could see Mr Harrison who watched from across the room, his expression shifting from confusion to disappointment. He had been showing particular regard to me lately, and I had found myself looking forward to our debates about garden design and literature.
But when faced with a lord, I became the old Caroline. Calculating. Fawning. False.
The nadir came when Lord Julian mentioned Byron.
“Oh!” I twittered, “I find his work so very... what is your lordship’s opinion?”
He looked at me rather oddly. “I was not aware you had such malleable literary tastes, Miss Bingley. Mr Harrison told me about your rather passionate defence of Wordsworth over Byron.”
I felt myself flush scarlet. In that moment, I saw myself so clearly—and so did everyone else. The contrast between the real conversations I had been having these past months and this shabby performance was mortifying.
Lord Julian soon made his excuses. Mr Harrison maintained a most pointed distance throughout the evening. I cannot blame him after my behaviour.
But the worst part? As I watched Miss Maxter chatting easily with Lord Julian later, her amber silk skirts falling carelessly as she leaned forward in her chair, making him laugh genuinely at some story about her family's misadventures in Brighton—his starched cravat actually shaking with mirth—I saw him become a person rather than a title. She talked to him exactly as she would anyone else, not even bothering to modulate her voice to the refined whisper deemed proper for addressing peers.
And he loved it.
I came home in the early hours, my thoughts in such tumult that sleep proved impossible. Even now, the evening’s bright candles seem to mock me from every mirror—the elegant dress, the perfect coiffure, all my careful preparations rendered worthless by my own folly. And beneath it all sat a woman so eager to please she forgot everything she had ever learnt about the value of being real.
The night hours crept past, marked only by the dying fire and my own wandering thoughts. How many times had I rehearsed such performances? How long had I been playing at elegance rather than simply being?
Dawn Found Me Still Wakeful, Despite the Bitter November Frost
The household stirred to life below stairs. I heard the familiar rhythm of the maids’ footsteps, the distant clatter of kitchen preparations. All so ordinary, while I felt so utterly changed.
Mr Harrison’s note arrived with the morning post. All it said was: “I much prefer the real Miss Bingley to any imitation, no matter how polished.”
My temper flared, but very soon I dissolved into tears. Through the window, I watched the sun rise fully over the frost-rimed gardens. When did his good opinion come to matter more than a lord’s?
When did my own good opinion of myself begin to matter most of all?
—
Monday, the Sixteenth of November, 1812
A Raw November Morning, the Frost Thick Upon the Window Panes
I did something shocking today. I approached Lord Julian after the dinner-party at the Rutherfords’, where the candles cast a gentle aspect upon even the sternest countenances and the last chrysanthemums lent their subtle fragrance to the air. My hands trembled, but my voice remained steady.
“Your lordship, I behaved like a perfect fool at Lady Rotherham’s ball. I have been inclined to believe assemblies and gatherings would never be so good as when I played the perfect society miss, but I was quite wrong. I can only say that your rank occasioned me great anxiety, and I reverted to some very bad old habits. With your permission, may I begin again? I actually find Byron’s recent work rather melodramatic, though his command of imagery can be stunning. Would you be interested in discussing why?”
He looked startled, then intrigued. The evening shadows lengthened across the Turkey carpet as we ended up having quite a spirited debate about modern poetry.
Lord Julian confided in me as we stood near the ornamental firescreen, its Chinese silk casting mottled shadows in the candlelight. He is an old friend of Mr Grantley's. He spoke movingly of his concern about that poor man—who had once been so fond of fine prints and whose hand had trembled so noticeably at cards last season. It seems Mr Grantley has quite lost his eyesight and is no longer able to be in society. I felt a pang of genuine regret at Mr Grantley's misfortunes, remembering how he had once stumbled into that pier glass, and later upset poor Lady Jersyey's fern, incidents I had attributed to...other matters. As I was leaving, Lord Julian said, his voice pitched low enough that the dowagers by the card table could not hear, "That was much better, Miss Bingley. Much more like the woman Mr Harrison described."
—
As My Carriage Made Its Way Through the Darkening Streets
After that encounter, I began thinking about masks and faces; about who we are and who we pretend to be; about how taxing it is to maintain a false aspect, and how such exertions might be better employed in cultivating one's true nature.
The old Caroline would have been thoroughly delighted to have a lord’s attention. The new Caroline finds she is rather more interested in the way Mr Harrison contests her opinions and makes her laugh.
How very unexpected life becomes when one allows it to be real.
—
The Following Morning, As the Frost Yielded to a Fine, Cold Rain
Mr Harrison arrived with a new book on garden design and a question about whether I still find mixed flower borders “chaotic and unfashionable.”
I told him my honest opinion. All of it. At length.
He remained for two hours, while the rain traced patterns upon the glass and the fire cast shifting shadows upon the wall.
I did not simper once.
One shows improvement , after all.
—
The Twenty-Third of November, 1812 One Week Following the Lord Julian Incident
Mr Harrison called today. I find I feel an unseemly thrill when his name is announced. Something he said captured my attention and would not release its hold.
“That is nonsense, Miss Bingley, and you know it,” he declared when I made some fashionable comment about the new French styles. “You were saying but last week how impractical they are for anything but standing about in drawing-rooms.”
I found myself quite speechless. No one but Elizabeth Bennet had ever so directly challenged me before. But instead of feeling offended, I felt... seen.
—
The Twenty-Fifth of November, 1812 A Grey Morning
I cannot cease thinking about that conversation with Mr Harrison. The late afternoon sun made it impossible to hide behind one's fan in the usual manner. He has this unnerving habit of gazing directly upon one whilst speaking, his green eyes as steady as a compass needle, as if he is searching for something behind the social pleasantries. The ribbons of my best morning dress fairly trembled under such scrutiny. And when he catches even a hint of artifice—a too-practiced tilt of the head, a response borrowed from Lady Spencer's famous repertoire of elegant phrases—he simply... calls attention to it. It should be horrible. Instead, it is oddly liberating.
—