Page 9 of Sweet Caroline
“Mr Hurst nearly knocked over poor Mr Lawrence in his haste to secure your hand for the first set.”
Louisa laughed, the sound both amused and mortified. “Oh, do not remind me! Though I must say, his enthusiasm, while perhaps lacking in grace, does have a certain... charm to it.”
“Charm?” I arched an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now? The man announces his intentions with the subtlety of a town crier.”
“Not everyone needs to conduct their affairs with your level of sophistication, Caroline.” Louisa picked up her embroidery, though her eyes remained unfocused. “There is something rather refreshing about knowing exactly where one stands.”
I watched her carefully. “And where do you stand, sister?”
She was quiet for a moment, her needle moving in small, precise stitches. “I believe... I believe I could be content with him. He is not what one might call brilliant, but he is kind, and his situation is comfortable.”
“Comfortable!” I exclaimed. “Really, Louisa, is that all you aspire to?”
“What would you have me aspire to?” She set down her work again, meeting my gaze directly. “We cannot all wait for a duke to come sweeping in on a white horse, Caroline. Some of us must be practical.”
The next day brought Mr Hurst himself, looking rather like an eager hound as he bounded into our drawing room. I observed with some amusement how he barely remembered to bow to me before turning his attention to Louisa.
“Miss Bingley,” he said, his round face flushed with either exertion or anticipation, “I wondered if you might care to take a turn about the garden? The gardener tells me the roses are particularly fine this year.”
“The gardener tells you?” I murmured, too quietly for him to hear. “Since when does Mr Hurst consult with gardeners about roses?”
But Louisa was already rising, a soft smile playing about her lips. “That would be lovely, Mr Hurst. Though perhaps Caroline would care to join us?”
“Oh, no,” I demurred, lifting my book meaningfully. “I find myself quite engrossed in Miss Edgeworth's latest moral tale. I am sure one of the maids will suffice as a chaperon.”
Louisa shot me a knowing look as she accepted Mr Hurst’s arm. I watched them through the window as they made their way down the garden path, his steps carefully measured to match her shorter stride, his head bent attentively as she spoke about something that made her gesture animatedly with her free hand.
I sighed, setting aside the book I had not actually been reading. While I could not see settling as she did, perhaps Louisa had a point, after all. There was something to be said for a man who knew his own mind and was not afraid to show it. Though I would never admit it aloud, I envied her a little – not for Mr Hurst himself, heaven forbid, but for the simplicity of it all. No games, no sophisticated maneuvers, just honest affection offered and, eventually, accepted.
Their courtship proceeded with all the predictability of a well-rehearsed country dance. Mr Hurst called three times a week, brought flowers twice, and spoke enthusiastically about his cook’s legendary dishes at least twice per visit. Louisa listened, smiled, and gradually stopped looking to me for rescue when he launched into his favorite topics.
When he finally made his offer, it was again in the garden—direct and to the point, just like everything else about him.
“Well?” I demanded when Louisa emerged, her eyes bright.
“He says his cook makes the finest white soup in all of England,” she replied with a small laugh. “And... I believe I shall enjoy testing that claim for myself.”
I embraced her then. I was still certain she was a fool, and that I would fare far better, seeking a grand match when, to Louisa, contentment might be the greater prize. Not that I would ever lower my own standards, of course. But watching Louisa’s quiet joy in the weeks that followed, I had to consider that there might be more than one path to happiness in the marriage state.
Though I maintained Mr Hurst might have made his offer without reference to the soup.
My ambitions had been entirely focused on Mr Darcy for the last three years. Since he befriended Charles, no other gentleman had been worthy of my interest. Prior to that, I had considered and attempted to attract a handful of gentlemen, but none had taken.
My contemplation was disturbed by the appearance of my brother, who brought with him the smell of horse. Charles burst into the breakfast room with his usual excessive energy, presenting himself with all the dignity of a gentleman who had been forcibly reacquainted with his horse's negative opinion of jumping hedges.
"Caroline!" he exclaimed cheerfully, "What a splendid morning! Though I dare say you have missed all the best of it. I passed Darcy on the road to Lambton, looking remarkably purposeful for so early an hour."
"Purposeful?" I enquired, affecting disinterest.
"Oh yes," Charles continued blithely, "and wearing his finest coat, which seems rather excessive for a simple morning ride. Though I suppose one never knows whom one might encounter in the neighbourhood."
I turned this intelligence over in my mind, noting with some disquiet that Lambton lay in precisely the direction where certain persons of our acquaintance were known to be staying. The chocolate, I decided, had become entirely unpalatable.
The following morning began with the sort of disturbance that sets one’s nerves quite on edge. I had scarcely finished my toilette when Adèle appeared at my chamber door, practically trembling with suppressed intelligence.
“Mademoiselle,” she whispered, glancing furtively down the corridor, “Ze most extraordinary zing ‘as occurred. Monsieur Darcy ‘as departed again, not one heure ‘ence, taking only ‘is valet and travelling case!”
I paused in the act of adjusting my morning attire. “Departed? He said nothing of this last evening!”
“Oui, Mademoiselle. ‘E wished to leave for Londres most urgently, zey say. Faxon—zat is, Monsieur Darcy’s man—was to order ze fastest ‘orses from ze stable. And zere is more.. ”
“Well? Out with it, girl! Do not keep me in suspense.”
“A note arrived from ze inn at Lambton. Ze Gardiners send zeir deepest regrets, but zey cannot attend dinner tonight as planned. Zey ‘ave been called most urgently to Londres ”
This was beyond irregular. Mr Darcy had seemed rather preoccupied upon his return yesterday, though I had attributed it to the tedium of whatever business had called him to Lambton. But to depart again so soon, and with such haste...
“And their niece?” I enquired, striving for nonchalance. “I suppose Miss Eliza Bennet accompanies them?”
“Mais naturellement, Mademoiselle. Zey departed within ze heure of sending ze note, or so says ze messenger.”
I swept from my chambers with purposeful dignity, my mind already cataloguing these suspicious circumstances. First, Mr Darcy’s oddly abbreviated visit to Lambton, then his distracted manner at supper last evening, and now this precipitous departure—coinciding precisely with that of Miss Eliza and her relations? One could hardly ignore such a synchronous sequence of events.
I found Miss Darcy in the music room, bent over her pianoforte with unusual concentration. Too much concentration, one might say, for someone merely practicing scales.
“My dear Georgiana,” I called, sailing into the room. “I was most distressed to hear of your brother’s sudden departure, particularly when we only arrived a few days ago! I trust no ill news prompted such haste?”
Georgiana’s fingers stumbled over the notes. “Oh! Good morning, Miss Bingley. I... that is to say... my brother had urgent business in town.”
“Indeed? How vexing for him to be called away so unexpectedly, especially after such a brief stay in Pemberley. I noticed he seemed rather preoccupied at supper last evening.”
“Did he?” Her voice rose slightly. “I am sure I did not notice anything unusual.”
“And such a shame about the Gardiners being unable to join us for dinner,” I continued, watching her reflection in the pianoforte’s polished surface. “I had rather looked forward to hearing more about their travels through Derbyshire.”
Another stumble in the scales. “Yes, it is... unfortunate. Mrs Gardiner wrote that they had received news requiring their immediate return to London.”
How fascinating, I thought, that both parties should be called to London with such urgency, after your brother’s return from Lambton. Where, one assumes, heencountered them.
I spent the next hour making what I considered to be a most thorough investigation of the household, though to disappointingly little effect. The housekeeper was suddenly quite deaf to any indirect enquiries about Mr Darcy’s movements the previous day. The butler had developed an unprecedented passion for monosyllabic responses. Even Adèle’s usual network of intelligence seemed to have failed entirely.
“Louisa,” I declared, cornering my sister in the conservatory, “you cannot tell me you see nothing suspicious in this sudden exodus. Mr Darcy returns from Lambton in obvious distress, barely speaks at supper, and then flees to London at dawn?”
My sister continued arranging flowers with maddening serenity. “I am sure I do not know what you mean, Caroline. Mr Darcy is quite at liberty to attend to his business as he sees fit.”
“And I suppose you find nothing remarkable in Miss Eliza’s equally precipitous departure? When they were explicitly expected for dinner?”
“The Gardiners are tradespeople,” Louisa replied, snipping a stem with perhaps unnecessary vigour. “No doubt some matter of business required their attention.”
“Both parties departing for London within hours of each other, directly after Mr Darcy’s return from Lambton where, I might add, he likely encountered them? And you see no connection?”
“I see,” said Louisa, turning to face me at last, “that you are in danger of appearing rather more interested in Mr Darcy’s movements than is strictly proper.”
I drew myself up with injured dignity. “I merely express natural concern for our host’s well-being, particularly given his peculiar behaviour at supper last evening.”
“Then you may express it more quietly. Really, Caroline, you are becoming quite shrill.”
I was saved from having to respond to this slander by the arrival of Charles, who bounded into the conservatory with his usual excess of energy.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “I have been searching for you in all directions. I find myself thinking—we really must remove to Scarborough directly. It would be most improper to impose upon Miss Darcy’s hospitality indefinitely while her brother is from home, what?”
“Scarborough?” I very nearly screeched, then collected myself. “My dear Charles, surely you cannot mean to abandon Miss Darcy in her hour of need?”
“Abandon? Good heavens, no! Quite the opposite. Girl ought to have some peace and quiet, not have to worry about entertaining guests. Mrs Annesley agrees completely.”
“But surely—”
“Already sent word ahead to Aunt Matilda,” Charles continued cheerfully. “We shall leave first thing tomorrow.”
I looked to Louisa for support, but found her suddenly fascinated by a rather mediocre arrangement of some tedious form of flora.
“I suppose,” I said with all the grace I could muster, “if you think it best.”
That evening at dinner, I watched Miss Darcy pick at her food with an air of preoccupation that I found highly suggestive. Something was afoot—something significant enough to send Mr Darcy hastening to London at dawn, something connecting him to that pretentious country nobody, Miss Eliza Bennet.
And I, Caroline Bingley, was being bustled off to Scarborough like an inconvenient houseguest, denied even the satisfaction of discovering what might be afoot.
“More wine, Miss Bingley?” enquired Mr Hurst, who had apparently noticed nothing amiss about the entire day.
“No,” I replied shortly. “I thank you. I find I have quite lost my taste for it.”
For now, I added silently, watching Miss Darcy’s downcast expression. But I shall discover what has occurred, if I must interview every servant in London to do so.