“I have only the one bag and there’s no need to have it taken upstairs yet,” Caroline whispered. “I fear I bring a hurricane to your shores today, Mrs Wendel, and I likely won’t be staying to weather it.”
The housekeeper looked surprised at being addressed so, and Caroline realised with a jolt that she’d never actually had a conversation with Mrs Wendel before. She had no idea if the woman’s husband was still alive, whether she had any children, nor what her opinions were on how brown toast ought to be. Regret unfurled in her stomach, but she pushed it down; at present, there was no time to consider the myriad mistakes she’d made in this house.
“That’s... that’s alright, ma’am,” Mrs Wendel said, eyeing Caroline with curiosity. “Forewarned is forearmed, or so they say.”
Caroline deposited her sole bag next to the stairs, intending to take it up to her chamber later if things went well—although of the foolish hopes she’d harboured in the last few weeks, this was surely the most foolish one of all—before following her mother towards the dining room.
Hadley House was a beautiful home, though it glittered without warmth. The walls were painted an angelic, shimmering cream, and every surface was adorned with expensive, gilded trinkets. Long gone were the pretty green vases Caroline had so admired as a child, replaced with more fashionable blue plates and bowls. Everything sparkled, polished to a high degree, but that was likely the only human touch those objects ever enjoyed. There was not one spot in the entire house that could reasonably be thought of ascosywithout stretching the meaning of the word beyond all recognition. Georgiana’s favourite well-worn couch would never have survived a single hour in this place.
Caroline trudged through the corridor which linked the dining room to the great hall, which was lined with paintings of the highest quality and the lowest interest. These included a portrait of her parents dressed in their best, her mother pouting, her father smiling blandly. If Mr Bingley were here, perhaps her mother might have had a rider to rein in the worst of her ambitions. As it was, she had been allowed to roam unchecked, pleasing no one but herself and the highest of society. Caroline had once thought that attitude rather marvellous, but now she saw it for what it was; a hollow outlook based solely on ambition, stripped of any genuine feeling. She had been well on the way to becoming a younger version of her mother, before the Great Endeavour had thrown her off course.
She shivered.This could have been my life.
When Caroline entered the dining-parlour, Mrs Bingley was already sitting ramrod straight at the other end of the lengthy table. She took a seat appropriately far from her mother and cast a surreptitious glance around the room. Gone was the familiar bustle and warmth of the Pemberley staff—here, the servants glided in and out as silent as shadows, depositing plates and filling glasses. They were so quiet that Caroline found herself straining to see if they were even breathing. Possibly Mother had forbidden breathing in her presence; it wouldn’t have surprised Caroline, though it was possible that holding one’s breath caused sad lung. Then again, she couldn’t imagine her mother caring if a servant got sad lung, other than to complain about the brief distress replacing them would cost her.
Caroline stared down at the plate of braised greens, topped by an unseasoned and overcooked lamb shank which had been delivered to her by a pale boy with dark circles under his eyes, and felt a deep longing rise inside her for Mrs Addlecombe’s cooking.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, realising she’d missed her mother’s last comment.
A short, icy silence warned her not to make the same mistake again. “I said, and how are the Darcys?”
“They are well. Mr Darcy is lately married, as you know.” Once, that statement had stung her, but she had long ceased to care. Now, she could only think of Georgiana, of her sweet kisses and the kindness she had shown when Caroline had felt at her most lonely. The pale footman poured her wine, then melted back into the shadows. Caroline took a sip, then a much larger gulp; a little liquid courage must surely help here.
“Hmm. Does his new wife have any brothers?” her mother inquired.
She nearly choked. “No, only sisters. Four of them. The eldest is married to Charles, Mother.”
“Ah.” Mrs Bingley’s expression did not change, but the atmosphere thickened noticeably. “Another Bennet. They do spread themselves around, do they not? Marrying all the gentlemen they can find.”
Caroline stared down at her plate again, then picked up her fork simply to have something to do. Once, she would have laughed heartily at that remark and contributed something unkind—albeit correct—of her own. Now, she felt sorry she’d ever done so. The Bennets were not the perfect family by any means, but they seemed to genuinely love each other. That was more than she could claim had ever happened under this roof.
“If you are too overcome by joy to engage in polite conversation, then let us get to the heart of the matter,” her mother said, sounding more indulgent than Caroline had ever heard her. “I was thinking an August wedding. July would be better, but there is so much to do. September would be too late, for the leaves will have begun to fall and will insist on creating that dreadful mulch you know I cannot stand.”
Caroline’s fork slipped through her fingers, clattering against her plate. Despite the considerable distance, she heard her mother tut.
“You needn’t worry about my blessing. I approve the match most heartily,” Mrs Bingley added. “It is about as well as you could possibly do, given the circumstances.”
“The... the circumstances?” Caroline echoed, baffled.
“Caroline, do not play coy. Everyone knows you were chasing after another man for some time and failed to catch him. That sort of thing reflects badly, you know. A hunter ought to always catch her quarry.”
“I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
“It is no matter,” Mrs Bingley said, waving a gracious hand. “Now you have a viscount. My, my, what a fine man he is.”
Caroline closed her eyes for a moment, seeking inner strength. This was not going to go down well at all but too bad. She had made her choice, and she would stand by it. “Mother, I came here to tell you that I cannot marry Lord Ashbrook,” she said, and hated the quaver in her voice.
“Nonsense. He is a perfect match for you.”
“I am in love with someone else, Mother.”
“Love?” Mrs Bingley repeated. “I thought we were talking of marriage.”
“They are not mutually exclusive ideas these days,” she muttered.
“Love is a silly, newfangled notion. Upon my word, it’ll never catch on.” Mrs Bingley eyed her. “I’m surprised to hear you talk such rubbish, Caroline. Of all my children, you are the most like me.”
Caroline gaped at her mother, unable to summon a coherent response.
