Mrs. Hurst continued. “She has been alone in her room for quite some time now, and I do not imagine that she is pleased with any of us.”
Mr. Hurst made a noise in his throat that might have been mirth, anger, or simply the remnants of breakfast.
“What is it, Harold?”
He turned back to face her. “Louisa, these past few days have been…” He searched for the right words. “Calm,” he said, at last. “Happy, if I am honest.”
“Happy? You are happy because Caroline is in her room?”
“Happy because you are once again Louisa Bingley, the young lady I proposed to. Are you truly unaware of how very differently you behave when Caroline is about?”
“I know you do not like her, Harold.”
“You are not quite right about that,” he said, bitterly. “For it is far more than dislike; I actively detest her.”
“Harold! You detest my own sister?”
“Yes, your sister. I have tried, Louisa, I have really tried to find her good qualities so that I might learn to like her, but I have failed. Failed to find her good qualities, and thereby failed to learn to like her. But, Louisa,” and here he went to her and took her by the shoulders. “When you are away from her, you once again become my own Louisa.”
Mrs. Hurst stared at her husband, clearly upset. “Are you saying that I must choose between you and Caroline?”
“No; I am saying that you must choose between being who you truly are or being who she is. And I very much like who you truly are and dislike who she is. I leave you to draw your own conclusions.”
Mr. Hurst walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
***
Mrs. Hurst knocked on her sister’s door. Upon hearing a muffled voice bidding her to enter, she walked into the room and stood for a moment, staring at her sister prone on the bed. She picked up the poker and stirred the fire, wondering what to say.Finally, she put the poker down and sat on the edge of the bed. “Caroline?”
Miss Bingley sat up, then, and Mrs. Hurst gasped to see the streaks of tears on her sister’s face. She had never before seen her sister cry, not even when their parents had died within six months of one another. “Oh, Caroline!” she said, and pulled her sister into her arms.
Miss Bingley had never been comfortable with physical displays of affection, but today was different. She actually welcomed the feel of her sister’s arms around her. Everyone else might hate her, but Louisa did not, and that was comforting.
Finally, Miss Bingley pulled away; Mrs. Hurst took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and used it to wipe her sister’s face.
“Does everyone still hate me?” Miss Bingley whispered.
Mrs. Hurst was about to respond that, of course, no one hated her, but she then recalled her husband’s words and her face grew troubled. “Things must change, Caroline,” she said.
“I know,” was the unexpected reply. “I have not behaved well.”
“No, you have not. You know how protective our brother is of Mr. Darcy; how could you say such a thing? No, no, I do not mean to make you cry again, only to ask how you could imagine that such a statement about the Darcys not being able to marry well would cast you in a good light?”
“I did not think,” Miss Bingley admitted. “I was angry, and I just – just spoke.”
“I fear you do that a good deal,” Mrs. Hurst said.
“Is our brother very angry still?”
“You know Charles; he rarely gets angry and even more rarely sustains that anger, but I think as long as the Darcys are in the house, he will not forget your words. There is nothing for it but for you to make a full apology to everyone involved.”
“I will, of course.”
“But, Caroline, you must truly mean it. People can tell, you know, when someone is being sincere and when they are not.”
“I do mean it. I am sorry, very sorry! Louisa, what would I do without you?” In a rare display of affection, Miss Bingley patted her sister’s hand.
Mrs. Hurst hesitated, and then plunged in. “Caroline, there is something else.”
