Page 11 of The Work of a Moment

Miss Asgill cleared her throat, and in a hushed voice, said, “Was this to be a secret engagement? If so, putting pen to paper was not wise.” She patted Caroline’s hand. “Do confide in me. I wish to know all.”

Caroline confided nothing, and with as much delicacy as she could muster, prevaricated about misunderstandings on the part of a country miss who plainly had not learnt to read a fine hand or understand satire and teasing.

Her visitor, however, appeared more doubtful than appeased. “If Miss Darcy’s attachment to Mr Bingley is false, it would seem Lady Kenton’s niece and her friend are stoking a scandal. There is no acrimony between her and your family?”

“I have no idea who this Mrs Dallish could be, though I would advise she find herself more trustworthy friends.”

Caroline was too caught up in her own fevered emotions to notice the disgust her words had caused in Miss Asgill’s expression. Moments later, recalling another appointment, the lady gathered her things and left.

As Caroline paced on the rug, the anger stoked by Miss Bennet’s indiscretion was overcome by trepidation over how Mr Darcy might respond upon hearing such tittle-tattle. Could he trace it to her? She had met him only once since leaving Netherfield, nor had she seen Miss Darcy since a brief call just before she and her brother journeyed to Pemberley. Were they still away from town? It was March, and much as Mr Darcy claimed to disdain the doings of the Season, he always appeared at a ball or party. If she did not see him at a gathering, she certainly heard of his attendance later. Often—she realised now, in her panic—she was informed in a teasing, knowing way. ‘Caroline, you missed Mr Darcy last evening. He looked especially handsome in his fawn trousers and blue jacket. I know Miss Phelps admired it when he spoke to her.’

Caroline’s friends all knew she liked him—but who could not esteem Mr Darcy? Every lady in town wished him for a husband or son-in-law. She often spoke of him as the model gentleman. They knew of the close friendship between her brother and Mr Darcy. Was it not natural that society might suspect a tendre between Charles and young Miss Darcy? Lord knows Mr Darcy is accustomed to advising Charles on his business affairs. Is it unlikely he might match his sister to my brother?

Not if he learns the rumours stem from a letter carelessly shared with strangers! What exactly had she written to Miss Bennet, and was the letter—two of them!—circulating in society? Her fears mounting, Caroline breathed deeply. Stupid, stupid girl!

Her spirits sank as she acknowledged the invective applied to herself nearly as much as to Miss Bennet, and she walked briskly to her chambers. She needed solitude to try to recall what, exactly, she had written.

Of course I said nothing untoward, nothing at all that could be misconstrued or slanderous towards Miss Darcy. I merely hinted that our desire for the company of the Darcys was returned, and that my brother, like all of us, is fond of the girl.

Lord but she wished that was true—that it was all she had written and that she could persuade Mr Darcy of it. Perhaps, she realised, she would be safe from his presence in town. Did he not always go to Kent for Easter? Although it was weeks away, he would not dally in town and neglect Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s wishes for his company.

Determining discretion was advisable, over the course of the next few days, Caroline wore her largest-brimmed bonnets to avoid encountering any friends and acquaintances, but on a visit to her dressmaker, as she listened in on the hum being exchanged between various ladies, she could not avoid overhearing one particular conversation which made clear her worst fears.

“I understand Mr Darcy has decided his friend Bingley will do well by his sister. She is a shy young thing. I did not know she was out.”

“Orphaned, with that wealthy, handsome brother I once hoped would look at Sophia.”

“The girl cannot be above sixteen. What is he thinking, promising her before she has her first Season?”

“And to a man who comes from trade.”

“Her aunt cannot be best pleased with such a betrothal. Unless… has something—?” The lady’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Is Miss Darcy in need of a hasty wedding?”

Caroline bit back a strangled gasp and peeked from around a display of capes to see two plump, finely dressed women with unfortunate taste in bonnets. The tall one in mauve was married to a minor baronet—a Lady Furnivall, she recalled—but the shorter one she did not recognise. Gathering her courage, she stepped towards them.

“Mr Darcy would be displeased to learn of scurrilous rumours surrounding his sister.”

“Miss Caroline Bingley, is it not?” said Lady Furnivall, who, Caroline now saw, wore an impressive pair of ruby earbobs. “Your brother is the gentleman engaged to Miss Darcy.”

Hoping her flush of mortification looked more like a blush of embarrassment, Caroline shook her head. “Excuse me, I am unable to speak of an attachment⁠—”

“Unable? Mr Bingley is courting Miss Darcy, is he not? I understand Mr Darcy has encouraged the connexion.”

The petite, stern-faced woman peered at her. She looked to be twice Caroline’s age, yet her skin was remarkably smooth. Caroline desperately wished to compliment her and learn whether Gowland’s was her cream of choice. Lady Furnivall, evidently assuming Caroline’s silence to be the awkward sort that comes when one’s acquaintances are not known to each other, made the introduction.

“My dear Mrs Grey, this is Miss Caroline Bingley. Miss Bingley, Mrs Robert Grey.”

Oh. Dull taste in millinery but deeply connected in the ton through her husband, an admiral or general or some such thing requiring a uniform with epaulettes and an oversized hat.

Caroline nodded and, with a small smile, prevaricated only a little in her reply to Mrs Grey. “I can admit to a mutual and very proper affection between my family and the Darcys. However, until Mr Darcy and his sister return to town from their estate, I believe nothing may be said of any deeper attachment.”

The two ladies exchanged a look before Lady Furnivall turned back to Caroline, appearing sceptical. “Of course. And this ‘deeper attachment’ is not between yourself and Mr Darcy, as I understand one of you has long desired?”

Gossiping termagant! Outrage swelled within her, but Caroline managed to quell it enough to reply politely, if briefly. “No, a common misperception⁠—”

“Because your families have such mutual affection,” said Lady Furnivall, her smug tone matching her smug expression far better than her gloves matched her pelisse. “The fascination surrounding the inclinations of our town’s illustrious bachelors will never cease, nor will Mr Darcy’s desire for discretion and privacy for himself and his sister. We greatly anticipate the announcement of a betrothal for your brother and Miss Darcy.”

The women turned away from Caroline, dismissing her from their conversation, which shifted into low tones and laughter as they strolled towards a table piled with gloves. Cheeks aflame, as much with fury as mortification, Caroline strode quickly from the shop and began searching frantically for her carriage.