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Chapter Twenty
Iwas angry at Mr Darcy, to be sure. My feelings were hurt at his abrupt dismissal of me, at his willingness, so easily, to send me away, as if I were some servant who displeased him. The worst part was his judgment of my fortitude, my ability to withstand the scandalmongering of a few—or even of many! Had he so ill an opinion of my character?
It had been an uphill struggle from the very start. Every time there were difficulties, he withdrew into himself, a stone-walled shell constructed over the course of his life with another woman. In some ways, she held him captive still, which was what I found most painful and least acceptable. I reminded myself of what I owed him—and patience was the least of it—as I attempted to compose a note to him while imagining his every rebuttal to my every argument. In the end, I only requested I be taken to my aunt’s home in Lambton, rather than be banished to London. Three hours’ distance was better than three days.
And then I sent another note with Clara, asking Georgiana whether she could spare a few moments to speak with me.
Georgiana came to my rooms at once in response; I was gratified to see that, though still pale, she appeared composed.
“How does Mr Bingley fare?” I asked, after we had exchanged a quick embrace.
“He is sleeping at the moment,” she sighed, taking the seat across from mine.
“It must have been a dreadful shock. But surely, there is room for doubt as to her…identity?”
“Not really,” she said sadly. “We both recognised its—her—jewellery. I feel so guilty.”
I raised my brows, and she gave me a wan smile before continuing. “I assure you, I was as shocked as he was to realise Caroline is dead. I truly believed—we both believed—she had eloped.”
“Mr Darcy told me she had. I found it very surprising, and very out of character.”
She sighed again. “She was in love with my brother, did you know that?”
I grimaced. “I suspected it when I knew her all those years ago. He did not seem to encourage her, however. Surely, after he married…”
“Anne used to laugh about it, even needle her a very little bit,” she continued slowly, as though she were seeing it in her mind’s eye. “Although I could hardly blame her, when Caroline was so obvious! Such sheep’s eyes as she made, and always agreeing with every word he said, even the ridiculous ones.” She clapped a hand over her mouth—she was completely unused to teasing her brother—but I waved this off and smiled.
“Indeed. I once heard her wax eloquent upon his method of mending pens.”
She returned my smile, though sadly. “Yes, that sounds very like her. She had offers, of course she did. But they were not the ones she wanted.”
Ah, yes. She had aimed very high, indeed.
I stopped my train of thought immediately. If she had aimed too high, I had not aimed at all, expecting true love to swirl into my life like showers of dandelion clocks. When I knew her, we were both only twenty, and full of unrealistic views—of ourselves most of all.
“Surely, though, she gave up her infatuation? When it was hopeless?”
“I thought so. Eventually, she seemed to adjust, and even, finally, sought Anne’s friendship, much to our relief. In the summer of 1818, Anne held a big house party, inviting Henry Krofford, along with his sister, Maria. They were the Austrian relations of a good family from Norfolk, a very sought-after pair during the season. And of course, she invited all of us. Both of Bingley’s sisters loved Anne’s house parties.”
Henry Krofford, then, must be ‘the German’ referred to by Mrs Longthorpe.
“And Miss Bingley and Krofford…hit it off?”
“Yes! We were all so surprised, but then, he was handsome and articulate. She was much livelier in his company, and seemingly welcomed his attentions. Mrs Hurst was displeased, of course, but only because his estate was not in England. Bingley and I were both very encouraging. She was not always the easiest person with whom to share a home, you see.”
I could easily see that.
“But why did everyone believe she eloped?”
“Because she left a letter saying she would, and she and Mr Krofford—with his sister—disappeared at the same time. I have never been very certain of her reasons, but Bingley knew more than I. Something happened, something concerning my brother. Bingley said only that she and my brother had a falling out of immense proportions, and it had driven her to desperation. Bingley followed, of course, but never could catch them.”
“Surely the Norfolk relations could help?”
“It turned out they were estranged, and not having participated in the Season that year, and having little to do with London life in general, simply did not know their relations had made so free with their consequence.”
“Did you see the letter? From Miss Bingley, stating her intentions?”
“Oh, yes. It was most definitely her writing. There was not much to it, just that she was going away with Mr Krofford.”
