Caroline Bingley: A Continuation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

by Jennifer Becton

  Miss Brodrick stepped back slightly, but responded with little hesitation. “My father owns a graphite mill.”

  “Graphite?” Caroline attempted to conceal her distaste. “I was unaware that the product was still being mined.”

  “Not mined, Miss Bingley. Milled.”

  “I see,” she said, although she did not really know or care to know the difference.

  “My father imports raw graphite from France and processes it so that it can be formed into proper English pencils.”

  “He sounds a very industrious man, though”—Caroline lowered her voice—“I would caution you, Miss Brodrick, not to make your family’s dealings in trade so very public.”

  Miss Brodrick looked at her with pale blue eyes full of questions. “Why ever not?”

  “Darling, have you learned nothing in Queen’s Square?”

  “I learned a great many things, Miss Bingley, among which was to value the livelihood that allowed me to be sent there.”

  “You may be grateful, but not quite so vocally, certainly.”

  “I shall not dissemble, Miss Bingley,” said the pale creature. “I feel no shame; neither shall I pretend to.”

  “Then it shall be to your detriment,” Caroline warned. “For you must realize how lowly the better classes regard such a history.”

  Miss Brodrick did not appear to give adequate weight to Caroline’s words before she said with quiet confidence, “Then I suppose I shall just have to risk being seen as an oddity. It does not bother me, and neither should it trouble you.”

  “I assure you it does not. It was advice kindly meant.”

  “And it is kindly rejected, Miss Bingley, but I trust it will not damage our acquaintance.”

  Caroline smiled. Silly girl. They had no such acquaintance.

  But she said, “Certainly not.”

  The conversation lulled, and Caroline turned to discover that Lavinia had begun the subtle organization of guests that preceded their entry into the dining area. The Dowager Lady Kentworth was already on Mr. Charlton’s arm, and they were proceeding out of the drawing room. The rest of the assembly followed suit.

  Caroline looked around as a feeling of panic descended over her. Everyone, it seemed, had found their escort—all except her and Miss Brodrick.

  In a party composed of an uneven number of ladies and gentlemen, it was vital to secure a male dining companion early, but now it was almost too late. Caroline found herself in the company of a female and quite at the back of the party.

  If she did not act quickly indeed, she would be doomed to dine in the company of Miss Brodrick.

  Disaster!

  She had hoped to wrangle the arm of an unattached gentleman and then select a seat as near to Mr. Charlton as possible. She would then ensure that she was well within his line of sight as she charmed her dinner partner, whomever he should be, with elegant conversation and wit.

  Mr. Charlton would see what a desirable partner she was and seek her out for conversation after dinner.

  A marriage proposal would be the next logical step, of course.

  But now, her plan was spoiled, and she must reverse the damage if she possibly could. And quickly.

  First, her eyes sought her mother and Mr. Newton. Perhaps they had been chatting with a gentleman on whose arm she could enter. She caught sight of their backs as they left the drawing room. She was already too late.

  Next, she searched out Lavinia. Perhaps her friend had thought to hold aside a gentleman for her. Lavinia would prove a strong ally, certainly.

  No, as Caroline looked about the chamber, she could not locate Lavinia. Likely, she was already in the dining room to see everyone comfortably settled.

  Last, she looked, and not without a certain amount of desperation, for Rosemary and Mr. Rushton. Perhaps they had managed to enter a conversation with a gentleman with whom she might dine. Or, at the very least, perhaps she could enter on Mr. Rushton’s arm.

  If she must.

  She spotted them sauntering along as if they had all the time in the world while the room emptied as guests were lured toward the scents of the meal that had been tempting them. Caroline hurried across the large drawing room toward the stragglers.

  She had traversed half of the cavernous chamber when Lavinia emerged from the dining room and looked about the drawing room.

  “Oh dear, Miss Bingley, I had thought you were already seated,” she said. “What do you do all the way over there?”

  “I…” Caroline paused as she studied Lavinia, who must have recalled leaving her at the back of the room to entertain Miss Brodrick not a quarter hour before. “I was detained.”

  “Ah, well, that is unfortunate indeed. And Miss Brodrick too has dawdled, I see.” She ushered Mr. Rushton and Rosemary toward the door and then motioned for the young ladies. “Miss Bingley, do follow the example of your friends and come along, would you?”

  Rosemary turned, her eyes seeking her mistress’s. Caroline expected to find a haughty expression on the woman’s face, but instead, she had the decency to appear embarrassed at entering before her mistress and on the arm of a gentleman when they were so very scarce that evening. Indeed, she was flushed red to the roots of her strawberry blond hair.

  Good.

  She may have the distinguishment of entering on Mr. Rushton’s arm, but she would do so looking as red as a poppy.

  Caroline attempted a look of nonchalance, but inwardly she seethed. To be forced to walk behind her companion. Her servant!

  “Come, come!” Lavinia called to her again though they were practically side by side now. “Let us join the others. I fear, however, that you will not like your seat.”

  As soon as they crossed the threshold into the dining room, Caroline was escorted in the opposite direction whence Mr. Rushton and Rosemary had traveled to the other end of the long table, and Caroline did not mind being separated from them. Adequate distance was of the highest import, for she feared what she might say.

  The evening was not going at all according to her plan. Mr. Rushton may have thought it appropriate to joke about it, but clearly, the rain had been an indication of the unfortunate course the evening would follow.

  The dining table was so long that it would be well nigh impossible for conversation to flow between those seated at the head and those at its foot. Mr. Charlton was, of course, at its head, and Caroline found herself being directed to the midsection of the table, closer to the foot. She had no hope even of overhearing conversation that might prove useful later. All she could hear at the moment was the scrape of chairs’ legs across the floor as servants assisted the guests to be seated.

  Though she attempted to prevent it, her eyes sought Mr. Rushton and Rosemary. She watched him escort her to a pair of empty chairs near the head of the table—talking to a lady here, laughing with a gentleman there—and she felt her face flush with anger.

  Still, Caroline would comport herself with dignity. She must do so, she reminded herself, in order to carry her plan to satisfactory completion. And though her first attempt at drawing nearer to Mr. Charlton had been thwarted, she would not give up.

  It mattered not that the evening had begun in a manner so far at odds with her original design; it could be salvaged yet.

  She must focus on the benefits she might glean from her current position.

  She glanced at her dinner companion and discovered Miss Brodrick to be eyeing her.

  Caroline already knew she would gain nothing from an association with her, so she looked across the low candle flames to those on the opposite side of the table.

  There, she found a gentleman of middling age with a woman entirely too young to be his wife seated beside him. She could not remember having met either of them.

  The room grew quiet, and Mr. Charlton stood and offered a few words of welcome before the servants began ladling soup for each guest.

  While the servants went about their tasks, Caroline looked to her family party.

  Neither her mot
her nor Mr. Newton seemed to notice her consternation over the order of entrance, but Mr. Rushton, it seemed, was not so dense. He was watching her, his roguish blue eyes shining.

  Yes, oblivious though he seemed, she knew that he comprehended her dilemma perfectly and was reveling in it. He took pleasure in her awkwardness. It likely made him feel better about his own ineptitude and gracelessness. He appeared on the verge of smirking at her, but then he offered her a small half smile. It conveyed, well, a sort of camaraderie. That made little sense. Perhaps Caroline was misreading him. She was looking at him from across the vast expanse of the dining table after all.

  Caroline raised her chin and looked purposefully away.

  Eight

  Caroline was concentrating on arranging her skirts under the dining table to prevent as many wrinkles as possible when she felt a small tap on her arm. She looked down at the appendage, almost expecting to find that an insect of some sort had landed on her.

  It was very nearly an insect. It was Rosemary Pickersgill. She was leaning close, her fingers resting on Caroline’s arm.

  Caroline concealed her surprise with irritation, narrowing her eyes at the woman.

  “Miss Bingley?” Rosemary voice came quietly, but it arrested Caroline’s movements almost as if it had been a shout. She looked at her companion, who seemed to be considering her words with extreme care. “I know this is very untoward, but something of great urgency has occurred to me and I must speak with you privately.”

  Caroline gaped at Rosemary. “What? Now?”

  The soup had been served, and, in near unison, the members of the party had appropriated the proper utensil and were dipping delicately at their fare.

  “If you please.”

  Could any more social faux pas occur this evening? Caroline hardly thought it was possible. It appeared that she had little choice but to leave the table and exit the room. She followed her companion into the drawing room and turned to face her. “What is it?” she whispered with as much harshness as she could muster. “Can you not see that dinner has begun?”

  Rosemary hesitated, gave her a considering look, and then studied the floor.

  “Stop looking at your toes, and tell me why you have dragged me out here!” Caroline demanded.

  Another hesitation. Then, Rosemary spoke. “I could not sit down to a meal with you staring at me as if I had done you a desperate wrong.”

  “I hardly think this is the time for a discussion on all the ways in which I have been wronged by you,” Caroline said. “We ought not to have left the table, and our absence will undoubtedly cause vexation to Mr. Charlton and Mrs. Winton. If their dinner party is ruined, I shall not shelter you from their wrath.”

  Caroline was intent on returning, but Rosemary’s hand stopped her. “As your companion, Miss Bingley, I must explain.” Her eyes appeared weary, as if she were the one who had become frustrated with their conversation. “Mr. Rushton would not allow me to leave his side.”

  “Lovely,” Caroline said. “You make a very nice pair indeed.”

  Yes, they were well suited—insolent both of them.

  “I attempted to decline, to take your place at the table amidst the unpaired women, but it is impossible to thwart him.”

  Caroline could hardly argue with that, for it seemed that Mr. Rushton often contrived to gain exactly what he desired, but she would not concede the point to Rosemary.

  Instead, she looked down at the woman with as much pride as possible and said, “Well now, you have told me. Let us return.”

  Expecting Rosemary to tromp ahead of her, Caroline hesitated, but upon finding that the woman remained unmoving, she swept back into the dining room ahead of her.

  The room was now filled with the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of glassware as liveried servants poured wine. Upon her reentry, one of the servants pulled out the chair beside Mr. Rushton, the very one that Rosemary had vacated, and waited expectantly for Caroline to take it.

  And so she did.

  What good fortune, Caroline thought as she took her rightful place. She watched as Rosemary was seated beside Miss Brodrick, who smiled at her new dining partner. Yes, they would do nicely now that their places were reversed.

  She glanced about her to see if anyone had noticed the shift. Aside from the somewhat confused nods of her new dining companions, no one acknowledged the change.

  Caroline smiled. Her situation had improved undeniably, for she was seated far nearer to her object, Mr. Charlton. Though she could not converse comfortably with him, she was now settled within a distance that would allow him to admire her without obstruction, and if she were diligent, she might overhear his conversations.

  She might hear them if she could manage to ignore Mr. Rushton, with whom she was partnered.

  From her left, Mr. Rushton spoke without so much as looking at her. “Mrs. Pickersgill, I find, has abandoned me to your company.”

  “Yes, she confessed she could not bear you a moment longer and would rather sit alone all evening than be made to suffer another minute with you,” Caroline said with satisfaction. “As her superior, I felt it my duty to relieve her of such pain by sacrificing myself to your conversation for the duration of the meal.”

  Caroline glanced at Mr. Rushton, hoping to find him affronted, but he did not appear to be considering her speech at all. Instead, he was looking at Rosemary. And inconceivably, he was smiling. Rosemary returned it.

  Why?

  Then Mr. Rushton’s eyes turned to Caroline’s, his expression knowing and somewhat superior.

  And she understood.

  Rosemary had pulled her from the room in order to exchange seats, to give Caroline the place of higher honor.

  Caroline did not know whether to be angry, embarrassed, or thankful. Anger came the easiest, so she scowled at her companion across the vast expanse of table and candles that separated them.

  She refused to be indebted to that woman. After all, Rosemary had only surrendered to Caroline her rightful place at the table. She would not allow one act to change her opinion of this enforced companionship.

  But Caroline was no longer doomed to be partnered with a lady for the evening, and against her will, something inside her—a very small portion—softened toward Rosemary Pickersgill. She glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, and Rosemary offered her a small smile.

  Caroline frowned again in return.

  “That was rather kind of your Mrs. Pickersgill, do not you agree?” Mr. Rushton asked with a deceptively companionable tone.

  “Kind?” Caroline would never admit it.

  “Yes, kind. She observed you seething down there at the foot of the table beside sweet Miss Brodrick, and she had mercy on you.”

  “Mercy was not her motivation. I am certain she was more interested in retaining her position within my household than anything else.”

  “Yes, I find I quite like Mrs. Pickersgill,” Mr. Rushton said as if he had not heard a word Caroline spoke. “I am surprised that you would find such a charming companion who would remain so faithful.”

  To suggest that some flaw existed in Caroline that would prevent her from gathering faithful friends was ridiculous. She was preparing to chastise him severely for his audacity when she found him smirking at her openly.

  He was baiting her and quite enjoying himself in the process.

  Well!

  Caroline would not give him the satisfaction of a fight. Instead, she said simply, “I find I do not like you, Mr. Rushton.”

  Then she cut her eyes demurely toward the head of the table, foregoing any further attempts at conversation with Mr. Rushton in exchange for observing Mr. Charlton as discreetly as possible through the soup course.

  ~**~

  Dinner proceeded as dinners invariably do. Servants deposited food before the diners, removed the soiled dishware, and replaced it with another course. Soon, the soup bowls were gone in favor of Lavinia’s finest china plates, which had been arranged artfully with beef, quai
l, boiled potatoes, and assorted vegetables.

  Caroline and Mr. Rushton ignored each other quite charmingly through the early courses, but soon, as other dinner partners spoke, their silence grew more noticeable.

  “We must hold some discourse, Mr. Rushton,” Caroline said.

  “Ah,” he replied. “So you have decided I am a worthy companion after all.”

  “I would not say you were worthy, but you are my evening’s companion nonetheless. We must make the best of it.”

  Mr. Rushton smiled, and candlelight seemed to shimmer in his eyes. “I am surprised to find that you have such a practical bent, Miss Bingley.”

  “Indeed, I am quite practical when it is required. I have run my brother’s household for several years, and my reputation as a hostess is impeccable, I assure you, though I always maintained the strictest of budgets. My management was unimpeachable.”

  “I see,” he said, leaning back and pretending to look under the table, “that you are not one for frivolous purchases, such as silken slippers and pearls for your hair.”

  Caroline met his challenge fully. “There are moments, Mr. Rushton, when even the most austere woman splurges. I enjoy the finer things, and I always will, but I am not a squanderer of fortune.”

  She eyed his fine suit. “And you, sir, are finely attired this evening,” she said, only mildly shocked at herself for commenting on someone’s attire in public. “You are not moderate in all your purchases, I see.”

  “You have me there, Miss Bingley. I am not always moderate. At times, my passion quite gets away from me. We may not be so different after all.”

  “Perhaps not,” Caroline said, though she was not convinced.

  He lapsed into neutral topics, which required of her little by way of response, and thus their pleasant truce endured straight through dessert.

  But no longer.

  After the meal, Caroline retired dutifully into the drawing room with the other ladies, while the gentlemen remained behind to smoke, consume port, and carry on without them. She hoped to catch Lavinia alone so that she might be in her presence when the gentlemen—most especially her brother—joined them. Then, perhaps, she might find the opportunity to charm Mr. Charlton a bit since dinner had proven an impractical venue for flirtation.