A Vision of the Path Before Him

by Elizabeth Frerichs

  Louisa waited until they reached Caroline’s room before she spoke. “Have you lost your mind, Caroline? Why would you make enemies of Mr. Darcy and his family?”

  Caroline’s eyes widened at this new, outspoken Louisa. She tossed her head. “I was not making enemies of them. Mr. Darcy and Charles need to be rescued from the Bennets, and Lady Matlock is just the person to get through to them.”

  Louisa shook her head. “I do not know how to get through to you, Caroline. Jane Bennet is a sweet girl, and Charles is happy with her. She will raise his status as she is gentry, and if Mr. Darcy does marry Miss Elizabeth, the Bennets will certainly raise our status far beyond what we could have legitimately dreamed.”

  Caroline scoffed. “If it weren’t for Miss Eliza Bennet, I would be Mrs. Darcy myself—that is a far higher status—”

  “He has had many years to develop a tendre for you and has never done so. You would not have had a chance even without Miss Elizabeth; Mr. Darcy will never marry a tradesman’s daughter.”

  Caroline opened her mouth, but Louisa held up a hand and Caroline subsided out of sheer shock. Her sister had never stood up to her like this.

  “I am going to go speak to Lady Matlock and try to give her a better impression of our family. I only hope that Charles and Mr. Darcy do not hold your behaviour against you.”

  “Fine!” Caroline snarled, annoyed that Louisa would consider herself a better example of ladylike behaviour than her.

  With that, Louisa shut the door and locked it from the outside.

  Rage boiled in Caroline as she considered the way her sister had treated her, her feet swiftly carrying her from one end of the room to the other and back again; she was not some child who needed to be minded. Her hands clenched into fists as she muttered imprecations against men in general—if it were not for Mr. Darcy’s and Charles’s stupidity and gullibility, she would not be in this position—and against Lady Matlock’s unwillingness to assist in particular. It was the duty of women to guide the men in their lives, and Lady Matlock had failed at that duty most shockingly. Caroline would never have dreamt that Lady Matlock could support someone like the Bennets.

  Resolve filled her. If Lady Matlock wouldn’t save her nephew, perhaps there was another woman Caroline could appeal to.

  Caroline sanded her letter, filled with pride as she considered some especially well-chosen phrases within. She had overheard Mr. Collins mentioning that Mr. Darcy was engaged to Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s daughter. Though Charles had told her it was a falsehood when she questioned him about the matter later, she doubted Lady Catherine would remain sanguine at the idea of Mr. Darcy allying himself with the Bennets.

  A knock sounded at her door, and she hurried to hide her letter before calling for the intruder to enter.

  Charles stepped in, a haggard look on his face. He closed the door behind him and turned to Caroline. “How could you, Caroline?” he asked brokenly.

  Caroline pasted an innocent expression on her face and widened her eyes. “How could I what, Charles?”

  Charles shook his head. “I just—I do not understand how you can be so very confused over what constitutes proper behaviour. Mother and Father raised you to care about others. What happened to you?”

  Charles’s eyes were full of hurt confusion, and Caroline turned away in pretense of rearranging the knickknacks on her desk, rather than continue to meet his gaze. “What is wrong now?” she asked with forced confusion.

  “Louisa has told me of your behaviour tonight. Darcy will have to be told in the morning.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “I just—I cannot believe that you would go behind my back, nor that you would be so malicious. I suppose I ought not to be surprised about anything you do anymore.”

  “Charles, you know that I only have your best interests at heart. I spoke to Lady Matlock because someone needed to save you from yourself, and, as you have refused my help, I must enlist assistance from where I can,” she said with dignity.

  Charles’s eyes closed as though she had pained him beyond belief. “No, you have only ever cared about yourself. You do not have my best interests at heart.”

  “Of course I do! The Bennets will drain you dry and lower your social standing!”

  “Are you lying to me or to yourself?” Charles asked quietly, his brow furrowed.

  “Charles!” she screeched. How could he suggest such a thing?

  “No.” Charles shook his head wearily. “You will leave for Aunt Elaine’s tomorrow morning. I cannot have you here causing trouble. I only hope that you come to your senses before the year is up.”

  “I will not leave!” Caroline declared, suppressing a shudder at the thought of being exiled for an entire year or longer if she refused to “mend her ways.” “It is my right to stay and fight for those dearest to me!”

  “You will leave,” Charles said in steely tones that she had never heard from him.

  “Even if you have to drag me out kicking and screaming?” She scoffed. “What would you tell the Matlocks?”

  “I believe Lady Matlock has already taken your measure,” Charles replied evenly. “You would be the loser if you continue to resist. I am certain the Matlocks will lay blame where it ought to rest.”

  “Charles! You cannot side with those—those people!” Caroline shouted, stamping her foot for emphasis.

  “I am not siding with the Bennets or the Matlocks. I am trying to do what is best for you. As Darcy told you, you stand on the verge of destroying everything you have always desired, if you have not already done so. I do not wish to treat you like a child, but if you continue to act like one . . . .”

  “Ugh!” Caroline turned away from him. He refused to see the truth! The Bennets were the only ones who would destroy everything she had worked for—all the proof of her social worth that she had spent years amassing, all the friends she had made in the upper circles, all the hopes she had for cleansing the Bingley name from its taint of trade; it would all be gone in the blink of an eye if Charles married Miss Jane Bennet. Not to mention the opportunities that would be lost if Mr. Darcy married Miss Eliza.

  “Good night, Caroline. I have already instructed a maid to wake you early so you may leave on time.”

  “And if I am still in my nightclothes?” Caroline asked coolly.

  Charles hesitated. “Then I will wrap a cloak around you and carry you out myself. But I hope it does not come to that.”

  Without another word, he exited her room, locking the door behind him. A soft word spoken to someone nearby told Caroline that he had once more posted footmen to guard her door.

  Caroline shivered at the thought of being paraded through the halls of Netherfield in such an undignified manner. She couldn’t believe that Charles would follow through on his threat.

  Why didn’t he see that she was only trying to rescue them from their tradesman roots? The ton would never accept them if they did not gain entrée by marriage. Lady Matlock’s response tonight only reinforced that reality.

  Miss Darcy’s anguished expression once more floated through Caroline’s mind, but she forced it away, concentrating instead on what else she could do to rescue Charles from the confines of her bedroom. Every idea that flew through her mind seemed more ridiculous than the previous one. She did not have time to bring a letter campaign to fruition before the morrow. The Bennets were out of reach, so there was no way to change their minds. She could not compromise Mr. Darcy while locked in her room with footmen guarding the door. As Charles had fired her maid, she lacked even that ally. No one would help her. She was alone.

  Caroline hugged herself as the loneliness set in. Though she had become intimately acquainted with it throughout her time at school, she had never thought to feel this alone in her own home among her family. Abandoned by her brother and her sister. Who would have thought?

  The last time she had felt this alone had been the day Regina had told her that she was leaving finishing school—choosing happiness over the scramble to gain status.
Despite her love for Regina, Caroline had thought her a fool to eschew everything her family had spent generations working for.

  Mr. Bingley, Caroline’s father, had laboured tirelessly to raise his family out of the poverty he had experienced as a child. Though he had succeeded in amassing more wealth than many members of the ton, he was well aware that he lacked the polish necessary to succeed in that sphere. That was why he had fought to get Caroline into a finishing school used by the gentry and even some of the ton. Just as Charles had a role in raising their family’s status by purchasing an estate and Louisa had married a gentleman, her father had expected Caroline to do her part. And even though he had died before seeing her successful, he had never doubted that she would succeed.

  On a whim, Caroline dug through a trunk containing the last few possessions left in her room (Charles had the rest of her things removed after she kept unpacking her trunks) and pulled out an old sketchbook last used back when she had sketched for the fun of it, rather than for the sake of impressing others. She knew it was evidence of sentimentality and rarely looked at it, but it had the last sketches of her parents that she had made. As she flipped through it, a picture of Regina caught her eye and she slowed, guilt once more churning in her gut at the thought of what her friend would say if she knew Caroline’s activities of the past week.

  What would her parents have said if they had been alive? Her father had been determined that his children would become gentry, but he had been naïve about the cost of doing so. She could not see that he would understand the lengths she had gone to, but desperate measures had been—were still—necessary. Charles took after their mother, and she would have been just as horrified as he had seemed. But again, that was their naivety at play. Both her mother and Charles yielded at every turn to anyone who even hinted that they might desire something different.

  No, they would not have approved, but that was no measure of whether her behavior was suited to the situation at hand. After all, principled people rarely succeeded in the ton. You either yielded to the standards set out by the ton or they would spit you out, more dead than alive.

  Regina had relinquished her goal of becoming a member of the ton rather than bow to their whims, believing that she would lose all opportunities for happiness, lose herself. More of her impassioned speech to Caroline all those years ago began to filter through to Caroline’s consciousness.

  “—and the worst part is that even if you succeed, who will you be then, Caro? You cannot want to be like them!” she had raged, tears sparkling in her eyes as she gestured to the empty beds of Caroline’s roommates.

  “I will do what I must,” Caroline had returned. “And anyway, once society accepts me, I shall behave however I desire. You need only sacrifice for a time, Regina. Don’t you care about your family’s name? Don’t you want to be more than just a tradesman’s daughter the rest of your life?”

  Regina had shaken her head sadly and turned away.

  But had she been right all those years ago? Caroline had schemed, offered set-downs to those below her (like the Bennets) and flattery to those above her. It had been a way of life—one that she assumed would end at some point. Mostly, she desired to reach a point where the number of people above her were fewer than those below her.

  But would it make her happy? In the end, would achieving her goal help her or her family achieve the things that mattered?

  Caroline shook the thought away, considering it a pointless question, but it nagged at her, returning with such vehemence, no matter how many times she put it down, that she finally allowed herself to face it. The ton was always scrambling to gain status. Families who were near the top guarded their position with an iron defense even while attempting to advance, and those below fought tooth and nail to raise their status. It was a never-ending pursuit, save for those, like Mr. Darcy, who seemed indifferent to their status and participated in society the bare minimum.

  She sank onto her bed, absently rearranging her skirts to show their best effect. “It would never end,” she murmured. A longing to speak to Regina swept through her like a sea breeze grasping ladies’ hats and leaving disarray in its wake. Was this what her friend had been trying to tell her?

  Friend. Could she really claim to have any friends anymore? Her family was rejecting her—who else was left? Conversations with various acquaintances flitted through her mind, a montage of cattiness, of young women who would turn on each other at the least provocation. Her “friends” would revel at her predicament, considering it the latest juicy scandal should it become known.

  Other than Regina, did she even have any real friends? She had rejected overtures of friendship from those in the tradesmen’s sphere, unwilling to remind those socially above her of her roots. She had discarded her childhood friends upon entering school, putting them away as one puts away beloved childhood toys. They had been pleasant, and there were times she longed for the camaraderie she had experienced back then, but she had assumed it was a necessary part of becoming an adult.

  Mr. Darcy’s words floated back to her. “. . . your behaviour has caused damage to others, and, if you do not reform, you will alienate everyone in your life and destroy only yourself.”

  Was that her? Had she really driven everyone away? The only people left in her life couldn't care less about her personally; many of them were only trying to raise their own status or to participate in the benefits of her wealth. The rest were people she was attempting to cultivate a friendship with for the sake of raising her own status, such as Miss Darcy. No one welcomed her for who she was.

  School girls’ insults swirled through her thoughts combining with Lady Matlock’s set-down like some kind of ghastly verbal watercolour.

  “Nothing more than a vulgar mushroom.”

  “Too much of a ninny to know any better.”

  “Never more than a tradesman’s daughter.”

  “Worthless.”

  A tear leaked from her left eye, and she brushed it away angrily. She ought to be figuring out how to save Charles and Mr. Darcy, not wallowing in despair.

  But what if they didn’t need to be saved? What if they were getting the things which she had always considered little more than a fairytale, and she was the one standing in the way?

  Jane Bennet had never even mentioned the Bingleys’ tradesman roots nor lorded over Caroline the Bennets’ history as gentry. She had never seemed to want Charles to be any more than he already was.

  Caroline had always believed she needed social success before she would be happy or worthy of acceptance—or at least that it was worth sacrificing those things until she reached social success so that she could have it all: social triumph, happiness, feeling worthy, and people who accepted her.

  But what if the path to social success for a tradesman’s daughter was antithetical to attaining those things? That was what Regina had argued all those years ago . . . .

  Another tear slipped down her cheek as a lifetime of scrambling up the social ladder and fighting to keep her place spread out before her. Alone. Friendless. Rejected by her family. And old. Was it really worth the sacrifice?

  The question grew and grew, swallowing up all other thoughts until there was nothing else left, no matter how she twisted and turned, fighting to suppress it. A sob broke free as she considered that all her years of struggle might have been worthless. What if she’d been breaking a path through head-high snow only to realise she was miles from where she wanted to go?

  For the first time, Caroline Bingley laid on her bed and wept for the choices she had made.

  Hours later, the sun was barely peeking above the horizon, but Caroline remained awake, her eyes now hot and gritty. She had dozed off several times during the night, only to jerk awake from dreams of Charles leaving Meryton and blaming his future misery on her, of her growing old and miserable with some ancient titled gentleman who had married her for her money and kept her locked away, of Regina declaring over and over that she was so ashamed of Caroline’s behaviou
r that she wanted nothing to do with her ever again.

  Now that it was at least technically morning, she arose and washed her face in the tepid water left from yesterday afternoon. No maid had arrived to undress her or to refresh her room last night—probably best given the state of her mind the night before.

  With a heavy heart, she wondered if Charles and Louisa would ever accept her or if they felt that her behaviour had put her beyond redemption. She had gone a little far in paying Mr. Wickham to ruin the Bennets—though at the time it had seemed perfectly justifiable. Now that she had considered whether she was snatching her brother’s chance of happiness and love away from him . . . well, she understood his reaction much better. The question at this moment was what she could do to make up for her mistakes. She would never like the Bennets, but she could try to tolerate them for Charles’s sake.

  A new energy coursed through her veins as she considered the one person who might be able to help her untangle this mess: Regina. She had been so long in chasing after status that she did not even know how to live any other way. It had been nearly a year since their last exchange of letters, but she could write Regina and beg her assistance.

  Immediately, Caroline removed her writing case and placed it on the small desk. Her letter to Lady Catherine lay on top of the desk, and her stomach roiled as she considered what she had been about to do—it was precisely the sort of thing those horrid girls from finishing school would have done. Remorse sat heavy in her stomach as she realised how like them she had become. That would horrify Regina far more than the individual actions she had taken.

  With trembling fingers, Caroline snatched up the letter and bore it over to the fireplace where she stirred the coals until the letter was entirely burned up, not even a hint of the poisonous words left in the world. Taking a deep breath and trying to stem another bout of tears, she returned to the desk.

  Meticulously, she mended her nearly perfect pen and arranged her paper, ink, and sand just so, drawing out the moment before she would have to confess her sins to one who would be ever so disappointed in her. When she could not delay any longer, she finally put pen to paper.