Other Mr. Darcy
Page 9
So she sat there, twisting a braid from her pelisse around her finger, and said nothing at all.
Robert Darcy rose and held out his hand to her. “I think we have had quite enough candour to last us for some time. Let us return to a more commonplace topic.”
She stood up, relieved to be able to return to small talk, even if it did not feel entirely comfortable any more. “We seem to be incapable of doing so,” she said, with a controlled smile.
“I am sure if we exerted ourselves, we would succeed. I will nudge you in the right direction. What do you think of the weather, Miss Bingley?”
“I believe, Mr Darcy, that rain clouds are moving in,” said Caroline, looking up at the perfectly blue sky.
“Do you?” said Robert Darcy, throwing back his head and examining the sky as though he had never seen it before. “I seem to be struck by some kind of colour blindness—temporary, I hope—for when I look up I see only blue.”
“Alas, Mr Darcy, I have to say you are right. About the colour blindness, at any rate. I can see unmistakable signs of rain. It will rain by this afternoon, you may count on it.”
“May I, by Jove? Then so be it,” he said, his good humour restored. Glad that he had thrown off his sombre manner, her spirits lifted.
“Now that you mention it, I believe I do see a hint of a cloud, just over there.” He pointed to the west, though there was nothing there to be seen at all.
They were so busy looking up at the sky that they did not pay attention to the small pond set in the ground in front of them. Caroline noticed it at last moment, but it was already too late.
“Mr Darcy!” she cried, but instead of looking down he looked at her. His foot struck one of the rocks scattered around the pond and before she knew it, he was tumbling forward into the water.
She clutched at his coat, but it was not enough to steady him. He hurtled forward with a loud splash. He could not drown, of course, for the pond was small, and the water shallow, but she imagined that the water was very cold.
“Hold on to me,” she said, as he struggled to bring himself up.
Completely drenched, he cursed under his breath. Miss Bingley tried her best to ignore his rather shocking invectives.
“Please remember, Mr Darcy,” she said, as she helped pull him to an upright position, “that you are in the presence of a lady.”
He was so outlandish, standing there in the sun. Water poured from his flattened hair, out of his ears, from his flopping cravat and his wilting collar, from inside his sleeves, from the bottom of his coat, and water sloshed in his boots as he took a step forward. He resembled a crazed water spirit brought to earth by some trick of the gods.
Caroline took one look at him and dissolved into helpless laughter. She laughed so hard she had to sit down abruptly on the rock and almost fell in herself. She laughed as she had not laughed since she had gone to Mrs Drakehill’s Seminary for Young Ladies. And with that laughter, some of the ice inside her began to crack.
***
Louisa found them just a short time later. She eyed Caroline dubiously, no doubt wondering if her sister had caught a fever from the night before.
Louisa’s arrival was like a splash of cold water. Caroline sobered up immediately under her sister’s searching look.
“Mr Darcy—” she said, trying hard not to look at him. She did not want to start laughing again. “—Mr Darcy fell in the pond.”
“Yes, I can see that, Caroline,” said her sister. “But it is certainly no laughing matter.”
“No, of course it is not,” snapped Caroline. “It was just that—”
“—it was so unexpected,” completed Robert Darcy. “And I was not harmed, so the matter was not so very serious, you see, Mrs Hurst. But you must excuse me, ladies. I need to change before anyone else sees me and falls into a paroxysm of laughter. I have a horror of being laughed at, you see.”
He set out on his way, waddling in such a droll manner that she could not stop the croak that escaped her. He turned and shot her a wounded look, then continued on his way.
“You do not seem quite well, Caroline,” said Louisa, breaking into her thoughts.
“I am perfectly well, Louisa,” replied Caroline. “You may put your mind at ease. I have recovered fully from yesterday’s chill.”
“That is certainly a relief,” said Louisa. “Though your behaviour both last night and today leaves much to be desired.”
“But you have not heard my news!” said Caroline, dangling this morsel in front of her sister to distract her from the lengthy sermon that was brewing.
Louisa’s expression immediately changed from condemnation to eager attention. “What news is that? Pray tell me immediately, Caroline.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam has asked me to marry him.”
“What a cunning creature you are, Caroline! No wonder you sent for him to accompany us to Pemberley. I would never have thought you would be so clever about it. You have done very well.”
Caroline blew out a frustrated breath. Everyone was determined to think she had schemed and plotted to make him offer for her. “I did not do it in the hope that he would ask for my hand,” she said. “I am not even sure I will accept.”
“You cannot convince me that you had no hand in it. You may be holding out for Sir Cecil,” continued Louisa, “but it would do you no harm to have someone in reserve, just in case Sir Cecil fails to come up to scratch.”
Caroline rose, impatient to end the conversation, but Louisa was not so easily discouraged.
“There is nothing shameful in wanting to be married. You waited far too long for Mr Darcy to propose, and look what came of it. You are no longer young, Caroline. You run the risk of becoming an old maid, and remaining our brother’s dependant for life. Surely you would not want that?” chided Louisa. “Imagine how Mrs Bennet will gloat!”
“Since when should I care for the opinion of the Bennets, of all people?” said Caroline, staring at her sister in amazement. “You have always had nothing but contempt for them.”
“My dear Caroline,” returned Louisa, “I am only saying that if you do not marry soon, you will have that detestable Mrs Bennet giving you advice on how to find a husband, and preening herself on her success with her daughters.”
“Louisa!” protested Caroline. “I think you have said quite enough.”
“I am merely trying to help.”
“I have had enough of well-intentioned people today, thank you,” said Caroline. “I will go inside and join Mrs Germain in a game of chess.”
“Mrs Germain?” said Louisa, stunned. “The corpulent lady with giant feathers on her turban? Surely not, Caroline! She is not even remotely fashionable.”
“I do not have the slightest idea if she is fashionable or not. But I have heard she plays a remarkable game of chess.”
With that, she walked away in the direction of the manor, leaving her sister to follow behind her.
Chapter 6
Caroline rubbed her fingers together, trying to control her exhilaration. She had not played chess for several years, not since Mrs Drakehill had caught her and her friend Sarah playing secretly in the school library, using stolen candle ends to light the chessboard.
The chessboard she had played with at school, however, had been very simple, a plain Regence set that she and Sarah had acquired stealthily on a shopping expedition. This board, however, clearly reflected Mrs Germain’s passion for chess. It was an old bone Dieppe creation, intricately carved, with real figures painted in colours, the bishops in bi-corn hats, the knights as sea-horses, and the king and queen in court dress with po
wdered wigs.
The moment Caroline saw it she had exclaimed that she had never seen a more beautiful set. Her father’s had been a rosewood from Calvert, stamped underneath with the address that she had memorized like a prayer when she was a child, “189 Fleet Street.” She had been fond of the elongated chess pieces, though they were not well balanced. She had learned to place them carefully on the board so they did not tip over. Her father had never acquired that ability. He invariably knocked them down, then cursed and said he would order another set, but he had never done so in his lifetime.
These chess pieces sat firm and solid on the board. And she had a worthy opponent. Mrs Germain was a cunning player.
For a moment, Caroline’s excitement dimmed as she thought how her father would have loved to play with such an expert opponent.
She brushed the feeling off. Father rarely had time for his daughters, but he enjoyed a game of chess. He had taught Caroline to play when she was very young, about seven perhaps. “To keep me company,” he had explained to her mother, who had mocked the idea and urged him to teach his son, Charles.
“Charles does not have the mind for it,” said Father. “Caroline has. She is as sharp as a needle, that one.”
She had hoarded the compliment because Father rarely praised her, and because of that, concentrated all her efforts into learning the skill, eager to please him, and later, she had relished the times they spent together, leaning over the chessboard, engaged in battle. She remembered well his astonishment and pleasure the first time she had defeated him.
“Your move,” said Mrs Germain. “You will do better if you concentrate.”
A quick look at the board revealed that Caroline’s queen was in peril. She changed strategies, hoping to catch Mrs Germain off guard.
But Mrs Germain recognized the strategy immediately.
“A good plan,” she said, as Caroline made her move. “But too little, too late,” she said, as she moved into position, already setting up for a checkmate.
It took only a few moments’ reflection for Caroline to acknowledge that she was defeated. She threw up her hands in surrender.
“You play well,” remarked Mrs Germain.
Caroline, to her own surprise, felt a flush rise to her face. “Nothing compared to you. I understand now why Mr Darcy was eager to play with you yesterday.”
“Ah, yes. Mr Darcy is very kind to find time for me.”
“It was kind of you to play with me this morning. I fear I am not quite at your level.”
“You simply need more practice. But tell me, who taught you to play, Miss Bingley?”
“My father, Mr Edmund Bingley.”
“Ah,” said Mrs Germain. “Yes, of course. That would account for it. I played against your father many times.” Mrs Germain watched Caroline closely, clearly trying to gauge her reaction.
“Did you indeed?” said Caroline, eagerly. “I did not know you were acquainted.” She knew few people who knew her father. Caroline’s mother had discouraged contact with his former friends or business associates after they married, claiming that such connections would destroy her daughters’ chances of contracting suitable marriages.
“I knew your father when he was young, before he married, and before he moved to London.” She looked coy, and Caroline tried to imagine her as a young lady, and her father as a young man.
She wanted to ask Mrs Germain about him, but what could she ask?
Mrs Germain smiled kindly. “Your father and I considered marriage at one time,” she said, wistfully. “We were quite in love. But nothing came of it. My father did not approve. We were landed gentry, and Edmund Bingley was in trade, you know, and not quite good enough for us. He was not yet so very rich at the time. Not what he became just a few years later. A very clever man, your father, with a shrewd eye for business.”
She paused, lost in her own thoughts. “So I married Mr Germain instead. My family thought it advantageous. He was from an old family and was older than I. The only good thing to be said about him was that he did not live long.” Her body rumbled and her eyes sparkled with laughter. “I will give you some advice, though in my experience no one ever heeds it. If you are going to marry for connections, find a shrivelled old man who will die quickly. But if you marry a young one, make sure it’s for love, or it won’t do at all.” Her body quivered with laughter, continuing until she began to wheeze. Caroline rose and went to her side in alarm, but Mrs Germain waved her away.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “It will go away by itself. Go and find your Mr Darcy.”
“He is hardly my Mr Darcy!” exclaimed Caroline.
“Go, go!” said Mrs Germain. “Just ring for my maid before you do.”
***
Caroline left the small parlour for the larger drawing room, having made sure Mrs Germain was taken care of. Her mind was still reeling with the knowledge that at some time, her gruff and distant father had been in love. She could not imagine it. But then, she knew nothing about him at all. He had told her nothing about his past. It was as if it was a blank.
Rain slashed against the windows as she passed through the hallway. The rain that she had predicted the day before had arrived. Games were organized in the drawing room in the event of it being wet, when everyone would be confined indoors. She did not particularly care for the kind of games one played at house parties, especially charades, but it gave everyone something to do when it was impossible to venture out.
A distinct drone rose up in the drawing room as she entered, resembling a swarm of flies circling over some discarded sweetmeat. All eyes turned towards her. She looked down at her clothing, wondering if she had forgotten to put something on, or if there was a large blot on her dress.
“Allow me,” boomed Mr Olmstead, “to be among the first to congratulate you.” His voice carried loudly in the room. “I hear you are engaged to be married.”
Caroline felt the announcement as a physical blow. She jerked backward in shock. “I am sorry, sir. I’m afraid I do not understand.”
“You’re a sly puss,” he said playfully. “But if you don’t wish to speak of it, I won’t push you. I wish you very happy, my dear.” Caroline realized that those around her were listening to the exchange with interest. She did not know what error had led to this mistaken belief, but she had to refute it immediately before it spread any farther.
“Indeed, sir, you have been misinformed. I am not engaged to Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
It was Mr Olmstead’s turn to be puzzled. “Colonel Fitzwilliam?” he said. “No indeed! No one has said anything about Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he remarked jovially. He drew closer, and whispered in her ear, “I am speaking of Sir Cecil Rynes.”
Caroline’s hand flew to her mouth. “But how—”
“Aha!” said Mr Olmstead. “You are well and caught. Confess, child.”
“But—”
“Everyone is speaking of it. That cat is quite out of the bag. It is no use trying to keep it a secret any longer.”
Caroline shook her head vigorously. “No, but you must not, Mr Olmstead!” she cried.
Mr Olmstead frowned. “Must not what? I’m afraid you have quite lost me.”
“There is no such engagement. Oh, if Sir Cecil were to hear of such a thing…” She wrung her hands, gazing around her desperately. Oh, what kind of nightmare was this?
Mr Olmstead, beginning to realize Caroline was in earnest, took her aside. “Hold your horses, Miss Bingley. If that is the case, the less said about it the better. We must squash the rumour immediately,” said Mr Olmstead, his eyes searching immediately for his wife. He drew Caroline to a corner, as far out of hearing as possible in a crowded room.
“I understand such a match would be desirable to you?” he queried.
Caroline nodded numbly.
“I can see then why you would not wish such a rumour to circulate. Sir Cecil might take it very badly indeed. It really won’t do at all.” He patted her on the back of her hand. “Don’t
you worry, my dear. I shall enlist the help of Mrs Olmstead. She will know what to do.”
“But how…?” She had meant to enquire how he had come to know of it. He had glimpsed Mrs Olmstead, however, and was striding towards her, with Caroline in tow.
Her thoughts in shambles, she tried to imagine who could have started such a rumour. She was acquainted with many people here, but she could think of no one who might have instigated the rumours. She had been very careful in her dealings with Sir Cecil, after her bitter experience with Mr Darcy, and her interaction with him had been quite guarded. Yes, there had been a few whispers here and there that had vaguely linked the two of them, but nothing that suggested a full-fledged relationship. The rumour could only have been started by someone who knew of her interest in Sir Cecil.
The blood drained from her face. There were only two people who knew. Her sister was one, and Louisa was too canny to have spread such a rumour. The other was Mr Darcy.
As if conjured up by the thought, he appeared in the doorway.
“Mr Olmstead,” she said, interrupting his single-minded charge across the room. “I believe I know the source of the problem.” She pointed her chin significantly towards Robert Darcy.
“Mr Darcy?” said Mr Olmstead, bewildered. “Surely not?”
But to Caroline, at that moment, only one person existed. She could not understand how he could look so normal, so perfectly calm, as though nothing at all had happened. He could not be so entirely cold-blooded as that! She burned with his betrayal. How could he? After all his fine talk about openness and honesty? She had known, right from the start, that he was not to be trusted.
It was her fault entirely. She should not have confided in him. When he had mocked the very concept of a gentleman, and had never even tried to claim that honour for himself. He had as much as acknowledged that he was not. She should have known he would not be bound by the gentlemanly code.
She had to confront him and make him see the damage he had caused her.
“Miss Bingley?” said Mr Darcy as she approached him. “Have I unwittingly offended? You look quite prepared to guillotine me.”