Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2 (13 page)

But none of this is what I set out to write about, which was Caroline's behaviour.

She drew the character card she'd written herself--that of Miss Candour. I frankly wouldn't be at all surprised to find she marked it in some way so that she would recognise it. Or never added it to the box at all, but just kept it with her and pretended to pick it at the appropriate time.

She spent the entire ball circulating among the guests and telling them--with extreme candour--exactly what she thought of their costumes, their dancing skills, and their manners.

She told poor Mrs. Herron that her maroon velvet dress made her look, "Exactly like an overstuffed blood sausage." And she said to Miss Felicity Tillsdale, "I declare, Miss Tillsdale, you really would be almost pretty if it weren't for the unfortunate configuration of your teeth."

There was a great deal more besides, I'm sure--those remarks just happened to be the ones I overheard. Which were unpleasant and spiteful, certainly. But it wasn't until we were all seated at the supper table that Caroline said anything with the potential for
really
serious effect.

She was seated next to Lord Carmichael. Whom Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam debated inviting after what happened with Kitty. But it was finally determined that it would only create more talk if he were excluded from the guest list, and that people might begin to speculate about Kitty's sudden departure from Pemberley. So Lord Carmichael was sent an invitation--though I don't think we really imagined he would be so bold as to come.

But he was there. Wearing a mask that was decorated with brown and gold feathers and a beaked nose to give him the look of a hawk.

He flirted a good deal with Caroline, who was, to pay her her due, one of the handsomest of the unattached ladies here tonight. I saw them dancing together at least three times, and sitting down in an alcove of the ballroom. And then at supper, Lord Carmichael must have paid her some compliment or other--because Caroline turned to him in the character of Mrs. Candour and said, "La, Lord Carmichael, how you do go on! But I warn you, I am quite determined not to believe a word you say. Everyone knows how dangerous you are to a lady's reputation. Why, just the other night I saw you and poor Miss--"

Caroline happened to have spoken--or maybe it wasn't happenstance at all, and was really planned--during a lull in the general conversation. Everyone in the room could hear her. I saw Fitzwilliam stiffen at the head of the table, and Elizabeth, across from him, went pale.

I was sitting nearest to Caroline, on her other side from Lord Carmichael. And I couldn't think what to do. Let her go on, and she'd drag Kitty's name out and do her best to create the scandal we'd managed to avoid. But interrupt, and everyone would know there was something we wished to hide.

The white soup had just been served; a steaming bowl had just been placed before me. So I pretended to reach for my wine glass and in the process knocked the entire bowl into Caroline's lap.

I must say the result was very satisfactory. Which is probably a terrible testament to my character, morals, and capacity for Christian charity, but there you are.

Hot, oily soup splashed all over the front of Caroline's very expensive gown and she jumped up, shrieking.

I stood up, as well. "Oh, no, Caroline, I am so sorry! How terribly clumsy of me. Please, let me help you," I said. I dabbed--not very effectually--at the dripping stains with my napkin.

Caroline gave me a look that--if looks truly could kill--would have sent me into an early grave. She brushed aside my offer to help and stalked out of the room, saying that her gown was permanently ruined and that she would have to retire upstairs to change.

I sat back down. The supper-time conversation resumed. Though Edward, who was sitting on my other side, was shaking with silent laughter, and he said in an undertone, "Remind me not to do anything to vex you while we're at table."

I smiled. "You ought already to be terrified of vexing me at any time."

And now the ball is over, and I must--as promised--go and speak with Caroline.

Sunday 8 January 1815

I did speak to Caroline last night. Though I'm not at all sure I accomplished anything.

Out of the whole of the party, I was chosen to be the one to speak with her about her behaviour because I'm the closest thing she has here at Pemberley to a friend.

By which I mean that before Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam married, back when Caroline was still hoping that my brother would marry her, she did her best to fawn on me and cultivate my acquaintance as a means of growing closer to my brother.

At any rate, I went along to her room last night after the close of the ball and knocked on her door. I hadn't been entirely successful in talking myself into pitying her. Well, to be strictly honest, I hadn't been at all successful; I could still cheerfully have seen her, if not strangled, at least bundled into a carriage and sent away from Pemberley at once.

Caroline made some reply to my knock, too muffled by the wooden panel for me to understand. But I thought I caught the words, "Come in," so I turned the knob and entered.

Caroline was by the wardrobe, undressed and wrestling with the laces on the back of her long corset. She let out a little scream at the sight of me, snatched up a purple silk dressing gown from the bed and clutched it to her chest. "For goodness' sake, Georgiana, I said
don't
come in," she said snappishly. "Have you been afflicted with deafness?"

"I'm sorry," I said. And then I frowned. "Why on earth are you trying to unlace your own corset? You brought Mason with you."

Mason is Caroline's lady's maid, who accompanies Caroline wherever she goes. And Caroline doesn't seem at all the sort to do anything for herself when someone else might do it for her.

"I didn't want Mason." Caroline's voice was still short, and she avoided meeting my gaze. "She was being stupid and clumsy tonight, and I sent her away."

She finally succeeded in untying the knot at the base of the corset, loosened the strings and stepped out of it, all the while holding the dressing gown one-handed in front of her, like a shield. She stepped behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room, and when she came out she had put on the dressing gown. And her eyes were narrowed with accusation. "You did that deliberately," she said. "Spilled soup all over my gown at the supper table."

I was relieved, in a way, by the directness of the attack, since it meant I didn't have to bother with pretence or with dancing politely around the subject. "Can you wonder that I did?" I said. "It's one thing to flirt outrageously with my brother and try to make Elizabeth jealous." Caroline made a small sound of angry protest at that, but I spoke over her. "That is more pathetically futile than anything else, since you'll never manage to make real trouble between them. But it's another thing entirely to deliberately cause a scandal that would drag Kitty's name into the gutter and cause Elizabeth a great deal of pain, as well."

"Well?" Caroline tilted her chin up and met my gaze defiantly. "And why shouldn't I?"

I took firm hold of my temper with both hands. "Why should you? What have my brother and Elizabeth ever done to you, that you should repay them in such a way?"

For a moment, Caroline continued to look defiant. And then quite suddenly her face seemed to crumple, and she broke into noisy sobs. "They're ha-ha-happy together," she choked out. "Isn't that enough?"

"Oh for goodness' sake, Caroline, do be quiet!" I snapped. I still wasn't of a mind to be terribly sorry for her.

At least she was surprised enough to leave off crying and look up at me with a sound midway between a gulp and a snuffle. I looked at Caroline. Her face was tear-blotched, her nose reddened. But her fingers were also so tightly clasped together in her lap that the skin stretched over her knuckle bones. I took a breath and tried to speak more quietly. "Caroline, what is all this about? Is it--" I ventured a guess: "Is it something to do with Edward's brother Frank?"

Caroline made a harsh, ugly sound that was like a laugh. "Frank? Yes, you could say that it has everything to do with Frank. Since I'm going to have his child."

I was so startled I must have stared at her for a full half-minute before I could gather my wits enough to speak. "You're--"

"Going to bear Lord Silverbridge's by-blow?" Caroline's mouth twisted as she cut me off, her voice hard. "Yes. I am. Unless I'm lucky enough to miscarry."

"You don't mean that!"

To my surprise, Caroline's chin quivered and she started to cry all over again. "No. I don't. Of course I don't. I'm just so miserable, and--" She broke off, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and swallowing the rest of her sobs. "You can't tell anyone." She gripped my hand, so hard I could feel her nails leaving dents in my skin. "I mean it, Georgiana. You can't tell one single person what I've told you tonight, or I'll ... I'll say the child is your brother's."

I would have thought myself past being shocked by anything Caroline could say, but that momentarily took my breath away. "You'll do what?"

Caroline's eyes slid away from mine, but she said, "I'll say the child is Darcy's. That it was conceived while we were in London these past weeks."

I drew in my breath. "And if you do, I'll make it publicly known that you stole my aunt de Bourgh's pearl necklace last spring at the instigation of Jacques de La Courcelle."

Caroline's eyes widened and she gasped. "You wouldn't!"

"Oh yes, I would. I will."

Caroline stared at me, shocked. Though her expression quickly changed to one of aggrieved resentment. "What's happened to you, Georgiana? You used to be such a meek, quiet little thing."

"I'm sure you would very much prefer it if I were, still," I said. And then I asked, "Does Frank know?"

"It doesn't matter." Caroline's voice wavered as though she were fighting tears, but she gritted her teeth and said, "It doesn't matter. And you can't tell anyone, either, Georgiana. It doesn't matter what you threaten me with." She folded her arms protectively over her middle with another sobbing breath. Her whole body was tensed, shivering. "I'm ruined in any case."

Tuesday 10 January 1815

Edward asked me to come for a walk today after breakfast. We couldn't go far. It's been so cold that the snow hasn't yet melted, though our gardeners have cleared off enough paths that we could walk down to the lake.

It's been two days since the Twelfth Night ball. Two days since Caroline told me of her expectations. Which of course explains why she's been dressing herself and sending her maid away; I suppose she wishes to keep Mason from finding out for as long as may be.

What I cannot understand is what is really the state of affairs between her and Frank. Frank obviously followed her here to Pemberley. And he's been nothing but attentive to her ever since. While Caroline has been nothing but scornful of him, and done her best to push him away at every turn.

Maybe Frank does know about the child, and offered her an irregular arrangement rather than marriage? And Caroline is angry? That doesn't seem entirely like Frank. But it would explain Caroline's behaviour, I suppose.

At any rate, I had made up my mind to tell Edward the truth today. Whatever Caroline threatened two nights ago, I cannot imagine her actually risking arrest for thievery--which means she won't really try to claim the child is my brother's. And I don't think any of us wishes to have her stay much longer at Pemberley unless
something
about her situation is sorted out or changed.

Last night at dinner, Frank seemed entirely unlike himself. Morose, and lost. He drank more than he ought, as well. He wasn't angry or ill-tempered with it, because Frank could never be that. But his speech did grow slurred and his eyes were glazed. And Caroline sniffed a great deal and made pointed, haughty comments about men who couldn't hold their drink.

So I was going to tell Edward today--he of course can speak with Frank much more easily than I could. But I never got the chance.

Edward was very quiet as we started out for our walk. His brows were furrowed and he seemed lost in thought. About halfway to the lake, he turned to me and said, "There's something--something I wanted to talk to you about. About whether or not I should stay in the army." He stopped walking and turned to look down at me. "What do you think I should do?"

I felt my heart contract. Because part of me--a large part--wishes that he'd sell his commission now, at once. And some days, maybe I can persuade myself that that would be best for Edward, too. But would it really--or am I only being selfish in wishing that? It's so hard--I never realised quite how hard--to see matters objectively when someone you love is involved.

Besides, didn't I read some hideously sentimental poem once--something about
true love speaks not of chains, but of freedom's wings
? The verse may have been uninspired, but maybe the sentiment is true.

So I swallowed and said, "What do you
want
to do, Edward?"

Edward let out a long breath and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, frowning down at the ground. "I want--I believe I want to stay in the army. Or at least, not exactly want. But I feel I ought to, somehow. At least for now."

A strange feeling swept over me, then. A kind of biting cold that had nothing to do with the icy wind whipping at our faces and tearing at my hair. I could imagine it gnawing its way through to my bones.

But I pressed tight against Edward, twining my arm through his, and said, "Then that's what you should do."

Edward smiled and bent down to kiss me. But he still seemed ... abstracted, I suppose is the word. And I couldn't bring myself to add to his worries by telling him about Frank and Caroline.

Thursday 12 January 1815

Baby James took ill tonight. It was so sudden--that was the most terrifying thing. He's so tiny, still. And he doesn't smile yet--babies don't until they're a few weeks older than he, according to Mrs. Reynolds. But the last few days, he's just begun to open his eyes and truly seem to take in his surroundings. Yesterday when I held him he stared and stared at my face, very solemnly. He has Elizabeth's eyes, but for the rest he looks so much like my brother that I kept halfway expecting him to open his small mouth and speak in Fitzwilliam's voice.