Page 7

Caroline was not proud of that. In the privacy of her own room, she was honest enough to acknowledge, if only to herself, that using Georgiana Darcy’s name as an instrument was not something she would have chosen in a world that offered her better tools. She was genuinely fond of the girl. But the world was what it was, and a woman who permitted excessive sentiment to interfere with necessity was a woman who would end up a failure.

She had sent a brief, carefully worded note to Mr Darcy’s room that afternoon. Though she had omitted her signature for propriety’s sake, Mr Darcy would know her hand. Caroline had written that she had heard a rumour, something she felt he ought to know, regarding Miss Darcy. She would not commit the particulars to paper, but if he wished to speak with her privately, she would be in the study before breakfast.

She had heard nothing, of course, but Caroline knew enough of Darcy’s devotion to his sister to understand that any hint of concern regarding her would command immediate attention. It was the one lever she had never used, and she had kept it in reserve with the instinct of a player who knows when to reveal her strongest card.

Mr Darcy would come to the study and find her there. The door would shut, locking them in, and it would remain locked until there could no longer be any doubt. It would only open once she had been thoroughly compromised by such prolonged time alone with a man, with the witness of the household staff and her brother. Honour would demand she and Mr Darcy would be engaged, and then all the months of careful effort and the week of enduring Elizabeth Bennet’s presence with composure would not have been wasted.

It would work; Caroline had no doubt of it. Mr Darcy was a man of honour. He would do what was right, as he always did.

Of course, there was the problem of Mr Darcy’s anger afterwards. She would have to do all she could to convince him of her innocence in the matter, a difficult but not insurmountable task. It would require careful acting to pretend that she was as surprised to be suddenly locked in as he, but Caroline had no doubt of her success. After all, she would be his wife, and Mr Darcy would wish to believe in her innocence. Once she had the advantage of unlimited time and his undivided attention, not to mention the absence of Elizabeth Bennet, she would win him over. Love could grow over time. She would cultivate it most carefully. More carefully, even, than she had attempted to catch his attention these past weeks.

She did not examine the note she had sent after it had been dispatched. It was only when the evening had grown quiet and the house had settled around her that something surfaced. It was not precisely guilt, but an awareness of what she had done, laid bare without the activity of planning to obscure it.

In using Georgiana Darcy’s name, Caroline had not intended to create much of a reaction, only enough of one to get Mr Darcy to the study on time. It should not have been a matter of any great import, only that of a guardian careful of his ward. She had intended only to provoke his concern.

She had not expected the note to find him, as it evidently had, already afraid. A servant had reported that upon reading it, Mr Darcy had stood quite still for a moment, set it down, and gone to the window. He had stood there for some time, motionless. His expression had not been readable.

At last, Caroline turned from her mirror, not wishing to meet her own gaze.

She had not intended to cause Mr Darcy genuine distress. She had intended to produce a response, yes, but not such a response as this. It was obvious that her vague hints had touched upon some real fear for Miss Darcy, something so dreadful that Mr Darcy could not meet it with his usual indifferent composure. The knowledge of it sat in her chest, a leaden and uncomfortable weight of guilt.

She pushed the knowledge away. Comfortable or not, it had been necessary. Necessary to correct Mr Darcy’s unaccountable lack of susceptibility. To afford her the life she wanted and deserved. It would all be worth it in the end.

Caroline extinguished her candle and sat for a moment in the dark.

Tomorrow morning, she would be in the study, waiting for Mr Darcy. Waiting for the rest of her life to unfold precisely as she had arranged.

Chapter Four

The morning that was to bring their departure from Netherfield Park arrived with a gathering of low fog that clung to the house and grounds. Elizabeth was dressed before eight. Her trunk had been packed the previous evening with a neatness that would have surprised her mother, who believed Elizabeth incapable of order, and had been sent downstairs before breakfast. The Netherfield carriage was ordered for ten. There was nothing left to do but eat, say her farewells, and leave, and she intended to accomplish all three with cheerful efficiency: Elizabeth felt she had been a guest for quite long enough.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Mr Bingley was notably attentive to Jane, making Elizabeth smile into her teacup. If she were not very much mistaken, Mr Bingley was by no means reconciled to having the object of his fledgling affections conveyed three miles away. Elizabeth hardly knew what showed his interest more clearly: the warmth of his conversation with Jane, or the pensive silence into which he repeatedly fell, all the while looking longingly at Jane, as though she were about to disappear forever.

Mrs Hurst ate toast. Mr Darcy drank his tea and read a letter, declining to show any interest in their departure with refreshing honesty. Miss Bingley was present, poised and immaculate as always, and offered observations about the weather and the road conditions with a brightness that seemed a little forced. But likely she had slept poorly and wished to appear alert and intelligent for Mr Darcy regardless.

Elizabeth ate her eggs and thought about Longbourn. She thought about her father’s study, and the distinctive smell of it — leather and paper and the faint ghost of pipe smoke he had given up six years ago but which had never entirely left the curtains. Elizabeth longed for the lane behind the house, still walkable in November if one dressed sensibly, and how the beech trees looked at this time of year, stripped and angular against the sky. And, though the accommodation at Netherfield were quite comfortable, she longed for her own bed.

By half-past nine she was ready in every way and found herself, for the first time all week, without occupation.

All at once, Elizabeth realised she still had a book from the Netherfield collection, borrowed on the second day of her visit, that she had not yet returned to its proper shelf. It was a volume of essays, solidly written, occasionally interesting, and entirely the sort of thing she might have abandoned at home but had been grateful for in the absence of better alternatives. The book sat on the small table in Jane’s room, where she had left it the previous evening, and, glad to have some purpose to pass the time, Elizabeth determined to return it on her way downstairs.

The task would take her only a little out of her way, and she would then be free to take her seat in the entrance hall and count down the remaining time to ten o’clock with a clear conscience.

Elizabeth took up the book, kissed Jane on the cheek (having been judged not quite steady enough for so daunting a task as walking down a staircase unsupported, Jane was to follow at a slower pace, and on Mr Bingley’s arm), and went out into the corridor.

The library occupied the eastern side of the ground floor, next to a smaller room that the household referred to as the study. Doubtless the study had been important once, but it was now used mainly for correspondence and the storage of books that had not quite made the grade for the main library — books such as her collection of essays. Elizabeth pushed open the door and stepped inside. A single window admitted what light the morning had to offer, though owing to the cloudiness of the day, this was not much. Two walls were lined floor to ceiling with the overflow volumes, a writing desk occupied the centre, and the air was filled with a comforting smell of old paper.

She crossed to the shelf nearest the window, found the gap where the volume of essays had lived, and slid it back into place. She turned to leave, and was surprised to see Mr Darcy standing in the doorway, caught in the act of stepping inside.

He stopped when he saw her. It was a fractional pause, the kind that registers surprise and recovers from it in the same movement. He inclined his head with usual politeness.

Elizabeth paused too, both from surprise and because he was between her and the exit, and returned the gesture.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “Forgive me, I did not know the room was occupied. I only came to —” He glanced at the writing desk, where several letters lay in a neat stack awaiting postage. “I have letters to send,” he concluded abruptly.

“And I have just finished returning a book,” Elizabeth said. “The room is quite at your disposal.”

She moved to pass him, and he stepped aside. At precisely that moment, the door swung closed, the handle turned, and the mechanism engaged, sealing them inside.