Miss Bingley Requests Read online

  Miss Bingley Requests

  A Novel

  JUDY MCCROSKY

  To Jane Austen, who so vividly welcomes us into her world and who created the characters that bring joy to so many. And to all who love Austen’s works, and thus experience that joy.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my sister, Debby Berlyne, and to my friends Sue Churchman, Sandy Cook, and Ken Sailor, who helped me guide Caroline’s journey.

  Chapter One

  London, England, 1811

  ‘Miss Bingley requests the honour of your presence …’

  No, that would not do. Caroline Bingley crumpled the delicately scented paper in her hand. Asking for an honour implied that the guests were above the hosts, and that was not the situation. Not at all.

  ‘Miss Bingley requests the pleasure of your presence.’ She wrote slowly, her long fingers guiding the quill so that it formed each curve, each line, without spattering a single drop of ink. There, that was much better.

  ‘Caroline, who are you writing to?’ Louisa Hurst, Caroline’s sister, bustled into the morning room, patting her hair into place. Louisa always rose from sleep later than Caroline did, and her maid spent longer on Louisa’s reddish tresses than did Genney with Caroline’s dark curls.

  Caroline slid her hand to cover her paper. ‘Is Mr Hurst still abed?’

  ‘Of course.’ Louisa bent over Caroline’s shoulder. ‘What are you up to? I simply must know.’

  Caroline sighed, but moved her hand aside. The sisters rarely kept secrets from each other. And Louisa was mistress of a country estate, Staunton, which belonged to Mr Hurst’s family. ‘Do not think me foolish, but I am thinking ahead to the first ball we hold at Charles’ new estate.’

  ‘Estate?’ Louisa walked into the breakfast room and Caroline followed her. ‘Has Charles made his decision, then?’

  Caroline joined her sister at the sideboard and allowed the footman, standing ready, to place a piece of toast on her plate. He did so quietly, and without dropping so much as a crumb on her person. Mr Darcy’s servants were always impeccably trained.

  ‘Mr Darcy,’ Caroline said, ‘rode out with him this morning to visit one he thought might be suitable.’

  Louisa sniffed and took her time deciding between baked ham and sausage rounds marinated in rosemary. Caroline felt a moment’s irritation. Fashionable breakfasts did not include meat this season, but Mr Hurst expected it at every meal and Mr Darcy, ever the accommodating host, met this need. Louisa finally selected a poached egg instead, sat across from Caroline and held out her cup without looking, knowing the servant would fill it with tea, and add just the amount of cream she liked.

  Caroline scraped butter across her toast, giving Louisa a moment, knowing her sister was of two minds about Charles acquiring a country estate. On the one hand, it suited Louisa very well to have been the first in the family to profit from the advantages that came with wealth. Plus, Mr Hurst had inherited his money, while the Bingley family’s had come, shamefully, from trade. Still, her brother’s estate would be larger than Mr Hurst’s.

  ‘So he has decided to take a country estate before he purchases a London townhouse?’ Louisa pretended great interest in her tea as she stirred it, but Caroline knew what was important to her sister. She felt a moment’s sympathy for Louisa’s loss of stature that would come with Charles’s estate, but only a moment’s. Caroline had no plans at all for her brother to take a house in town. If he did, there would be no reason for Charles, or his sisters, to be guests of Mr Darcy. Once Charles had his estate, it would be no threat to Caroline. She would be his hostess there, but once she married Mr Darcy, she would be the mistress of the largest and finest estate of any one she knew: Pemberley.

  Mrs Darcy. Her tongue shaped the words even though she kept them silently inside her head. Mrs Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley. She would take precedence over everyone then.

  She fidgeted with her teaspoon, placing it in her cup, on the saucer, back in the cup, trying each time to make as little sound as possible. It would be some time before Charles and Mr Darcy returned. The day stretched endlessly before her.

  There were always calls to be returned. Naturally, once Mr Darcy and his guests arrived in London, everyone who was anyone had left their card. Caroline picked up her spoon and held it before her face, examining her image. How very ill she looked. Her eyes were small and beady, her cheeks sunken, her chin huge, spreading over the spoon’s tip as if it was ready to drip from the silver along with the last drops of milky tea. No, making calls held no appeal, even after she put the spoon back in the cup and rose, ostensibly to take another piece of toast, but really to check her image in the mirror that hung above the mantel. How silly of her to be concerned about her image in a spoon, when she looked as lovely as always. Her features were the current fashion, classical in their symmetry, with just enough height to her cheekbones and curve to her upper lip to make an observer realise she was a woman who, while being utterly beautiful, was also intriguing, unlike the vapid beauty of so many of today’s fashionable young women.

  If she wasn’t making calls today, did she want to be in? No, definitely not. Being available to receive calls might make her seem too eager to become a part of society; far better to be not at home. There was always needlework to do, and practice on the pianoforte. Or perhaps she could spend time in the library, learning more about Mr Darcy’s preferences from his choice of volumes. She might even find something to read herself, or to at least have close at hand once Mr Darcy returned.

  Caroline hadn’t done much reading since completing her formal education. There was no need for a woman as accomplished as she to learn anything new. To do so would be to gild the lily. She smiled knowingly at her reflection.

  She had opened a book, though, just yesterday. Mr Darcy was in the drawing room, reading while the others played at cards. She’d wandered over to sit by him and when he rose to go to his writing table, she’d picked up his book with a show of great interest. It was a collection of poetry by Lord Byron.

  Caroline had giggled on seeing this, and Mr Darcy looked up sharply. ‘Does my choice of reading material amuse you, Miss Bingley?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She opened the book. ‘Lord Byron is a great favourite of mine. He is a trifle risqué though, would you not agree, Mr Darcy?’

  Mr Darcy only frowned, so she quickly added, ‘Of course, anything written by a member of British nobility must be considered to be among the finest writings this country has ever produced.’

  ‘I find it interesting,’ Mr Darcy said, and she looked up to smile at their obvious meeting of minds, when he added, ‘that you would think so. Who else do you consider to be one of our finest writers?’

  ‘Why, Mr William Shakespeare, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ he said dryly. ‘And who among those writers still living do you particularly admire?’

  Caroline’s mind went blank, and so she quickly looked down at the book in her lap, opened it at random, and pretended to be deeply engrossed in the poem on the page.

  Now, at breakfast, she let her gaze drift from her reflection and sat down again across from her sister, her mind still on the poem. It had been about love. Caroline had never thought much about love. It had not been a part of her parents’ marriage, or of her grandparents’. Focusing on Louisa now, though, she wondered, and her mouth opened and spoke words before her mind knew what she would say.

  ‘Louisa, are you in love with Mr Hurst?’

  Louisa stared at her. ‘Caroline, have you gone quite mad?’

  Caroline felt mortified, but at the same time a small flame of something, perhaps part of what made her such an intriguing creature, rose up in her head. ‘Forgive me if I shock y
ou, but surely such a topic is not inappropriate between two sisters as close as we are. And there is no one else around to hear our conversation.’ The servants didn’t count, of course.

  Louisa still frowned and so Caroline smiled at her, putting as much warmth into her eyes as she could. ‘You, Louisa, are married, and so know more than I about the ways of the world between men and women. I seek only knowledge so that I can hope to make as good a match as you.’

  Privately, Caroline did not think Mr Hurst a very good match at all. He had an estate, but not a very big one, and his family was unknown within the circles of fashionable London.

  The Bingley grandparents had been merchants, and made a great fortune from the buying and selling of ships and the goods they transported, but Caroline preferred not to remember the ignominious origin of the family’s wealth. Her parents at least had not worked in the stores and offices, but her father had still overseen all management of the company. Charles would be the first Bingley to be a landed gentleman.

  Louisa, without looking down, scooped up some egg into her spoon, but as her gaze was still on Caroline, she didn’t notice when the runny yolk dripped from the silver onto the tablecloth. She put the mostly empty spoon into her mouth and swallowed. ‘Love Mr Hurst? I don’t know,’ she said finally. ‘The question never arose.’

  ‘I understand.’ Caroline nodded. ‘But I have a confession to make.’ She laughed lightly, trying not to look at the yellow spot on the tablecloth.

  Louisa’s mouth dropped open and she looked even more astonished at this than she had at Caroline’s earlier question about love.

  ‘Mr Darcy enjoys poetry,’ Caroline said defensively. Louisa placed her elbows on the table, one dangerously close to resting on the still-moist yellow spot. ‘The poems said that when one is in love, one experiences shortness of breath and sometimes a pain in the chest.’

  ‘I have not experienced that,’ Louisa said faintly.

  ‘Of course not.’ Caroline laughed again. ‘I would expect no less of you. Why, surely my sister would not stoop so low as to experience anything that could be mistaken for a common cold.’

  Louisa laughed also, and suddenly there was a warmth between the two sisters, a shared moment. Caroline reached across the table and gently placed her napkin over the spilled egg so it wouldn’t stain the sleeve of Louisa’s green silk morning gown. Because of this warmth, she dared ask a question she had long wondered about. Covering her sister’s hand with her own, she asked, ‘What is it like, Louisa, between a man and a woman?’

  Louisa seemed to understand why Caroline would ask such an indelicate question, or maybe she remembered the time before she was married, and had wondered the same thing. She left her hand beneath Caroline’s, and sighed, looking away into a distance Caroline had no hope of seeing yet. ‘It involves a number of sounds one would be more likely to hear in the vicinity of a pig barn. And Mr Hurst is very heavy, much more so than one would expect from his relatively diminutive size.’

  Before Caroline could absorb this rare sharing of hidden information, Louisa pulled her hand back and stood up so quickly the footman barely had time to pull her chair back. Louisa brushed her hands down along her sides, smoothing out any wrinkles the act of sitting might have formed in her gown. ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that once Mr Hurst is down, he will take us on a carriage ride in the park. Would you like that, Caroline?’

  Later, Caroline sat in the morning room, her needlework in her hand. She was making a cushion, with a pattern of delicately embroidered roses, but although she had been sitting long enough for the sun to shift across the room to the point where it glared off a side table, she had yet to sew a single stitch. Louisa’s confidence had given her much to consider.

  The poems had also mentioned a sparkle in the eyes of one who loved, and a giddy feeling in the head. While Caroline had often practised putting a sparkle in her eyes as she stood before a mirror, she had always believed any giddiness in the head was to be avoided at all costs. She thought about Mr Darcy and tried to remember if being in his presence had ever brought on shortness of breath or a pain in her chest, but could not recall any such experience. No doubt if she had felt anything similar, she would have retired to her bed with a hot water bottle at her feet.

  She pictured Mr Darcy standing, as he often did, before the fireplace in the drawing room, one elbow propped on the marble shelf, one leg crossed elegantly across the other so that all his weight was on one foot. She pictured him sitting in the library in his favourite chair of wine-red leather, a book held in one hand, his long fingers gracefully spread across the binding. She pictured him riding his horse in the park, moving slowly alongside the barouche in which she sat. His long spine erect, his fingers on the reins demonstrating an iron control over the beast, but also a gentle touch.

  None of these images helped her imagine a circumstance in which oinks and squeals, and a question of his weight, could be imagined. She wished she’d been able to ask Louisa for more detail, but her sister’s demeanour after breakfast had been distant, and it was clear Louisa had important things to do that left no time for sisterly confidences.

  Caroline tossed her needlework into the wicker basket that sat beside her chair and rose to go to the library. Perhaps further perusal of poetry would provide some illumination.

  * * *

  The gentlemen returned during the evening of the following day, and they looked very pleased with themselves. Or rather, Charles beamed, his smile warming his affable features, and Mr Darcy did not frown. He stood, a little behind his friend, his gaze resting somewhere over Caroline’s shoulder. She tried to watch him, without letting him see that she hoped for a smile, or at least a meeting of their gazes, but he stood apart from the others, somehow approving of what was said without being part of the conversation.

  ‘Netherfield Park,’ Charles said, ‘will do me very well.’

  How large an estate is it? Caroline wanted to ask, but she waited as Charles spoke enthusiastically to Mr Hurst about the grand shooting to be found on the property and the very well-situated kennels for his hunting dogs.

  How many servants? Caroline wanted to ask, but Charles was talking about the local people. ‘I met the squire,’ he said, ‘name of Sir William Lucas. Lovely fellow, very pleasant indeed.’

  Oh, thought Caroline, there are people of quality there. I should have known. Mr Darcy would never allow Charles to settle in an unsuitable area.

  ‘Sir William told me about some of the other families,’ Charles said. ‘There’s a gentleman, a Mr Bennet, who lives in a house called Longbourn not more than three miles from Netherfield Park. He has five daughters, and apparently they are all great beauties.’

  Caroline allowed her questions to fade away. There would be plenty of time to ask them later, and from what she’d heard from Charles and her understanding of Mr Darcy and his discerning taste, this estate would do very well. Her brother was on his way to becoming one of the fashionable set.

  She let her mind drift, as Charles continued to speak, now extolling the advantages of the stables, and pictured herself, her brother’s hostess, smiling and holding out a gracious hand for the gentlemen to kiss as she greeted the guests at Netherfield Park’s first grand ball. Music filled her head and she saw the ladies in their colourful gowns, the latest fashions, of course, dipping and swaying as they stepped through the dance. She would, of course, be claimed for the first two dances by Sir William, and Mr Darcy would watch as she moved gracefully, swirling past him in her sky blue gown with the skirt that was wide enough to bell out as she turned, but not so wide as to be unfashionable. He’d pretend, of course, that he didn’t watch her, that he cared nothing that other men clustered around her, waiting for their chance to dance with her, laughing at her witticisms, competing to bring her the choicest morsels from the supper table. The gentlemen would all be handsome, but none as handsome as Mr Darcy. He would be uninterested in dancing with anyone else, even if Mr Bennet’s five daughters were all beautif
ul. The other women were lovely, with long necks and elegant postures, but she was the most intriguing, the most refined. Mr Darcy would watch her dance with the other men until he could no longer feign indifference. He would approach her to request the next dances; no, he’d haughtily inform the gentleman who had claimed those dances that Caroline would dance with no one but him. He’d take her hand in his, his eyes would rest warmly on her intriguing face, and …

  Would she then experience the shortness of breath and pain in the chest that showed love? He would, of course, he’d been entranced by her beauty and wit and he’d lean close as they circled one another in the dance and say …

  But at this point even her vivid imaginings fell short of picturing the taciturn and dignified Mr Darcy speaking words of love. She had no idea, she realised, of what a gentleman in the throes of love would say to the woman who so bewitched him.

  Someone was speaking to her now, but the male voice belonged to her brother and he was definitely not speaking of love. ‘Caroline, what say you of the cook? There is a woman in Meryton who is very highly spoken of, but perhaps you prefer to select someone from town.’

  Caroline gave herself a mental shake. It was difficult to return from the ball and Mr Darcy’s ardent attentions, but she moved her gaze to her brother. ‘Charles, your little passions are one of your most endearing qualities.’ Now Mr Darcy joined Louisa in staring at her in surprise, for her normal efforts in preparing her brother to be a landed gentleman included trying to tone down his enthusiasms so that he’d appear properly dignified and noble. But Mr Darcy was looking at her, and so she didn’t mind allowing Charles his excitement this once. ‘I will hire a cook here. Mrs Montague has one I think could be tempted to change employers if the right inducements were presented.’

  Charles nodded, content as always to bow to her superior knowledge of How Things Were Done. Caroline glanced from under her lashes at Mr Darcy, but he’d moved his attention from her and stood gazing at the ceiling above everyone’s heads. She wondered for a moment what he thought about when he wasn’t engaged with the present company, but quickly jumped up and clapped her hands. ‘I simply must have a game of cards. Mr Darcy, will you assist me in setting them out?’