The Road to Pemberley (19 page)

Does this all sound like a plea for sympathy? It is not, and to assure you of that, I will share with you the secret of my endurance: I take very long naps. I am convinced that the ability to nap can get a man through anything. It is rather too bad that one cannot nap entirely at will. I wish to God I'd been able to nap during my time with the surgeon's knife.

Bear up, Cousin, the letter is almost at an end. I pick up my pen one last time, this time to recount to you something that happened early this afternoon. I was returning home from my club via Bond Street, which was remarkably crowded for the time of year. There are other poor souls in town, yet we none of us seem to meet, only to pass, trapped in our own wretchedness and ennui, and never is this more apparent than on the streets, where we shuffle by one another, heads bent, like the condemned marching to an execution that never comes. As I walked, trapped in my own despair, I saw a woman struck by a boy of the lower orders—running, no doubt, from some mischief or crime—and jolted so severely that she was knocked into the streets. Being the heroic sort, I immediately went to her aid and pulled her to safety just as a carriage rumbled past.

I expected that the fair maiden (for it is always a maiden in these sorts of circumstances, you know) would fall into my arms, and I was quite prepared to offer her my assistance through her womanly hysterics. Instead, she cried, “My gown!” And immediately she began decrying, oh, a great many things, from carriages to small children. When she recollected my presence, she blushed, and thanked me prettily for my help. We made ourselves known to each other, and I found her to be none other than the sister of your brother Bingley. I had not time to discover how she had found herself among the condemned before she began chastising her footman severely for allowing her to be jostled into
the street. I know Mr. Bingley to be with you at Pemberley. Would you therefore care to satisfy my curiosity as to how his sister found herself in London in June?

I will only add that I found her a pretty sort of woman, but rather too tall and too thin, and with features too strong to be of any real pleasure to my eyes. A shame, because the company of a beautiful woman would not be unappreciated.

And so I bid you adieu, Cousin, until my next.

Yours, &c., R. F.

June 2

My dearest Louisa,

You already know that I am wretched. Having detailed at length the evils of London in the summer in my last, I will say only that nothing has changed and I am still as miserable as I was a week ago. London is still hot, the air is still stale, and the company still nonexistent. All the world is enjoying pleasures that are denied me. As if this were not enough, today I was very nearly killed when an urchin knocked me into the street to be run down by a hack chaise. Aunt Lucy's footman did nothing to help, yet still managed to drop my packages in his shock. If not for the assistance of a gentleman, I might not be writing this letter.

Our aunt sends her regards. Those were the last words she spoke to me before she retired to her apartment this morning. “If you should happen to write to anyone I know, do send my regards.” She is not fond of me. I do believe that my presence here is as much a punishment to her as it is to me. I have yet to forgive either you or Charles for condemning me to this. I can hear you protesting that it was our uncle who forced my hand, playing upon my guilt until I agreed to stay; but neither of you came to my aid,
though you must have known that I have not the temperament to be a companion for an old woman who takes no pleasure in anything.

Oh, but I ought to mention that the gentleman who assisted me this morning was Colonel Fitzwilliam, the cousin of Mr. Darcy. I am sorry to say he is not at all handsome, especially compared with his cousin. I suppose there is a slight resemblance about the eyes, but that is all. He is altogether very plain, and his ears stick out almost comically. He will not do at all. I can see your expression, Louisa! Rest assured, I am not thinking any such thing. I am done with the entire family. I would not let myself have any hopes in his direction, for certainly the moment I even thought such a thing, he would fall madly in love with the daughter of a glove maker.

I hope my brother's ill health has been improved by the waters at Bath and that you are well. As asked, I shall make no congratulations regarding that small line you tucked into your most recent letter, but I trust you will keep me appraised, and give me the honor of being the first to send well wishes when the matter becomes a certainty (as I am sure it will, dearest). Do write to me soon. Your letters are one of the few things I have to look forward to as I carry out my sentence.

Your most devoted sister, Caroline

June 9

Dear Cousin,

I trust my last satisfied your request for “a letter fit to be read in company,” with all its idle pleasantries; regards to my father, Mr.
and Mrs. Bingley, and Mrs. Darcy; love for Georgiana; &c. In this letter, I shall indulge myself by writing only to you.

I took the liberty of calling upon Miss Bingley at her aunt's house two days ago. The aunt—who, I am told, is also a Miss Bingley—was not present and had retired to her rooms for the day. It was a pleasant sort of social call. I tried not to lend too much weight to my prior knowledge of her, as my prior knowledge of her came mostly through you, and you can be most severe on women of her sort. For myself, I found her pleasing, polite, and genteel company.

She made it clear that I am welcome to come again, though she, of course, can have no occasion for calling on me. I suppose I see in her a fellow prisoner, trapped in the hot and stale London air, with only the epistles of our friends and relations to remind us that the outside world exists. Commiseration in mutual misery is as steady a foundation for a casual acquaintance as any.

It has been a day since I penned the last. It occurred to me to attend a small exhibition of portraits that I had heard spoken of at the club. I happened to see Miss Bingley there. The gallery was largely empty, as most places are at this time, and we had much time to talk as we walked about, certainly more than is afforded by a social call. I wonder if she has ever held a real opinion in her life; everything that came from her mouth seemed calculated to please, and to conform to the fashion.

But this is an exceptionally dull letter. I suppose I should conclude, lest I spill more ink upon the subject of my two conversations with Miss Bingley, which (and this is a sad commentary) are the most interesting things that have happened in this past week.

Yours, R. F.

June 10

Dear Jane,

I trust this letter finds you and all your family in good health. I shall not hope that you find Pemberley pleasing, for to hope is to suggest something that is uncertain, and there is nothing more certain than that Pemberley will please. I well remember my first visit, and I could write for hours about the pleasing walks and tastefully appointed rooms. It is the work of generations; I do not believe there is a finer estate in all England.

I beg you will forgive me for failing to write earlier, but I have had so very much to do. London is not the ideal place to spend one's summer, 'tis true, but I have so many associates in town that I have had quite a lot of society to choose from. There was a lovely art exhibition yesterday. It was of portraiture, and featured a number of renowned artists, including a few portraits by Mr. Gainsborough, though my particular favorite was a portrait of Mrs. Stanhope by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The conversation was nearly as pleasant as the art itself; it is so fine to exchange reasoned, educated opinions with those of well-formed minds.

Do give my love to Charles, to Georgiana, and to your dear sister, Mrs. Darcy. I beg you will excuse the brevity of this letter. I shall write again as soon as I have the time.

Yours, Caroline Bingley

June 10

Dearest,

Can one die of boredom? There is no one here to speak to—this house is bereft of people. My aunt and I have progressed from
civil silence to cross words. I am not certain what I have done to offend her, but she scolds me terribly for everything, from the dress of my hair to my playing and drawing. I am at home as rarely as possible, but there is so little to do. There are some small art showings. There will be an exhibition of exotic plants soon, which is the first thing I have looked forward to since I came here.

Colonel Fitzwilliam called three days ago, and I found him pleasing enough. We met again at an exhibition of portraits, and spoke for some time. I did not go with the intent to be pleased. The picturesque is the fashion now, you know, and I am told that portraits are often thought inferior to examinations of nature. Colonel Fitzwilliam says that he prefers portraiture to all other forms of art. He spoke with so much feeling of his pleasure in observing the expressions on the faces of the subjects that I began to like them very much myself. I hope that he calls again. Any company at all would be an improvement over my current isolation.

—June 13—

I left this letter open in the hope that something would happen that would make it worth the cost of the paper. Colonel Fitzwilliam called again, a brief social call, and my aunt held a small card party. Can you imagine anything more insufferable than ten old women playing cards for hours at a time? They talked of nothing but how things were when they were girls—and how stodgy and staid and dull our generation is becoming!

I have tortured myself by reading Jane's most recent letter from Pemberley. She is enraptured with it, of course. Who would not be? She has filled two pages, and half a page crosswise with her ramblings. The walks are lovely. The company is delightful. Miss Darcy plays piano so well. Have you gotten one like it?

Charles added his own illegible scrawl to the end of the letter. I have not the faintest idea of what he has written. No doubt, it is more of the same—mixed, of course, with his own puppyish, slavish compliments for Jane, and Mr. Darcy, and Mrs. Darcy, and the whole lot of them. I care for none of it.

(By the by, when you see my brother next, will you mention how positively shabby my green gown looks? It must be replaced, and the going will be easier if you soften him for me first.)

I have thought a bit more on Mrs. Bingley's letter, and I am decided. It is her revenge. She still hates me for not telling Charles she was in town, and the letter is exactly calculated to drive home to me everything I am missing. Our sister is more devious than either of us knew, Louisa, I am sure of it.

I shall end this letter now. I love you dearly, Sister. You know not how much I wish I were with you.

Yours,

Caroline

June 15

Darcy,

It is very late, or perhaps I should say very early, but I cannot sleep. Do not concern yourself. There is nothing the matter. I am grown vastly stupid and dull of late. This house is empty and I have so little to do. My father's business is nothing to keep a man truly occupied. It is very hot. I have been in hotter places, places where the sun beats down upon your head with such intensity as to make a man think of the fires of hell. Yet one expects it in such regions. I have every window open, and the noise from the carriages scrapes my nerves raw. I am in such an odd mood. I am cross. My
father will return to find that I have driven out all of his servants with my hash words and queer demands.

It is many hours since I wrote the last, and I very nearly took out a new sheet of paper as I read over what I had written (early this morning). But I trust you not to place too much stock in my ramblings. I am much better now, with several hours of sleep and a meal in my belly.

There was an exhibition of exotic plants, which I attended this afternoon. Miss Bingley was there, and greeted me prettily when we met, and we took in nearly the whole of the exhibition together. Did you know she is quite the botanist? I am not one of those men who likes imbecility in females, but she had such an air of superior knowledge about her that I could not resist teasing her.

We were bent over an orchid, a lovely plant, and Miss Bingley was telling me of how they reproduce. I gather that it is a finicky business. I said, “Miss Bingley, do you not find that there is something untoward about a woman knowing quite so much about these matters?”

She looked at me sharply and said, “What ever do you mean, sir?”

“All this talk of male and female and of the way in which the male is joined with the female—it seems almost an affront to modesty.”

She blushed and said coldly, “A mind that is always looking to make even things that are innocent seem rife with—with improper meaning—might see it in such a light. But I do not have one of those minds.”

She was rather standoffish with me for the rest of the afternoon, and I believe I will call on her tomorrow and set things right between us. She is my only friend in London, you know. It would not do for her to be cross with me.

Yours, &c., R. F.

June 16

My dearest Louisa,

I am so very, very sorry for your loss. Do take care of yourself, and listen to the accoucheur. Would that I could fly out of here and wrap my arms around you. You need only ask and I will leave for Bath at once.

Your most devoted and loving sister, Caroline

June 19

Cousin,

I have written another letter fit to be read in company, but this sheet is for you alone. I called upon Miss Bingley on the 16th, but I was told she was “not at home.” I have not yet gone back. If she is still cross with me for what I said at the exhibition—which, upon reflection, was perhaps somewhat unkind—I shall not tax her by calling every day. I will try again tomorrow.