A very late one-shot, about my obsession with the ladies of Jane Austen, namely Caroline here. Please read.
To her mother, she was Lina.
That is, her mother always called her Carolina. And when she was particularly fond of her, she shortened it to Lina.
Her father would never call her anything else but Caroline and he saw in his woman's fancy of giving her daughter a foreign name something stupid and silly.
Only, Caroline, that is Lina, was very happy to be called that way.
She never confessed that to anyone. That is, she showed enough tolerance for the name but she always made sure no one noticed she enjoyed it.
Secretly, she always wrote in her diary 'From Lina to my diary.'
Also, in church, when she was called to sing with the choir, she liked to sing to herself 'Lina, Lina, Lina...' over the Latin lyrics.
Sometimes, they matched perfectly.
There were days when her mother remained silent for a long time. She would sit in a chair, in the back of the room, with her headpiece in her hands, trying to sew some invisible loose strings. Her face would be aglow with a strange, unfamiliar peace.
She would raise her hands from time to time, as if she was reaching towards something unknown.
No one would come into her room on those days. Caroline did sneak in when she was very young.
She would sit with her and tell her 'Lina learned a new word today, mama. I think the word is 'omi-', 'ominous'. Madam Brisse told me it meant something harmful. Something that foretells bad luck.'
Sometimes, her mother heard her.
After she turned sixteen and no one called her Lina anymore, not even her mother, for she was no more, Caroline felt very alone.
She wouldn't tell this to her brother, because she knew he would feel guilty.
Instead, she chose to make fun of him and tease him.
She liked to annoy him and embarrass him on any given occasion. She also liked to prove she was smarter and quicker than he was.
She would have wanted to do the same to Louisa, but she soon got married and Caroline knew she could not offend a married woman.
Still, she tried her best to make them feel discomfort. Whenever they were in her presence, it was her silent duty to make them uneasy.
Not because she was mourning a loved one or because she was missing anyone in particular. She just wanted them to feel what it was like not to be called Lina.
At night, when she did not go to bed, she hoped that they were not going to bed either, that they were sitting up in their rooms, groaning or cursing.
No one could deny that she loved them very much. But all sorts of evils stem from love.
One evil was Lina.
Caroline would have wanted to marry. And when she expressed this wish of hers to Mr. Darcy, the honourable, handsome and rich friend of her brother, he did not say anything at all.
In fact, he did not understand her wish. From the beginning, he didn't know what she was about.
She always gave him painful hints that she would have liked to be his mistress, but he was either blind to them, or willingly ignored them.
One night, however, mid-December it was, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley and Caroline were in London.
They had just left Hertfordshire. She had felt very glad to have accomplished the feat. The two men had, on her account, abandoned, so to speak, not only Netherfield Park, but also the nefarious Miss Bennets, two ladies that had caught their interest.
They were two pretty country girls. They had no manners. They were pretty stupid, in terms of education and while they were wily in terms of natural intelligence, their looks and their general demeanour could still not make up for their lack of situation. They were also very rude and imposing. Everywhere she went, she always met one of them, or their sisters, lurking about town after men.
Jane Bennet was the only one she did like. She was the only female that presented herself as delicate and modest. Secretly, she reminded her of her mother. But the others did not do at all. And if the others were useless, Jane Bennet would fall into the same basket.
But now that they were far away from them, nestled up in quaint London, Caroline hoped that she could persuade Mr. Darcy to give up on Elizabeth Bennet and direct his admiration towards her.
They were sitting in the drawing room, one dreary winter evening, no snow, no wind, only the frozen windows and the abysmal cold that persisted in every breath of air.
She was trying to read a book. He as well. Charles had gone to bed.
She saw he was engrossed in his book. But she could not read when he was in the same room.
She shut the book with a loud clap and drew nearer to him.
Silently, no words needed in the abysmal cold, rendered even more present by the low fire, she seated herself next to him, on the ottoman and touched his hand that was resting next to hers.
She did not grab it or clasp it in her own. She did not even really touch it. Only lightly, like a butterfly's wings.
Mr. Darcy did not make any sort of motion that would incline her to think he had noticed this.
So she tried again. Her lips pursed, she planted her fingers on his.
After another moment, Mr. Darcy suddenly averted his eyes from the book and looked down at her.
'You are cold,' he told her in a sound voice.
It was almost like a sentence he was giving. An unequivocal proof that she would not do. That her hands would not do.
After this resolution of his, he turned back to his book.
Caroline did not let this small offence deter her. She stepped quietly towards the fire and placed her hands above the flames, in an attempt to warm them up.
After she considered they were as hot as the fire itself, she went to sit beside him again.
She, once again, put her hand over his.
'There, is that better?' she asked hopefully.
He withdrew his hand appalled. He stared her up and down in a disgusted manner.
'I suppose, Miss Caroline, if I told you it was too warm you would open the window and put your hands out,' he mocked her angrily.
Caroline lowered her head in shame, for once her pride not obliging her to reply.
'Well, I would like to know, Miss Caroline!' he repeated.
'Yes, I probably would,' she told him boldly.
Mr. Darcy made a disdainful face and turned away.
'There is no reasoning with you, is there?' he asked, annoyed.
'How do you mean?'
'You know what I mean. You brought me here, Caroline, you might as well let me have my peace.'
Caroline wrung her hands as she watched him walk away. She was trying hard to think of something to say.
She saw he was about to leave the room. She desperately wanted him to stay. She did not want to be alone. She just did not want to be alone. The abysmal cold was growing stronger.
And ever more present was the need to find that glow of peace that her mother had worn almost all her life.
In a moment of forgetfulness, she half-whispered:
'Please, call me Lina.'
Mr. Darcy stopped when he reached the door and turned around mystified. He coughed shortly and cleared his throat.
'Pardon?'
He thought he had heard something amiss.
'My mother called me Lina. You...you may call me Lina, as well.'
'Lina? From Carolina?'
'Yes,' she nodded, smiling. 'Yes, I think so.'
He stopped for a moment, his mouth half-open, his hands in the air, his feet in two opposite directions.
He looked into her eyes, trying to see if she was lying or jesting. She was just smiling timidly.
He could not know that she always heard the wrong things. When he had blamed her for his current misery, she had only heard him utter her name in a hard and callous manner.
Caroline would never know what he truly felt. She had no skill for that. She could never know others.
As the dreary winter night closed its light on her face and the fire lit the tips of her dress, he thought he had never seen a more sorrowful girl in his life.
The saddest woman in the world. There could never be someone so very sad.
He had forgotten about the book under his armpit. It fell to the floor with a loud thud.
He woke up.
He opened his mouth fully. Caroline waited impatiently for him to speak. She was feeling hopeful.
'Well...if, if that is the case, then...' he muttered, more for himself. 'Then...'
'Yes?' Caroline asked anxiously.
'Then, goodbye, Lina,' he said gently and waited a moment to bow.
He opened the door and he was out of the room.
Caroline sat in the abysmal cold for quite a while. She lay there in complete silence.
Some would say, passing by to ignite the fire or fetch the tea, that she looked just like her mother did, when she sat in that sweet corner of hers, with her hands raised, reaching towards something, but this time –
This time, no glow of peace on Lina's face.