The clock on the mantel ticked at odds with Caroline's nerves. She had already been forced to rip out several stitches that were uneven, and eventually had thrown her embroidery aside in a fit of pique. Next, she had attempted to play the piano, but even that was unsettled by the ticking of the clock, which served an unhelpful metronome. Where usually the tiny clock mechanism proceeded entirely unnoticed by Caroline, today it punctuated every thought, and she was managed by it, by the passing of time, as never before.
Do call on us, Miss de Bourgh, she thought, grimly recalling the previous evening. Foolish Caroline. You ought to have specified a time. With no specific moment given, the call might be expected imminently, and had been, by Caroline, since the moment she laid down her cutlery at breakfast. It would not be proper to expect a call so early, she knew, but Miss Anne de Bourgh was so used to life at her family's country estate that there was always the possibility that she was not yet used to London times and might call early. Rosings. Caroline loved the sound of the name, as it reverberated through her mind, conjuring images of romantic rose-bushes and elegant, fairy-tale houses.
In any case, the expectation of the promised call weighed heavily upon her, and she had striven to be ready at a moment's notice, refusing to see a friend who had chanced to call and claiming a headache that she would doubtless be forced to make up for later in the week. It mattered not. Harriet Parker was no Anne de Bourgh, and was in thrall enough to Caroline that any excuse might be enough to undo any upset. A headache was not an unheard of excuse, particularly after an evening at the Royal Academy, for Harriet would be thrilled to hear of the harpist Caroline had seen. Her friend was a great admirer of the arts, despite being tone deaf, and shackled to a brother who cared nothing for anything other than cards and brandy. Poor Harriet was never permitted to attend concerts or talks, and only occasionally welcomed to dinners or assemblies. She had latched onto Caroline quite by chance some seasons previously and Caroline encouraged the friendship whenever she was in London, for it soothed her to have one friend, at least, who could do nothing but admire her.
Once her most profuse apologies had been relayed to Harriet, she had turned her attention to filling her hours until Anne de Bourgh arrived, but not in undertaking any task that might cause her to be distracted, or to appear anything other than properly ready to receive her guest when she did come. Miss de Bourgh might have promised them only a quarter of an hour, but Caroline knew that that could easily be stretched, particularly if she "just happened to summon tea at the very moment you chose to arrive, how providential, Miss Anne!" She had practised this particular phrase before her looking-glass that morning, in order to achieve just the right note of happy surprise, and to offer Anne no chance of escape.
Not that I wish to keep her prisoner! she thought, with a dark smile. No, she merely wished to cultivate a friendship with the young lady, and stood a far better chance of doing so here, in her own home, and away from the auspices of Mr and Mrs Darcy. Her smile darkened further, into little more than a grimace. So much had changed in Mr Darcy's attitude towards her since he had become enamoured with Eliza Bennet, and it was not merely the change in his status from a bachelor to a newly-married gentleman. Caroline felt certain that Eliza herself had poisoned Mr Darcy towards her, for where before he met her rejoinders with a polite response or a smile, lately his eyes met her unblinking, his features unmoved, as if he tolerated her merely on account of her relationship to his dear friend.
And as for Charles! Caroline brought her piano practice to a crashing halt, yet even that was not enough to startle her brother from his reverie. He sat in the window, looking out over the London street and affecting to read, which she knew to be mere artifice for two reasons. The first, that Charles rarely read by choice any novel whatsoever, and the second because he had scarcely had reason to turn the page in the past quarter of an hour. In fact, Caroline wondered if the book was even right-side up, were he to cast his eyes upon it.
Pushing the piano stool back, Caroline stood, and stalked a little closer to her brother's solitary position.
"What is it that attracts your interest, so, Charles?" she asked, willing her voice to appear light and curious, rather than mildly irritated. She need not have worried, for Charles looked up only at her movement in approaching him, and his features creased into a frown indicating he had not heard her, and had scarcely even been aware of her presence within the room. With exaggerated patience, Caroline repeated her question, and Charles shrugged.
"There is nothing but the daily business of London," he said, with a sigh. "I fancied catching sight of a person I might recognise, but that is folly, for she - that is, they -" He trailed off, fixing his attention on his book with a ferocity that would have been amusing, had Caroline not been so annoyed by what her brother had not quite said. Shaking his head, he turned the book around, and affected once more to read, this time with a little more conviction.
"I assume by "she" you mean Jane Bennet?" Caroline asked, quietly. One of us must mention her, at last, she thought, and determined to get the deed done before Anne de Bourgh might arrive. She certainly did not wish Charles' attention to be fixed on the eldest Miss Bennet when it might instead be captured by the only Miss de Bourgh.
"I wonder, Caroline, if you think it wise if I was to write to Miss Bennet. Purely as a friend, you know, for I am a friend of the whole family, really." He brightened as he said this, gaining encouragement from his words. "I might tell her of our reunion with Miss Elizabeth - with Mr and Mrs Darcy, I mean, and with Colonel and Mrs Fitzwilliam, too. Surely she would like to hear how well her sisters are doing." He paused. "Yet, maybe the letter ought to come from you, that is rather more proper, is not it?"
"I wrote just a few days ago," Caroline lied. "Merely to say that we were disappointed that she did not stay in London long enough that we might see her. It seems she could not be persuaded, despite Eliza's best efforts, and so you must draw what conclusions you will from that." She shrugged, as if to draw the topic to a close.
"It does not seem like her," Charles murmured. "To so pointedly avoid those she, until recently, considered friends. I wonder what I might have done to cause her to so thoroughly remove herself from our acquaintance." He pondered a moment more, and Caroline held her breath, wishing he would not strain himself to decipher the unusual actions of Miss Jane Bennet. They were unusual, and out of character, for the Jane that Charles knew. Yet he was unaware that in her own way, Caroline had engineered this situation to unfold exactly as it was. The Jane Charles knew would never have passed up an opportunity to see him: but then the real Jane Bennet was, herself, assured that Charles would not wish to see her. Not for the first time, she felt a flash of guilt in interfering in her brother's affairs to this extent.
If he was not so fixed on making a match with a most unsuitable young lady, then I would not need to interfere, she thought, with a prim smile. Besides, Charles is many things, but he is not entirely discerning. Surely one young fair-haired maiden is as another, and in encouraging him to transfer his affections to Miss Anne de Bourgh think how we might be elevated! This thought encouraged her in her plan, but did little to alleviate her nerves. She stalked over to the mantel, and examined the clock, which, it seemed to her, ticked on with ever-increasing fervour and volume, setting her nerves quite on edge. In frustration, she summoned a servant and pointed to the clock.
"Can't you find a more suitable position for that? Its relentless ticking is driving me to distraction."
She glanced over at Charles, half expecting him to question her on her sudden flair for interior decoration, but Charles' attention was once more fixed on the window, yet this time Caroline fancied he saw nought but a blur of activity as he stared out of it. His thoughts were not on the London street, nor London proper. They had fled, as they seemed to do most often, to Hertfordshire, to Longbourn, to Miss Jane Bennet.
Caroline raged inwardly, and turned her attention back to the piano. She reached for a piece of music she knew well and rattled through it at twice speed and three times its normal volume, and was gratified to see Charles at last turn back to her and smile, encouragingly, although his expression was a little desperate and indicated that his ears might appreciate rather less haste and rather more softness of pressure against the black and white keys. Relenting, at last, Caroline segued into a piece she knew better, one that she also knew her brother to be fond of. There, she said, soothing her conscience in easing her brother's apparent discontent. You see Charles? As your sister, I know only too well what is best for you.