A/N: Drumroll please….. CHAPTER 5!
This chapter is mainly about Caroline and I thought it important for her character to develop.
'Louis Quince' is not a brand. It means it is in the style of King Louis the Fifteenth of France's time. The real antiques are thousands of dollars. Obviously Caroline has a real antique, being the spoiled, obnoxious British courtesan she is. I read about them in 'Rumors' by Anna Godbersen (which by the way is an AWESOME book, I completely recommend it and its prequel, 'The Luxe').
As an ottoman is really hard to explain, just look it up on Google images (as 'ottoman couch', not 'ottoman', which is too broad.) They are pretty cool and have nothing to do with Otto the Auto, the magical talking car that came to your school in kindergarten. (Well, he came to mine in kindergarten. Gayest talking car in the history of carkind.)
The 'man in prison' example is from a memoir I read called In God's Underground. It's about a man who was tortured for around twenty years in prison, fighting to remain a Christian. And he was happy in prison, knowing God was next to him. If a man in prison with stale crusts to eat and no bed to sleep on can be purely happy, then it proves money is a total waste of time.
(Sorry if you don't believe in God, I didn't want to be offensive in any way.)
This chapter is basically a moralityish kind of thing. I didn't start off writing it that way but then I was thinking seriously about this stuff and it slipped itself in. I hope you people don't take it too bad. The next chapter won't be very serious.
Disclaimer: It's not mine, it's Jane Austen's!! Please don't shoot! I'm supporting a boyfriend, and a family, and- and - millions, nay, billions, of people who live only for my fanfiction!
JK, people. JK.
Otto the Auto's got nothing on me.
I DO NOT OWN/AM NOT AFFILIATED WITH THE BRANDS IN THE CHAPTER/STORY.
--
"I mean, she's here!" Caroline shouted. "I thought I'd seen the last of that wretch at the party. I'd never thought she would-"
Caroline stopped as she realized none of her girls were listening. Tara was in the corner of her closet, sitting in the elaborate Louis Quince chair and staring into space. Lispeth was reading a magazine on the ottoman. Susan and Iris were gossiping about something. And Frieda was sleeping on the carpeted floor, gripping Caroline's dog in such a position that it had peed on her face. And she still hadn't woken up.
A kind of ache filled Caroline then, a loneliness that no one seemed to understand. She was insanely rich and considered good-looking. She could do anything she wanted, within the limits of reality.
But what is money? An illusion. If a man in prison with stale crusts, sometimes nothing, to eat and no bed to sleep on can be happy, and Caroline Bingley, with her beautiful clothes and gourmet chefs and humongous mansion and huge canopy bed with silken sheets cannot be happy, then it proves money is worthless.
And looks? The head jock of the school with those fascinating eyes will be magically transformed thirty years later into a potbellied man who stinks of beer. That gorgeous head of hair will wilt and bald. The beauty of those eyes will be unrecognized when they are set in a fat, aged face, like two raisins in oatmeal. He will shrink and grow as wide as he is tall.
And brains? Does intelligence, especially the type Caroline has, the kind that notices that the buttons on another woman's coat proclaim a better brand than hers and hastens to spill something on the coat, make one happy?
These thoughts flash through Caroline, but they are all fully realized by her, as she screams at her friends.
She looked at them. "GET OUT!"
They were shocked and scrambled to their feet. "What? Caroline, what's your problem? What did we do wrong? Did we offend you?"
Suddenly, without warning, Caroline's eyes became very watery. Caroline blinked back tears furiously. She prided herself so much on not crying. She had worked so hard to maintain the reputation the tabloids called the 'Ice Princess', the cruel girl with the world at her feet and literally everything and oh, how unfair it was that such an evil person could get all of that.
But people are only mean if they are unhappy. A person from a secure, loving home has no cause to be mean, and so he or she is not. A person from a troubled, imbalanced past is unhappy and projects it onto everyone else.
Caroline shook her head as water dripped out of her eyes. I will NOT call it the t-word, I will NOT call it the t-word… Aloud she said, "Just-"
They looked at her slowly, waiting for her response.
"Just get out," she sighed, her voice cracking midsentence.
They hastened out the door into the hallway. Only after the last of their footsteps were gone did Caroline permit herself to cry in earnest.
She leaned against the Louis Quince chair for support. The rigidity of the chair only served as a reminder that she could only rely on material things.
Suddenly, inexplicably, she picked up the chair with the physical strength given to her born of anger. Its fragility almost warned her it was an antique and she couldn't throw it, it was too valuable-
She hurled it against the wall with her two hands, leaving a dent in the formerly perfect-pink shade.
Suddenly she felt very weak and sat down on the ottoman. "It's so unfair," she said shakily aloud. It felt good to finally voice her true feelings. Unfortunately it also made her cry harder. She looked around desperately for a tissue. There was none.
She did her best to dry her tears and stop the mucus from coming out of her nose with the back of her hand, like a little child.
Then she heard the butler's loud call from downstairs. "My lady? Lord Darcy to see you."
"Show him in," she warbled in a voice thick with emotion, trying to talk loud enough to be heard.
"I beg your pardon, madam? I could not hear-"
"On second thought, tell him to wait a moment," she shouted down, finally able to resume her commanding façade. "I will be down directly."
"Very good, madam."
Caroline hurriedly put on an expensive receiving gown and her family's heirloom necklace, did her best to cover up the mascara tracks that slid down her face and reapply makeup, and walked down just like she usually would, donning her mask of the Perfect Society Girl.
"Fitzwilliam?" She collected her wits enough to remember she was supposed to be angry at him.
"I'm in the parlor," he said quietly.
Caroline's cheeks burned with shame. How could she stand there in the front like an idiot, instead of going into the parlor and receiving Will? "I beg your pardon," she sad softly. "I am quite out-of-sorts today."
"Of course." Will and the butler answered simultaneously.
"You may go," Caroline told the butler sharply.
The butler bowed and walked out.
Will stood up, swinging his arms absentmindedly. Caroline faced him.
Will was the only thing she had now. He could control her, keep her from breaking down like this again. And his strong personality would guide hers, once he fell in love with her.
It was stored somewhere deep in the back of her consciousness that she was doing the wrong thing, that it would lead to her ruin and misery, that Will couldn't really make her happy, that they were absolutely unsuited for each other. But she pushed it out and forgot the events of the afternoon.
He must fall in love with me. He's mine. Caroline's conscience lost the battle, as usual.
She began forming plans in her head. First, I must get him to fall out of love with Elizabeth Bennet.
To do that, I must make sure she will either move (unlikely, with Charles there) or get her to completely spurn his advances to such an extent that she will never talk to him again.
To do that, I have to alter her perception of him.
Then she realized she was forcing Will to stand uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you would like to sit down?"
"Yes, that would be nice."
"Tea?"
"Oh," he started. "Oh, no thank you."
"Coffee? Anything?"
"No," he said bluntly. "Listen, Caroline, about today…" As he rambled on about saying things he didn't mean while saying things he didn't mean, Caroline realized it was better not to forgive him all at once, but to slowly and steadily cave in.
"Well," she said 'grudgingly', "I will consider getting back together with you. I was caught up in the heat of the moment when I declared us through."
"So you'll…stay with me?"
"Yes, Will."
"Fitzwilliam."
"Fitzwilliam."
"So…would you like to have dinner at my house?"
"Oh, yes."
"Good. Dinner's at eight. I'll see you at home."
Caroline smiled and waved. "See you."
As one may or may not know by now, whenever Caroline smiles, one should be frowning and wondering what exactly she has planned.