An Eventful Morning

So – Frenemies is this month’s theme. Let’s have some more fun with it.

In the WIP I’m working on at the moment, I’m gearing towards a different kind of frenemy situation that Elizabeth is not going to find in the least amusing.

But that’s still on the drawing board, so I’ve written a vignette for today – one about a certain someone we dearly love to hate:

An Eventful Morning

BBC

The letter lay just there, next to her cup of coffee, where Miss Bingley had dropped it in disgust. It had sought to fold itself, yet it remained partially opened, so the lines penned in her brother’s large, untidy land leapt at her to vex her afresh.

Miss Bingley cast a venomous look at the offending piece of correspondence and begun to butter her roll with far more energy than the circumstance required. It was no wonder, then, that the fresh bread crumbled into pieces.

Miss Bingley huffed and angrily pushed the plate aside.

“Come now, Caro,” her sister said, once she had sipped her tea. “What is done is done. We had better learn to make our peace with it.”

“Make our peace with it!” Miss Bingley scoffed. “Pray, tell me how I am to achieve that feat, Sister, for the task is beyond my capabilities. In fact, I can only wonder at your serenity,” she reproachfully added. “It is in every way extraordinary. Nay, I shall go one step further and say I find it exceedingly vexing.”

Mrs Hurst reached across the table to pat her hand. “I have no wish to vex you. I am equally dismayed, I assure you—”

“Are you now!” the other shot back. “If so, you have a singular way of showing it.”

A flash of annoyance glittered in Mrs Hurst’s eyes. “What will you have me do, Caroline? Tear my hair out and wail like a banshee?”

Miss Bingley grimaced. “Even that graceless display would be preferable to this maddening placidity,” she retorted. “I thought you shared my views on this.”

“You know full well that I do,” Mrs Hurst placatingly began, only to be unceremoniously interrupted.

“Then why are you so willing to accept this disgraceful union?”

Mrs Hurst shrugged. “Because one must bow to the inevitable. Besides – and that is especially relevant to you – one also ought to remember on which side one’s bread is buttered,” she observed with an involuntary glance at her sister’s ruined piece of buttered bread, which only served to fuel Miss Bingley’s ire.

“Surely you do not mean to imply that I should now curry that insipid gal’s favour!” she spluttered, and her eyes widened when Mrs Hurst nodded and calmly replied:

“That is precisely what I mean. Do think clearly, Caroline,” she urged, just as Miss Bingley opened her lips to protest. “Galling as we may find it, once she becomes his wife she will have all the power. Over our brother, and therefore over his purse-strings, if you take my meaning.”

Miss Bingley gasped. She had not thought of that. Her dowry was secure, naturally, but her allowance was at her brother’s discretion, and contingent upon his goodwill. How positively infuriating that a brother over three years her junior should have ultimate control over her finances till she married. There truly was no justice in this world!

Louisa’s pointed reference to the altered balance of power could only fuel her resentment. To think that mere months ago she had presided over Charles’s table, and that mealy-mouthed creature, Jane Bennet, had been obliged to show her due deference and be grateful for her notice before she even gained admittance to Netherfield. The very notion that the roles stood to be reversed was insupportable.

Miss Bingley lost no time in declaring that but, to her immense frustration, her sister shrugged. “It could have been worse.”

Miss Bingley stared at her elder sister as if Mrs Hurst had lost her mind. Their foolish brother could have married Georgiana Darcy and paved his way to greatness. Or at the very least, paved her way to Pemberley. Instead, he had gone and offered for Jane Bennet, she of no fortune and graceless relations! “What could possibly be worse than a connection with that abominable family?” Miss Bingley cried, throwing her hands in the air.

“Well, Charles could have taken a fancy to Miss Eliza,” her sister evenly replied.

“What?” Miss Bingley spluttered, instead of resorting to a more acceptable way of expressing her disbelief and horror.

Photo: BBC

Mrs Hurst tutted.

To her way of thinking, the deliciously contemptuous ‘I beg your pardon?’ was infinitely preferable. Regrettably, the impeccable manners learnt at the best seminaries in town fell away much like water off the proverbial duck’s back whenever Caroline was in a temper – and her lady’s maid could attest to that.

Rather than treading on dangerous ground by commenting on her sister’s manners, especially at a time like this, Mrs Hurst sensibly argued, “Think about it: given his open disposition, Charles could have easily been drawn towards Eliza’s unrestrained demeanour.”

“Her brashness, you mean.”

“Precisely. But I will say this in Jane Bennet’s favour: she can be cajoled and steered by a determined hand. Her sister would not be so amenable.”

“Heavens, Louisa, pray oblige me and quit speaking of that cunning vixen!” Miss Bingley exclaimed. “Frankly, I almost wish she had ensnared Charles, rather than setting her sights that much higher.”

“Upon Mr Darcy?”

Miss Bingley cast her sister a long glance as if to say ‘Who else?’

“Well, take heart, Caroline,” Mrs Hurst resumed. “Whatever preference he might have declared or implied in that quarter, ‘tis plain to see that her base charms, such as they are, can no longer hold his interest.”

“What makes you so certain?” Miss Bingley asked, her own interest piqued.

“He returned to town, did he not? If he were still drawn to the minx, he might have extended his stay at Netherfield. But he returned to town.”

For the first time since the arrival of the post, Miss Bingley beamed. “Come, Sister, we have dallied for long enough. I shall go and dress. I have a mind to call upon dear Georgiana.”

Mrs Hurst nodded sagely. “And so you should. But firstly, we each have a letter to write.”

“To whom?”

“Jane Bennet.”

“Whatever for?”

“To congratulate her upon her engagement to Charles and assure her of our sisterly affection.”

A mutinous crease formed between Miss Bingley’s brows. “Please yourself,” she muttered. “I shall not bow and scrape to Jane Bennet.”

Mrs Hurst cast her sister a steadying look. “Caro dear, are you quite so fond of the prospect of living in Scarborough? It may seem close to Pemberley, to be sure. But geography aside, believe you me – Netherfield is closer.”

Miss Bingley’s sole response was a baleful glare.

* * * *

A long and gruelling hour later, the deed was done and the letter written. It had required many drafts, and several pens were broken in the process, even though Miss Bingley prided herself on mending pens remarkably well.

“I need a new pen-knife,” the lady muttered to herself as she furiously rubbed the bar of soap over her ink-stained fingers.

* * * *

Photo: BBC

Miss Bingley’s humour was vastly improved after her arrival at the Darcy townhouse. Georgiana was at home and – most fortunately – so was her brother, although Miss Bingley feared he was not in the best of spirits.

She cast him a sympathetic glance. No wonder. He must be as dismayed as she at the sad conclusion of their joint efforts. Perhaps he feared his friendship with Charles would suffer if his attempts to steer his friend away from that unfortunate union ever came to light.

It was indeed a pity that she could not broach this delicate subject in his sister’s hearing. But she would use the first available opportunity to assure him that he need not harbour any fears in that regard, for her lips were sealed and would remain so. She would never dream of revealing anything to Charles, for Mr Darcy’s sake as well as hers. If anything, it was rather pleasing that she and the man she hoped to marry should share this, their first secret. The intimacy of it was not in the least diminished by the fact that her elder sister was party to the secret too.

Sadly, the tempestuous arrival of a visitor put paid to her hopes of sharing confidences with the master of the house, and Miss Bingley fought very hard to swallow her ire when Lady Catherine de Bourgh was announced. She resolutely pasted her best smile upon her countenance and curtsied to her ladyship with the utmost grace – even if she said so herself.

Lady Catherine’s nod could not be described as gracious and worse still, she demanded a private audience with her nephew, then swept out of the room and Mr Darcy was compelled to follow.

His obvious reluctance to leave the drawing room was a much-needed balm to Miss Bingley’s spirits but, to her unsurpassed delight, there was more to come – a just reward for what she could only think of as her angelic forbearance.

BBC

Pliable as ever, Georgiana agreed to play for them, and thus unwittingly furthered their plans to extend the visit.

But Miss Bingley’s delight came from a source that was not in the least musical: namely, from Lady Catherine’s booming voice that could be heard from Mr Darcy’s study as the visitors followed Georgiana across the great hall towards the music room.

Photo: BBC

“You have a sacred duty, Nephew, to yourself, your lineage, your estate and your departed mother’s memory,” Miss Bingley heard Lady Catherine declare. “So pray cease procrastinating. The time has come to fulfil your relations’ hopes and make a most respectable marriage—”

To her disappointment, Miss Bingley could not hear more. Having ushered them into the music room, Miss Darcy closed the door and, with a conscious look, she sat at the pianoforte and launched into an elaborate concerto.

Much like the music, Miss Bingley’s best hopes soared. His aunt, almost the nearest relation he had in this world, had come all the way from Kent to remind him of his duty to marry and provide an heir to Pemberley. He would have to listen. He set great store by family and duty, so he would take heed and cease procrastinating, just as her ladyship said. This was precisely what he needed: to be jolted into action and finally make his offer.

And who should he turn to but herself? From Michaelmas onwards, who else had been almost constantly at his side, favoured with his company and his attention? Not one of the titled ladies of the ton, and not some hoydenish creature either. For all his comments about fine eyes and a tanned complexion, he had left Hertfordshire behind and had returned to town. To her.

He fully understood the value of ladylike accomplishments, and would be sure to prove it. Thanks to this dear lady, his aunt, he would cease procrastinating and would offer marriage. Any day now, Miss Bingley thought, looking about her with a proprietary smile. (© 2019 by Joana Starnes)