P&P Untold Story – Jane’s reflection on Caroline Bingley

“After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and, yet more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer.” — Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (Chapter 26)

Early February, 1812

Her face hurt from smiling.

What did it say about her, this willingness to smile through such a painful quarter of an hour? A slight turning up of her lips, once or perhaps twice, might have been a reasonable response to a visitor so long anticipated. (No, she could almost hear Lizzy retort, the only time to smile for such a woman is when she departs!)

Jane, however, had smiled for every dreadful moment of Caroline Bingley’s call. Was that unshakeable smile a sign of her grace, her serenity, her good will? Or was it merely proof that she, too, was duplicitous? For there was no longer any doubt in her mind: Caroline Bingley had been pretending at friendship; she had never felt true esteem for Jane.

Horrid woman!

No. (Yes, Jane, you are allowed to dislike people, especially when they deserve it!) No, it would not do to think such unkind thoughts. Caroline Bingley had been wrong, very wrong, to treat her with such incivility, but surely she had some reason for acting thus?

Jane closed her eyes, trying to recall any moment, significant or slight, that might explain how she was at fault for Caroline’s unkind treatment of her. Then the clock chimed—another painful quarter of an hour, gone—and Jane gave up the attempt at rescuing Caroline’s character.

Weeks she had waited, a fortnight of sitting on the hard seat of the Gardiner’s bow window, staring out onto a bustling Gracechurch Street, expecting one of those carriages to bring Miss Bingley to the Gardiner’s doorstep. Jane had often looked for him, as well, but that felt more like daydreaming than awaiting a call she had, by courtesy, been led to expect.

When at last Miss Bingley had appeared, there had been no exclamations of “My dear Jane!” or “You sweet girl!” There had not even been a meaningful attempt at apology.

Oh, there might have been something like an apology, but Jane had paid little attention to the idle talk tumbling from Caroline’s lips. (Which is worse, Jane: lips that smile through pain, or lips that lie to avoid it?) She had been too focused on watching her friend—no, Jane, not your friend—reveal her true nature.

For this feat, Caroline had needed no words, only movement: the narrowing of her eyes as she took in the decor, a toss of her head before refusing an offer of refreshments, the hardening of her mouth when Jane mentioned the Gardiners.

Then there had been the length of Caroline’s stay—a mere quarter of an hour. No, even less than that! The clock had chimed in time with the knock on the front door—and then chimed again a few minutes after the door had closed with a thud.

This was a snub Caroline had certainly planned, for she had not even sent her carriage away. Grand and cumbersome, the coach had parked itself in front of the house for the entirety of the call, forcing other conveyances to lurch around it, a proclamation to all who drove past that the Gardiners of Cheapside had not just a visitor but a visitor.

Such obvious signs of incivility ought to have made Jane angry (yes, Jane, be angry!), but in truth, she felt only a deep sense of hurt. It was a dull sort of pain, the same kind that settled in the pit of her stomach when Mama prodded her about marriage or when Papa refused to come out of his library. It was the weight on her shoulders when Lydia was cruel to Kitty or when Kitty whined in response. It was the ache of her temples when Mary made a righteous pronouncement or when—oh, how she hated to acknowledge it—Lizzy lobbed a cruel witticism.

That pain, that weight, that ache? There was only one word for it: pity.

Yes, she pitied Caroline Bingley—and herself, too. For were they not both victims of a sort? Were they not both losers in this game that was impossible to win? From the very first moment of their false friendship, Caroline Bingley and Jane Bennet had been constrained by a simple fact: they were single young ladies in want of a husband.

For Caroline, that meant Mr. Darcy—and had not Lizzy pointed out how Caroline’s hopes for herself might lead her to press for an alliance between her brother and Mr. Darcy’s sister?

As for Jane, well, she liked to think she was not in want of a husband so much as a chance at happiness, but then, it was not always easy to tell the two apart. (Not with Fanny Bennet as a mother, that is for certain!)

“With your beauty,” Mama often told her, “men will fall at your feet!”

Why would she want any man to prostrate himself to her, merely because she was pretty? Yet time had shown her that she had little but beauty at her disposal. She lacked Lizzy’s wit and Lydia’s high spirits; she certainly had none of the fine accomplishments attributed to Miss Darcy.

Perhaps Charles (it might best, dearest, to think of him as Mr. Bingley) had been overcome by her beauty. What else could have attracted him? Her dazzling insights on the merits of country cuisine? Her quaint descriptions of entertaining the children of Longbourn’s tenants?

No, there was nothing she had to offer him except a pretty face. It was entirely possible that Caroline’s coldness had sprung from a desire to save her brother from himself. Of course, that hardly explained Caroline’s decision to pretend at friendship in the first place, but then Jane could just imagine Charles (Mr. Bingley!) asking Caroline to befriend her for his sake.

Oh, what did any of this matter? In the end, Caroline had known she was being rude, and Jane pitied her for it. Consider the cold formality of her (former) friend’s address: not just the “Miss Bennet” when once she had been “Jane” but the long pause that had come after her name, as if the mere acknowledgement of her person had been almost too much for Caroline. Was that not proof that she had felt herself to be in the wrong? She must have feared speaking; she must have feared giving Jane false hope.

So yes, Caroline must surely be suffering now—more perhaps than even she suffered. (Oh Jane, do not think such ridiculous thoughts!) For though she felt her heart to be bruised (broken, Jane, unforgivably broken!), she at least knew herself to be innocent of impropriety.

Or was she?

For here was the worst of it: she was not a bit surprised by Caroline’s behavior today. Hurt, yes, but surprised? No, for surprise required a level of ignorance Jane could not honestly claim to possess.

She had seen, in Hertfordshire, Caroline’s narrowed eyes, her disapproving frown, her uncivil treatment of others. How could she not have seen them? Lizzy had pointed out such behavior often enough. But Jane had tricked herself into believing that the objects of Caroline’s disdain had been deserving of it. Well, no, not deserving, but perhaps inviting it. For who, in Hertfordshire, had been the target of Caroline’s scorn? Jane’s mother and youngest sisters, usually—and sometimes Sir William Lucas or Aunt Philips. But was not their behavior a tad, well, vulgar? Could Jane blame Caroline, raised to be fashionable and accomplished, for feeling a little disgust when she, who had lived with these people all her life, secretly felt ashamed of them on occasion?

Yet now, here in London, whom did Caroline scorn? Not just Jane, who perhaps deserved it, but the Gardiners, who most certainly did not. There were no better people in the world than Edward and Margaret Gardiner: they combined good sense, good taste, and the very best of hearts. Perhaps Caroline could not be expected to know just how good they were, but to refuse to consider any of their merits, simply because they lived in Cheapside? Even Jane could not countenance such unchecked arrogance.

So yes, she pitied Caroline Bingley—very much. That fashionable lady had spent her entire morning traveling to a part of town she disliked—and for what purpose? Not to maintain a friendship; certainly not to pay her respects; not even to make clear the impossibility of a union between Jane and—oh, she did not even want to think of him.

No, Caroline Bingley had done all that work merely to keep up appearances. It was something of a relief to see Miss Bingley for who she was: not a cruel person, really, just a miserable one. She would spend all her life chasing others’ good opinions because she had no true notion of her own self worth.

Of course, Jane knew what others thought of her: she was sweet, to a fault; she was blind to others’ flaws; she smiled too much. (Her face still hurt from smiling.)

Very well. Let them think what they would, but she knew herself best of all: she would always choose kindness over cynicism, hope over doubt, smiles over sneers—not because she was better or wiser, and certainly not because she was blinder or stupider. She was simply more practical: if she wanted happiness, she would have to make it—for herself and for others.

With this thought firmly in mind, she sat down to write Lizzy. And if she could not quite bring herself to smile while composing the letter? Well, by the end of it, when she had folded the pages and put her pen aside, when she was climbing the stairs to her aunt’s parlor, listening for the laughter of her cousins—well, then she could smile. And yes, it still hurt, smiling through the pain. But let it hurt, and then let her heal.

There was nothing else to be done.

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