Caroline: A Story of Pride and Prejudice

By Amanda E. Veazey

Caroline Bingley was raised to think it her duty to marry a wealthy gentleman, just like her brother's friend Mr. Darcy. She pins all her hopes on Mr. Darcy, but when he chooses to marry someone else instead, someone less worthy, how will she ever live up to her parents' expectations? More importantly, does she even still want to? In the aftermath of Mr. Darcy's betrayal, Caroline must decide what matters most to her and how to make her own happiness.

In Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, we come to hate Caroline for being vain, selfish, and manipulative. But what made her that way? And, after a devastating heartbreak any of us can relate to, how does she move on? Join Caroline as she spends the Season in Town with the Darcy family wondering, like many of us, how did I get here? And what on Earth do I do now?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350941760

Book preview

I. 

A Journey

I was left to see to my own comfort.

The other two ladies in the carriage, however, were exceptionally well cared for. At the beginning of our journey, Mr. Darcy had bundled his wife Elizabeth carefully in traveling rugs before doing the same for his younger sister Georgiana. He often asked both ladies if they were warm enough, causing them to exchange glances of loving exasperation at his sometimes excessive care. Occasionally, Mr. Darcy even remembered to include me in his solicitous inquiries.

I felt a sudden, wild urge to laugh at the thought of my reaction had I been told two years ago—or perhaps even one—that I would find myself in a carriage traveling from Derbyshire to London with this particular assortment of passengers. For years I would have liked nothing better than traveling in the same carriage as Mr. and Miss Darcy. I did not truly become friends with Miss Darcy until recently, though I had long hoped to one day call her my sister. Georgiana was a shy, sweet girl of eighteen, angelically lovely with bright blue eyes and golden ringlets. I used to proclaim to all who would listen that dearest Georgiana was my closest friend, despite the difference in our ages and the fact that I knew almost nothing about her.

To my mind, Elizabeth Darcy was the real outlier in our group. Not long ago I would have sneered and called her an interloper. When I first met Miss Elizabeth Bennet (as she was then) during my stay in Hertfordshire in the autumn of 1811, I scarcely noticed her. She was neither as lovely and sweet as her elder sister nor as repulsive in various ways as the rest of her family. She was of an average height, perhaps a little shorter, and had a figure that was too generous to ever be called willowy, as was then in fashion. I found her utterly unremarkable—at least until I noticed Mr. Darcy’s gaze lingering on her more than it should. He once claimed to admire her fine eyes,—which were commonplace aside from a certain shrewishness—but I assumed the man was joking. As for her chestnut curls, they were often rather wild in appearance due to her penchant for scampering across the countryside. What advantage could they have over my elegant coiffure?

Seated across from me was the great man himself, Fitzwilliam Darcy, whom I had fervently believed I would one day wed. He was a remarkably attractive man, his broodingly handsome face softened by his barely tamed dark curls. How I had always longed to run my fingers through those curls! His piercing gaze was currently directed with what could only be described as open adoration at his wife, the former country mouse Miss Elizabeth Bennet, stirring up the embers of my jealousy. I believe she is the only person I have ever come close to truly hating. What did this poor, undistinguished country chit have that I did not? What was it that so attracted Mr. Darcy to her?

Elizabeth was sitting next to her husband, at that moment reading from a volume of Wordsworth’s poetry to pass the long journey, apparently lost to the world outside her book. Could her bookishness be what so enthralled Mr. Darcy? If so, I thought ruefully, that explained why he preferred her to me. I rarely read more than the occasional ladies’ novel.

Elizabeth was outfitted with a very finely made gown and fur-lined traveling cloak, all of the highest quality materials, as befitted the wife of a gentleman like Mr. Darcy—though all her ensembles were rather simpler and less fashionable than I would have chosen in her place. I supposed this was further proof that there is no accounting for men’s taste.

The final member of our party, Mr. Darcy’s much younger sister Georgiana, sat next to me in the carriage and was the reason for our journey. She was busily twisting her fingers together and chewing on her lower lip. The poor dear was a chronic worrier, and her Come Out and First Season were her current favorite implements of self-torture.

Do not worry, dearest, Elizabeth said gently to her sister-in-law. Apparently she had been observing more than the pages of her book after all. You have your brother, Miss Bingley, your aunt, and I all determined do everything we can to make this the best possible First Season for you. One of us will be by your side at all times.

For whatever reason, Elizabeth’s kind reassurances caused Georgiana to blanch. I needed to do something to give this girl a bit of backbone. But if I should somehow fail, she said, barely audible over the jostling of the carriage, you would all be so disappointed in me.

Georgie, you know I could never be disappointed in you. Mr. Darcy’s deep voice took on that special warmth he reserved only for her. I would have immediately ordered my wedding clothes had he ever directed a fraction of that warmth at me.

"And you must also know, my dear, that I would never let you fail," I said, maintaining eye contact with Georgiana until I saw a small smile. If I could transfer into her breast half of my own boldness, I surely would. And never feel the loss, I daresay. I have always been rather blessed in that quarter.

As I settled back into my seat, Mr. Darcy caught my eye. He gave me the faintest hint of a smile and a slight nod of thanks. I blushed and looked away. Those smiles of his, so rarely bestowed, still had the power to set my silly heart fluttering. Diagonally from me, Elizabeth also looked grateful, but her thanks meant nothing to me compared to her husband’s. In the year and a half since Mr. Darcy’s wedding, I had fought to suppress my feelings for him, as such feelings could now never be realized. I imagined I had had some success, but it seemed that one look from him was enough to stir them all up again. I suppose that is what comes of imagining oneself married to a man for so many years, only to see him wed another. I stayed turned towards the window until I could be sure that these feelings were no longer written clearly on my face.

Traveling long distances in a carriage is never pleasant in the best of circumstances. Even in a coach as comfortable and well-sprung as Mr. Darcy’s, the ruts in the road are often jarring, and everyone’s knees end up banging together. In addition to feeling cramped and rattled by the journey, I felt surges of the bitterness, jealousy, and even hatred that I had struggled to leave behind me. We had only just left Staffordshire, and already I was longing to reach the coaching inn where we would stay that first night.

The meal Mr. Darcy had ordered for us all in our shared sitting room both looked and smelled vastly superior to whatever boiled meat and indeterminate vegetable the rest of the guests had been eating in the common dining room as we came in. Nevertheless, I was so ready to be done with the trying day that I could barely taste it. It was such a relief to finally settle into the bed I shared with Georgiana that I barely considered whether the sheets were properly clean. Of course, when one traveled with Mr. Darcy, one did not have to worry over such banalities.

The next morning, the four of us breakfasted in the same private parlour. I noticed that Elizabeth had, unusually, been the last to arrive. Her face was pale and drawn and she consumed nothing but a few bites of her roll and some tea. I knew from prior shared meals with the lady that she usually had a hearty appetite—no doubt the natural consequence of being such an active sort. Mr. Darcy, observing her even more closely than I did, was obviously concerned.

Come, love, he said. I winced a little at the endearment, but tried to focus instead on spreading jam on my roll. Could you not eat a bit more?

Not another bite, his wife said with more than her usual firmness.

Perhaps we should delay our departure until you are feeling better.

Nonsense; I will be fine.

Mr. Darcy frowned. Georgiana ate her breakfast with a slight smile, obviously used to and somewhat amused by this type of exchange.

I was momentarily confused. Was Elizabeth acting oddly because she was ill? If so, why would Georgiana, who was clearly very fond of her new sister, be amused rather than concerned? Elizabeth could not be dangerously unwell, then.

I stifled a gasp as I realized the truth. Georgiana would only be amused if Mrs. Darcy was ill for a happy reason, such as being in the family way. I recalled my sister-in-law Jane’s nausea and fatigue when she was in a similar state. So, the woman Mr. Darcy chose over me was now carrying his child—possibly his heir. There could be no better proof of their love and felicity, no better sign that my love for him had, indeed, all been in vain.

Mr. Darcy was all tenderness as he helped his wife into the carriage and bundled her up for our journey. Elizabeth appeared to barely tolerate his almost smothering affections, but I admit to feeling a certain wistful envy for her and her happy situation. Deciding it was best not to look at or think of the couple at all, if I could, I turned my attention instead to Georgiana.

What have you brought to read on the journey? I asked her. Miss Darcy had inspired in me a love of reading and discussing novels, particularly gothic romances. It was a newfound pleasure for me, and a welcome one in what now seemed a rather empty life. I was especially glad now to have topics of conversation with Georgiana that could distract me from our traveling companions.

"The Italian by Mrs. Radcliffe." Georgiana’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and she gave me a little smile.

Oh! I should like to read it when you are finished. Have you enjoyed it so far?

Very much. It is quite dark and mysterious, and full of villains!

Sounds thrilling!  I was eager for Georgiana to finish the first volume and pass it on to me, as this sounded like precisely the sort of melodrama we both preferred, and precisely the sort of distraction I needed.

Georgiana settled in and soon returned to her book. Elizabeth appeared to be drowsing and Mr. Darcy was also reading—though naturally not a gothic romance. With all my companions thus occupied, I turned to stare out the window, remembering the excitement I felt upon starting my own First Season, years ago, when I was only eighteen. Recalling myself as I was then, I seemed even younger and more naïve than Georgiana was now.

Now that my one prospect, Mr. Darcy, had married, I considered myself entirely on the shelf, and was anticipating the coming Season with more dread than any other emotion. At the very least, I hoped my experience navigating London Society could help Georgiana find the happiness I was now unlikely ever to achieve. I could certainly educate her on how to decline unwanted proposals, and emphasize the dangers of pinning all one’s hopes on a man who will never come to the point.

This Season the fucus would be on Georgiana, but I could still remember well the time when it had been my turn to shine, my turn to browse the marriage mart.

II. 

Reflections

At eighteen, I had not yet met Mr. Darcy, and my sister Louisa had just married Mr. Hurst, a gentleman from a modest Devonshire family. Mama had been dead for some years by then, God rest her, but Papa was still in plump currant, as he would say. I could not imagine that so robust a fellow as my father would ever die.

When I was a child, Papa owned a large and increasingly successful wool mill in Leeds. I remember that town as being very gray and loud, even worse than the dingiest London street. As a little girl, it horrified me to see filthy children even younger than myself working in the mills, or worse the mines. So many of them lost life or limb while Louisa and I played with our dolls. Even with all of them working, most of these lower class families could barely afford bread. This was what being poor meant, and it terrified me. At quite a young age, I decided that I would do anything it took to keep myself from such a bleak existence.

I knew that ladies, such as I was being raised to be, had but few options when it came to supporting themselves. One could be either a governess or a companion and live a grim life of drudgery in someone else’s home, alone in the gray limbo between servants and masters. Such women were often mistreated in various ways, and could even be subject to the forceful advances of their male employers. I first learned this by eavesdropping on my elder cousin Hannah tearfully describing her first governess position with a family in Scarborough to Mama. The father of the family sounded like an entirely different sort of man from my Papa, and I grew pale listening to her. After letting Hannah speak for a while, Mama interrupted her quite bluntly to say that such occurrences were matters of course in the life of a governess.

There is no use crying about it, Hannah, I heard Mother tell her. This is your lot in life. You were unable to secure a husband, and these are the consequences.

Mama then cut those severe eyes of hers over at where Louisa and I were pretending to practice our stitches while actually straining to hear the adults’ conversation. It seemed she wanted us to overhear our cousin’s experience, and take it as a warning—which I certainly did.

As I saw it, I had two possible futures: I could remain a spinster and hope that my family would be kind to me, or I could marry. A married woman was in charge of her own household, a queen of her domain like my indomitable Mama. Married women commanded respect and could move freely in society. Spinsters were universally either pitied or loathed. I therefore concluded that marriage was the only viable option.

By the time I was thirteen, Papa’s mill had multiplied into several such holdings. He was able to appoint overseers and move the family from Leeds to the more fashionable London, where he and Mama could further their plan to raise our family to the landed gentry. With a view to this end, Louisa and I attended a nearby seminary where we learned all the arts a woman might need to attract a discerning husband, such as speaking French, playing the pianoforte, drawing, sewing, netting purses, appropriate manners, and household management. We were also relentlessly drilled in posture and elegant walking, shown how to arrange our skirts to best effect while sitting, and forced to practice smiling coquettishly at one another, among other husband-hunting tricks. I excelled at the pianoforte, something I took great pride in. I also enjoyed speaking French, which was, I believed, a beautiful, sophisticated language. The ability to speak French well was apparently one of the cardinal signifiers of a lady. If so, I congratulated myself smugly, I was a prime example of such a refined creature.

The girls we associated with at the seminary were mostly the daughters of wealthy tradesmen trying to enter society, as we were, though there were some daughters of minor gentlemen among our set, too. The daughters of wealthier gentlemen preferred to maintain the distinction of rank, and the daughters of the nobility and others in the first circles were generally not educated at a seminary at all, but rather by masters at home. There was little room for friendship among us young ladies of the merchant class. I attribute this to the feeling we all shared that we were competing for too small a pool of resources: namely, landed gentlemen who would consider a tradesman’s daughter marriageable.

I did manage to make a few friends at the seminary, though: Miss Hamilton, Miss Mills, Miss Lynn, and Miss Abel. Mostly they were the daughters of minor gentry, and not so competitive as the girls from my own class, nor so puffed up with familial pride as to be unwilling to associate with a lowly tradesman’s daughter. There were times, though, when they talked about their father’s estates—no matter how insignificant, they were still superior to no estate at all—or how their well-connected aunt or cousin would be sponsoring their presentation to the Queen. They made subtle digs at me and other ladies of similar descent from time to time, no doubt to remind us of our place while also making themselves feel better about their own.

It was while we were away at school that Mama passed suddenly of apoplexy. As it was Not Done for women to attend a funeral in any case, Louisa and I were left to grieve at school, away from our family—though we were given some time to ourselves to mourn and reflect. I had always respected my mother, and in many ways admired her, but she was a difficult woman to love. I think she found love to be an unnecessary emotion in any case, so perhaps she would not have minded that I could not seem to summon the tears or depth of sadness the occasion seemed to call for. Louisa shed a tear or two, then appeared to put the entire affair behind her, and rarely did I hear her mention our mother again.

I left school at seventeen. With my brother Charles still at Cambridge and Louisa married and gone, I felt lonely in our townhouse. My father and I were eager for me to marry well, both so I could raise the family’s consequence and so I could secure a comfortable future for myself. Papa therefore asked his spinster sister Aunt Philippa to come down from Yorkshire to act as my chaperon and guide during my first, and hopefully only, Season, following my eighteenth birthday.

Aunt Philippa was tall and slim like me, though, at her advanced age, she leaned more towards cadaverous than fashionably willowy. Aunt Philippa and I also shared thick, chestnut hair, though mine was glossier due, I imagine, to my youth—and also perhaps to the whipped egg whites I regularly applied. My aunt’s had been a lonely life. She used to live with us in Leeds, where she helped Mama care for us children and did all of the family’s mending. After our move to Town, though, Papa set her up in a small establishment of her own with a paid companion. Papa wanted his sister to come to Town with us, but Mama thought our chances were better socially without an unfortunate relative always hanging about. She wished Papa to dispose of Aunt Philippa, just as she once forced him to dispose of the pet starling he kept before they were married. Mama was always somewhat cold, and I never remember any affection between her and her sister-by-marriage.

There was only slightly more warmth between her and Papa. Mama would have been pleased to know that, due to my aunt’s example, I swore I would never place myself so at the mercy of my future sister-in-law as Aunt Philippa had done.

III. 

The Season

Papa had used some of his business connections to get me an invitation to one of the first big private balls of the Season, and it would be my first Society event. I delighted in the process of ordering my first wardrobe as a fully grown young woman newly out in Society. The night of that first ball, I wore my favorite of my newly delivered dresses: a light blue silk gown with a deeper blue velvet sash just beneath the swell of the chest, and embroidered detailing on the bodice to accentuate the low neckline. The color of the gown was just enough to add allure while still remaining appropriate for an unmarried young lady. I also wore the delicate diamond necklace and matching diamond hair pins Papa had given me for my sixteenth birthday. In my dark hair, the hair pins glittered like little stars. I had never seen myself look so lovely. It was a heady feeling.

Stunning, my girl! Papa said as he helped me into my cloak, giving me a little kiss on the cheek in the process. You’ll have all those rich young bucks following you around like puppies!

Thank you, Papa, I said, blushing with pleasure at the thought.

You look just as I did at your age, Aunt Philippa said with a warm smile. She obviously meant it as a compliment, but I hoped that our similarities would end at appearance and my social career would have a somewhat different trajectory than hers.

The Hanleys’ townhouse in Mayfair where the ball was being held was much larger than our house or the houses of any of the school friends I had visited. It was truly more of a palace than a house. Excitement buzzed through me from the moment I stepped inside. The ballroom was cavernous, with ceilings so high that the crush seemed almost bearable. I had never seen so many elegant people in one place before in my life. It was as though the fashion plates from my favorite ladies’ magazines moved before me in living color.

I located some of my school friends and their mamas. Aunt Philippa looked like a scarecrow next to the plump hens that were the other girls’ mothers. If my own mother had been there, she would have outshone them all, a golden-haired Venus in comparison, though her aloof bearing might have inhibited the social interactions necessary to such events. I know not what sort of conversation Aunt Philippa was able to make with those ladies because my attention was on more important matters: namely, all of the handsome young gentlemen circulating through the room. Before the ball began, we younger ladies spent a good deal of time debating which among the gentlemen were most handsome, and how their persons ranked relative to one another.

I must say, Miss Abel said, I am a little surprised to see you here, Caroline. However did you get an invitation?

"Oh, my father has quite a lot of connections among the haute ton, I said, forcing an insincere smile. If you ever need help getting into one of the more elite events of the Season, please let me know."

She narrowed her eyes and gave a little half smile, nodding her head as though to acknowledge the hit.

I never particularly cared for Henrietta Abel. She always made more of a point than any of the other young ladies of reminding me of my station.  Moreover, her French was nearly flawless, and she was beautiful: Henrietta had silky caramel-colored hair and luminous eyes in a most arresting shade of green. To be truthful, she looked exactly like I had always imagined Queen Guinevere appeared when Aunt Philippa told us tales of King Arthur before bed. That evening, she wore an elegant white silk gown with Pomona green embroidery and trim that brought out her magnificent eyes. I knew I looked well that night, but her radiance was still a blow to my confidence.

Despite their pedigree, I knew I had one advantage over my school companions: my dowry was larger than any of theirs. I also believed myself to be prettier and more charming than any of them—except perhaps for Miss Abel. As such, I felt confident that I would be the first of our group to fill her dance card, and would most likely also be the frontrunner in our unofficial race to the altar.

We were introduced to several young gentlemen that night. Our dance cards filled up quickly, and, much to my delight, we danced until the early morning. I found the evening thrilling, but Aunt Philippa seemed delighted only by the prospect of returning home to her bed. Though clearly exhausted, she managed a small smile for me.

You did very well, my dear. I’m sure you’ll have a whole host of suitors before long.

A whole host of wealthy suitors, I said, giggling. 

Just remember, my dear, Aunt Philippa said with a worried little frown, that it is better to be alone than to throw yourself away on a life without affection.

I had no politic response to make to that blatant nonsense, so I merely kissed her goodnight on her sunken cheek and floated up to bed.

As my aunt predicted, I soon had several young gentlemen eager for my company at the various events I attended around town. One gentleman quickly became my favorite: Mr. Reed of Surrey. He was a tall man, powerfully built, with dancing blue eyes and gently waving dark gold hair. There was a dimple in the center of his square chin and a boyish quirk to his smile. He was a graceful dance partner and, as I learned during our morning rides at Hyde Park, an accomplished horseman, with quite an admirable seat.

At a soirée soon after we met, we spent most of the evening huddled in a corner together making each other laugh. Aunt Philippa sat near enough to make everything proper, speaking to no one. She was clearly bored to tears, but my sympathy for my aunt’s discomfort was limited. After all, the time