14The odds were never in Caroline's favor. The bitter thought that had occurred to her many times throughout her life popped into her head as she made her way through red and gold hallways to the nearby sitting room. The new wallpaper at her brother-in-law's house always distinctly reminded her of Charles's Netherfield. That house had felt nothing like home and something about the country had always made her feel unsettled and on edge. Netherfield only reminded her of unpleasant times: Darcy ignoring her while she vied for his attention, Charles mooning over someone she had seen as nothing more than a slightly tolerable country peasant, and her awful brother-in-law, may he now rest in peace, completely ruining her favorite dress on their first day by accidentally upsetting her balance and causing her to fall into the mud.
Caroline thought of the moment –– now a few years ago –– when Elizabeth had first appeared at Netherfield, waltzing into the breakfast room with her skirt looking like it had been dragged six-inches deep in mud. How she had stood out against the marble floors and the finely decorated walls! How her wild hair and her wilder spirit were so opposite from the prim manners Caroline so painstakingly practiced! Elizabeth clearly had never felt out of place as the daughter of a Northern textile manufacturer moving every so often in the circles of esteemed families and noble households. Caroline would have bet her marriage prospects that Elizabeth had never practiced walking gracefully without tripping over her own feet or bowing in front of the mirror a hundred times until her legs were too sore to continue. No, from the moment Caroline had met that girl, she knew that everything came naturally to Elizabeth: her grace, her charm (as loath as Caroline was to admit it, Elizabeth had a certain charisma; Darcy had fallen prey to it, after all) –– all of it came from a mind unburdened with constant self-doubt and free from having to strive to fit in.
However, thinking of Elizabeth now only brought up the shame-tinged memories of losing herself in insecurity and competition. Caroline entered the sitting room and sank into a green velvet chair by the window as she tried to turn her mind away from reliving those days. But the memories, one by one, forced their way into her head anyway.
Caroline had just won another a game against her sister and brother-in-law, who were seated at the cards table with her. Elizabeth entered and moved toward the bookshelf. When Mrs. Hurst asked her why she wouldn't play cards, Caroline nearly scoffed. Of course Miss Eliza Bennett would think herself above the rest of them and their silly little card games. Caroline herself went to pick up a book, not to be outdone by Elizabeth Bennett, but soon left it discarded on a side table. A conversation had begun about books and libraries, which led to the topic that conversations involving Caroline and Charles often led to: when he was going to finally buy an estate. It was a topic that Caroline always took seriously and that Charles rarely did.
Finally, the conversation, despite Caroline's best efforts and to her dismay, ended up in a verbal sparring match between Darcy and Elizabeth. And oh, the irony; the topic was none other than the characteristics that constitute an accomplished woman.
"No one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have thorough knowledge of music" (Caroline played the piano passably, though she had never possessed that inherent talent that no amount of practice could yield), "singing" (Caroline felt reasonably confident in her singing abilities, but, when pressed, would rather play the piano than sing, or at least do both at once), "drawing" (as a girl, Caroline had once sat in front of the same bowl of fruits for three hours until it looked exactly like the view in front of her), "dancing" (Caroline was a lovely dancer, though admittedly not the most lively), "and the modern languages" (Ah, her favorite! This was the area in which Caroline excelled. She spoke French, Italian and Dutch quite fluently and was well on her way to learning a bit of German as well) to deserve the word." Caroline paused here. "And besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word would be but half deserved." Half deserved indeed. Caroline had meant the second part as a barb against Elizabeth's terrible posture, undignified laugh, and manly walk, but the only person who really felt the barb was Caroline herself, who had always felt like she was lacking that extra something that would make people respect and love her.
"All this she must possess," Darcy said, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." At this Caroline looked down at her discarded book. She was tired of perfecting, beyond exhausted by it in fact, but nothing motivated her like insecurity. Caroline turned and her gaze landed on the letter Darcy had been writing, now abandoned as Darcy turned in his chair to face Elizabeth.
That image of the letter in Caroline's mind now bled into another image of another letter in her memory. It was much later–Caroline could not exactly recall how many months–and the handwriting of her letter looked a little shaky as Caroline reread the words on the page. The desperate thump of the blood pulsing in her ears made her head hurt, but a nudge in the leg and a small whine from her curly-haired lap dog made her refocus.
She was doing this for a good reason. It was for Darcy's own benefit that any blossoming romance between himself and Elizabeth be undone; in fact, hadn't he done the same for her brother Charles? And if breaking up any agreements or feelings between the two would ensure that that little Miss Elizabeth with her superiority complex would be trounced and prevented from having an ego the size of Pemberley, then Caroline would just enjoy the extra benefits of an otherwise necessary and good action. After all, Caroline would never be able to bear it if Elizabeth won Darcy.
The letter, addressed to one Lady Catherine de Bourgh, said this:
Dearest Lady Catherine,
I hope this letter finds you well. We met thrice before at Pemberley and once more when I came to Rosings two years ago, and I must say, I was always taken with the elegance, regality and esteem of you, your daughter Anne, and your entire household. Thus I find it incumbent upon myself to alert you to some recent events that I am sure you will find troubling. It seems that our dear friend Mr. Darcy, who is as close as family to my brother and myself, and who, as I remember you confided in me after dinner one night, is promised to your lovely daughter Anne, has been struck with a fever of so-called love, brought on by the wiles of one Miss Elizabeth Bennett, the country girl with whom you have had previous dealings through your clergyman, Mr. Collins. According to my brother, Mr. Darcy has already proposed to Miss Bennett, but I am unsure of both the result of the proposal and the current status of the two. I must say that this girl is not only deficient in wealth, but also in connections, manners, and taste. I myself feel guilty in this dreadful situation, as it was my brother's friendship with Mr. Darcy and his fondness of Netherfield that allowed such an unlikely connection to come about between the two. I plead your forgiveness for my unknowing role in this matter, as Miss Eliza Bennett would surely ruin Pemberley and the reputation of such a noble family and esteemed name. I beg of you, help poor Mr. Darcy, who has fallen prey to this siren girl. It is not too late to set him right and do what is best for him.
Sincerely,
Caroline Bingley
Leaving the letter on the small wooden desk to let the ink dry, Caroline went to the mirror in the room to fix her hair. After slipping back in the last of her hair pins, Caroline caught her own eye in the mirror and held her gaze fixed on herself. She thought of Darcy–putting his hand on her brother's shoulder after the death of the elder Mr. Bingley, always doting on his sister Georgiana, accompanying Caroline when she bugged him, even when she was sure it was the last thing he wanted to do. . .
Caroline turned away from the mirror and walked back to the desk. After avoiding stepping on Maude, the soft bundle of brown curls now huddled and asleep near the desk chair, she poured the wax and placed her stamp on top. She surmised that she had sealed not only the letter, but perhaps the fate of Darcy as well.
But weeks later, when she found out that, by some odd quirk of fate, it was her own action, this very letter to Lady Catherine, that was the impetus behind Darcy's second proposal and the rejoining of the two, Caroline had raged in the privacy of her bedroom until she felt tears coming. It was then that she thought to herself that the odds were indeed never in her favor.
Caroline now forced the iron gate to slam shut in her mind, releasing her from painful memories. She had been foolish then. She had fancied herself in love with Darcy for a heartbeat, seeking to realize her immature daydreams of having a man to romance and admire her, to make her feel desired. The prospect of running an estate like Pemberley and of finally being unquestioned and accepted in nobler society had only further egged her on. Later, it was more about proving to herself and to the world that she was good enough for him, about asserting her superiority to cover up her insecurity, about refusing to give up or "lose" to Elizabeth Bennett.
The odds were never in Caroline's favor. She knew that; it was never easy for her and she had never really made it any easier for herself. But there was one thing she had always been able to do: forge her own path purely on willpower and perseverance.
Her insurmountable pride and her prejudice toward Elizabeth and the Bennetts had ended up hurting no one but herself. But she had made amends with Elizabeth and Darcy, and even Jane.
Caroline finally felt herself return to the present, plucked from her swirling thoughts and plopped back into the armchair she had been occupying for the past thirty or so minutes. Looking out the window, she saw that the sun was setting and leaking rays of light were making the snow on the ground sparkle with shades of orange as they turned the sky pink and purple. For a moment, she took in the beauty of it all contentedly, but the longer she looked out upon the sky and the snowy tree tops, the more she felt the tears build up behind her eyes. She felt an ache, like she was in mourning from losing a loved one, or like she was being forced to accept a truth that she had tried so desperately to evade.
When the first tear rolled down her cheek, she forced herself to get up and head back through the red and gold hallway and up the stairs to her bedroom. A red dress, one that she had loved for years, was lying on her bed, but as Caroline looked at it, something felt wrong. She stared at it for a minute, a frown on her face as she tried to puzzle out what was suddenly so different about it. It came to her just as she was about to give up: the red seemed dulled and old, no longer the vibrant crimson it had once been. Nevertheless, she called the maid to help her put it on and to do her hair for the ball. This was the last large social event that Caroline would attend before her departure to spend some months with Charles and Jane at Netherfield, where she would, as she often did there, retreat into a shell and become somewhat of a shut-in.
The ache was suddenly back, hitting her hard in the chest and forcing her to sink down onto her bed. She yelled at the maid to get out, and lay collapsed on the bed for a few minutes, waiting for the crushing feeling to dull and the wetness on her cheeks to dry. She now identified the ache: it was hopelessness.
It was an overpowering sense of hopelessness that rendered her unable to move until it turned to rage and suddenly she was ripping off her red dress and throwing it as far away from herself as she could manage. She sat back down on her bed, looking at the red dress, which was now torn in the arm, and there she stayed until the maid came back in, notifying her that she would be late for the ball.
Caroline made some excuse –– her stomach wasn't feeling well, she thought she might have a fever, or something like that –– and refused the maid's offer to fetch help. That night, instead of sleeping, she replayed her entire life in her head. Her regrets hurt tenfold. Her joys felt dulled. Most of all, she reanalyzed every man she had been cold to, every suitor she had scoffed at, and every person she had felt so superior to. She felt a fool now, alone and living between her two siblings, fading into the wallpaper until she became a ghost haunting this house. Never happy, never fulfilled.
She now thought to herself, for the first time in her life, that it wasn't that the odds were not in her favor; she was just no longer in the game at all. With that thought, the sun finally broke the horizon in the distance and a dim and dull light began to permeate the room.