Chapter 13 #2
“We must, of course, dress suitably,” Mrs Bennet continued, already arranging the matter in her mind. “One never knows what impression one may make.”
“I expect Mrs Ashton will value civility more than display,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs Bennet waved this aside with affectionate indulgence. “One may have both.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly and bent again to her page.
Whatever Mrs Ashton expected of them, she thought, it would not be decided by ribbons or silks. Lambton had taught her that much already.
And Thursday, she suspected, would teach her something more.
Mrs Bennet, Elizabeth soon discovered, had not attended the Ashton visit unprepared.
In the days since Mr Ashton’s call, she had gathered, by means of a few well-placed remarks and a readiness to listen, a fairly complete impression of Willowbank House.
“It is prettily situated,” she observed, as though continuing a conversation begun earlier. “Just by the river, you know. Mrs Grant mentioned it particularly. A gentle bend in the water, with willow trees trailing almost into it. And such agreeable walks. Level, which is no small advantage.”
Jane smiled. “It sounds pleasant.”
“It is,” Mrs Bennet replied. “And not ostentatious. That is what I like best. Warm stone, sensible rooms, and a library that looks over the water.”
Elizabeth’s needle paused. That, at least, interested her.
“They keep a modest staff,” Mrs Bennet continued. “Enough for comfort, not enough to cause unease. And the grounds are well cared for. Mr Ashton walks them daily, attentive to his tenants too.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “You have been thorough.”
Mrs Bennet looked pleased. “One hears things.”
What Elizabeth heard beneath her mother’s satisfaction was not ambition so much as relief. Willowbank was respectable. It was secure. It belonged to the category of places where life might be lived with dignity.
The Ashton house stood a little beyond the village, set back from the road where the land dipped gently toward the river.
A narrow sweep of gravel led the carriage through open gates, bordered by trimmed grass and young trees just beginning to show their spring green.
Nothing announced the estate with flourish.
It revealed itself gradually, confident of being noticed in time.
Elizabeth observed at once that Willowbank was larger than she had expected, though not imposing. The warm-toned stone caught the light kindly, and the long line of windows suggested rooms intended for daily use. The house appeared settled, inhabited, and at ease with itself.
Beyond the sweep, the grounds opened into gentle order. The river lay nearby, glimpsed through trailing willows, and the land sloped into meadows that promised walking. Everything spoke of care and attention.
Mr Ashton assisted Mrs Bennet from the carriage himself and offered his arm as they mounted the steps. There was no pause for announcement beyond what was necessary. The door was opened at once, and they were shown inside with quiet efficiency.
Elizabeth followed, conscious of a curious impression she could not immediately name.
Willowbank did not feel like a house prepared for company.
It felt like one accustomed to it.
The sitting room was modest in size and comfortably arranged. Light entered freely through the windows, falling across polished surfaces that bore no sign of excess. Tea was already laid, plainly but carefully, and the room held the reassuring scent of warm china and fresh leaves.
Mrs Ashton rose with visible effort as they entered.
“My dear Mrs Bennet,” she said, extending her hand. “You are good to come. I regret that I cannot yet return the visit.”
Mrs Bennet protested at once, full of sympathy and understanding, declaring that she herself knew too well the trials of uncertain health and was gratified to be received.
Mrs Ashton smiled and was assisted back into her chair by her son.
Elizabeth noted that there was nothing anxious in her manner.
She was pale, and her movements were measured, but her eyes were alert and her attention fully engaged.
She had already heard much of the Bennets from her sister, who visited often and observed closely, and it lent the meeting a sense of familiarity that required no effort to manufacture.
Tea was poured, and conversation settled easily into place.
Mrs Ashton spoke of her sister’s visits, of the comfort she took in their nearness, and of Lambton’s habits, which she professed never to tire of observing.
“My sister has always had a keen eye for character,” she said mildly. “She is rarely mistaken.”
Elizabeth met her gaze with calm civility.
Jane spoke gently of their own settling in the village, expressing gratitude for the kindness they had received. Mrs Bennet, encouraged by the warmth of the occasion, spoke freely of routine and the pleasure of neighbours who did not insist upon ceremony.
Mr Ashton seated himself near Elizabeth, speaking easily of small matters: the weather, his return to Lambton, his mother’s determination that nothing be altered in the household despite her health.
“She is more capable than she allows,” he said, with affectionate amusement.
Mrs Ashton gave a faint laugh. “Do not listen to him. He has always thought me sturdier than I am.”
Elizabeth smiled politely. Mr Ashton was agreeable, undeniably so. His manners were open, his conversation attentive without urgency. If he watched her, he did so lightly.
Mrs Bennet’s gaze moved from the tea tray to the drapes, from the polish on the table to the quiet efficiency of the servant who crossed the room, and back again without ever seeming to stare.
“It must be such a comfort to you,” she said warmly, “to have so attentive a son. One does not often find such devotion.”
“I am fortunate,” Mrs Ashton replied. “It was not always meant to be so.”
Matthew glanced toward his mother with a faint, cautionary smile, but she continued, her voice steady.
“My elder son was to have the estate. Arthur. He was bred for it from the first. Matthew was intended for the law. He had already begun his studies when circumstances altered.”
Elizabeth listened, registering the shape of the family history even as she kept her expression composed.
“My husband and Arthur were taken within the same year,” Mrs Ashton went on. “Illness first, then an accident. The shock was considerable.” She rested her hand briefly against the arm of her chair. “I have never recovered my former strength.”
Matthew said nothing, but his attention sharpened, his posture subtly attentive in a way Elizabeth recognised as habitual.
“So everything changed at once,” Mrs Bennet said, with genuine sympathy.
“Yes,” Mrs Ashton replied. “And Matthew returned home, as was necessary. He has done well by us.”
Her gaze rested for a moment on Jane, then passed to Elizabeth, thoughtful but unhurried, before returning to Mrs Bennet.
The visit passed in easy conversation. Nothing more of consequence was said, yet nothing felt empty.
Elizabeth found herself at ease, observing the room as much as the company.
This was not a household inclined to display, nor one that required admiration.
It existed comfortably within its own measure.
When they rose to take their leave, Mrs Ashton pressed Mrs Bennet’s hand with gentle sincerity.
“You must allow me to improve enough to return the visit,” she said. “I should like that.”
“We shall look forward to it,” Mrs Bennet replied.
Outside, as they were assisted once more into the carriage, Mrs Bennet leaned toward Jane with undisguised satisfaction.
“How pleasant,” she murmured. “And such attentions. One feels at home.”
Elizabeth said nothing, watching the house recede as the carriage turned back toward Lambton.
It had been a kind visit. A civil one. Nothing more.
Yet as the afternoon light softened and the familiar road carried them home, Elizabeth was aware of a subtle shift. And she suspected Lambton was not yet done presenting them.