Chapter One — An Invitation Too Well Arranged #2
Their conversation proceeded for a few minutes upon ordinary subjects.
Bath’s walks were discussed; the improvement in the weather considered; the number of acquaintances still in town noted with the half-regret people give to those whose company they do not particularly seek but are accustomed to encountering.
Bingley spoke with cheerful civility to Mrs Gardiner and answered Elizabeth’s teasing with good humour, yet beneath it all there remained that visible thread of awareness between himself and Jane.
It did not embarrass Elizabeth as once it might have done.
It had become too sincere for embarrassment.
When a short pause came, Bingley said, with an air of forced casualness that deceived nobody, “I understand Darcy means to call later.”
Elizabeth, who had been reaching for her teacup, completed the motion with admirable composure. “Does he?”
“I believe so.”
Mrs Gardiner’s eyes moved briefly from Elizabeth to Jane and back again, but she said nothing. Jane bent over her work, which Elizabeth suspected had not advanced by a single stitch since Mr Bingley’s arrival.
“And is Mr Darcy’s intention to call a matter of public intelligence,” Elizabeth asked, “or a confidence you have betrayed through excessive openness?”
Bingley considered this. “I am not certain Darcy would call it a confidence. He said only that he had business nearby and might pay his respects.”
“Mr Darcy has elevated paying respects into a branch of business. How very like him.”
Bingley laughed. “He is more sociable than you allow.”
“I allow him a great many virtues.”
“Do you?”
The question was asked innocently, but Elizabeth felt Jane’s amusement before she saw it. She set down her cup. “Mr Bingley, if you have come to conduct an examination of my opinions, I must insist upon knowing whether Mr Darcy has prepared the questions.”
“No, indeed. Darcy never prepares questions. He prepares silences in which other people reveal more than they intended.”
Mrs Gardiner laughed, and Elizabeth, despite herself, joined her. “That is unjust, Mr Bingley. Accurate, perhaps, but unjust.”
Bingley looked pleased with himself, as though he had achieved a triumph of wit and friendship at once.
Jane’s smile deepened, and for a moment the room possessed the ease of a future already forming quietly around them.
Elizabeth felt it with an affection so strong it almost frightened her.
She did not fear Jane’s happiness; she feared only the world’s appetite for interrupting it.
It was perhaps for this reason that her eyes returned to the letter beside Mrs Gardiner.
Her aunt, noticing the glance, rested her hand lightly upon it. “Since Mr Bingley is here, the matter may as well be mentioned.”
Bingley’s expression altered at once. “Matter?”
“It is nothing alarming,” Mrs Gardiner said.
“That,” Elizabeth replied, “is often the phrase by which alarm enters politely.”
Mrs Gardiner gave her a look of mild reproach, then unfolded the letter. “I have received an invitation from Lady Ashbourne.”
At the name, Bingley sat forward. Jane’s brows lifted slightly.
Elizabeth searched her memory and found, not acquaintance, but reputation: an old family, a widow, a house in the country, charity conducted with refinement, influence exercised without noise.
Lady Ashbourne was not a person frequently spoken of in extravagant terms, which in itself suggested consequence.
Those who truly command society are often spared the vulgarity of being constantly described.
“Lady Ashbourne,” Elizabeth repeated. “I do not believe I have had the honour of meeting her.”
“No,” said Mrs Gardiner. “She has been little in Bath this season, though not absent from its arrangements. She has a house some miles out—Silvermere.”
“Silvermere House?” Bingley said. “I have heard Darcy speak of it.”
“Favourably?” Elizabeth asked.
Bingley hesitated. “Respectfully.”
“Ah. The distinction is promising.”
Mrs Gardiner smiled. “Lady Ashbourne writes that she is to receive a small party there for some days. Very select, very quiet, and, according to her own account, entirely informal.”
Elizabeth leaned back. “Then we may be certain it is none of those things.”
Jane looked amused. “Lizzy, you have not even heard the invitation.”
“I have heard enough. A lady of consequence does not invite a select party to a country house for several days in order that nothing particular may occur. Nothing particular is much more easily achieved at home.”
Bingley laughed, but there was a little uncertainty in it. “You are determined to make mystery of hospitality.”
“No, Mr Bingley. Hospitality does that very well without assistance, when it becomes too carefully arranged.”
Mrs Gardiner unfolded the letter fully and read aloud, not the whole, but those portions of it most relevant to their concern.
Lady Ashbourne expressed, in a hand as elegant as its language, a desire for Mrs Gardiner’s company and that of her nieces, whose discretion, understanding and recent kindness in a delicate affair had been mentioned to her in terms that made her eager to form their acquaintance.
Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley were likewise expected, should their engagements permit.
The party was to include no more than a dozen persons.
There would be music, walks about the grounds, a little planning for a charitable subscription, and such country amusements as spring weather allowed.
Lady Ashbourne hoped especially that Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet would not think the visit too sudden, nor the invitation too particular.
“That last phrase,” Elizabeth said when her aunt had finished, “is honest almost to imprudence.”
“In what way?” Jane asked.
“It admits that the invitation is particular, while hoping we shall not think it so. One must always be grateful when a sentence contradicts itself so obligingly.”
Mrs Gardiner folded the letter again. “It is certainly marked by intention.”
Bingley, whose pleasure had been growing with each mention of Jane’s inclusion, made an effort to appear reflective. “Silvermere is said to be very beautiful.”
“Beauty is often employed to make intention less visible,” said Elizabeth.
“Lizzy,” Jane murmured, though she was smiling.
“I am not objecting to beauty. I object only to being distracted by it before I understand why I have been invited to admire it.”
Bingley looked from one sister to the other. “Then you will come?”
The question was addressed generally, but no one in the room mistook the direction of his hope. Jane’s expression softened. She did not answer immediately, and that pause, small as it was, mattered. Bingley noticed it. More importantly, he respected it.
“I should like to know a little more of Lady Ashbourne,” Jane said.
This was Jane’s way. She never spoke suspicion where caution would suffice. Elizabeth loved her for it and occasionally despaired.
Mrs Gardiner turned the letter over thoughtfully.
“Lady Ashbourne is very highly thought of. Her husband died some years ago. Since then she has kept Silvermere with great propriety and has done a good deal of charitable work—quietly, but effectively. She is not a woman given to display. I have heard her called elegant, judicious and very discreet.”
“Discreet,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs Gardiner’s mouth curved. “You dislike the word.”
“I distrust its uses. It may mean kindness. It may mean concealment. It may mean the courage not to repeat what should be private, or the cowardice not to speak what should be known. It is a very flexible virtue.”
Bingley looked slightly alarmed by the number of meanings a single compliment had acquired under Elizabeth’s management. Jane, however, had lowered her gaze again, and there was thought in her face.
“And Silvermere?” she asked.
Mrs Gardiner considered. “An old house, though not one of the great show places. Pale stone, I believe, with long windows toward the lake. Formal gardens, a handsome music room, and a small chapel ruin in the grounds. The lake gives it its name; at certain hours the water appears almost silver.”
“How poetical,” said Elizabeth. “It remains only for someone to fall into it under suspicious circumstances.”
“Lizzy!”
“I am merely preparing myself.”
Bingley laughed outright this time, and Jane could not help joining him.
Yet Mrs Gardiner’s expression remained thoughtful, and Elizabeth knew her aunt too well to mistake it.
There was more to the invitation than courtesy.
Not danger necessarily; not even mystery; but arrangement.
And arrangement, to Elizabeth, was often the first visible shape of a truth attempting to disguise itself as propriety.
“Who else is to be of the party?” she asked.
Mrs Gardiner looked again at the letter. “Lady Ashbourne names only a few. Her nephew, Mr Felix Vale, will be present.”
Bingley nodded. “I have met him once, I think. A handsome fellow. Very agreeable.”
Elizabeth looked at him. “You say that as if it were a recommendation.”
“Is it not?”
“It depends entirely upon what he agrees with.”
Mrs Gardiner continued, with a smile at Bingley’s confusion. “There is also a Mrs Celia Harrow, a young widow.”
At this, Bingley’s expression altered. “Mrs Harrow?”
“You know her?” Jane asked.
“Not well. I have seen her in Bath. Darcy may know more. There was some story attached to her, I think, but I never understood it.”
“Then it must have been either very dull or very carefully managed,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs Gardiner glanced at her. “I have heard her spoken of with sympathy by some and hesitation by others.”
“That is a dangerous combination.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Gardiner quietly. “It often is.”