Chapter Two — Silvermere Receives Its Guests #3
Bingley arrived soon after, and any attempt at impartial observation became, for a moment, unnecessary.
His pleasure upon seeing Jane was so open that even Silvermere’s disciplined air could not quite contain it.
He entered with Darcy, whose grave composure offered so strong a contrast that the two gentlemen together appeared almost emblematic: warmth beside restraint, hope beside caution, sunlight beside shadow, though Elizabeth had lately come to understand that shadows, in Darcy’s case, often concealed heat rather than cold.
Bingley bowed first to Lady Ashbourne, then to Mrs Gardiner, then to the sisters. His civility to all was proper; his happiness in one direction was hopeless.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, “I am very glad to see you arrived safely.”
“Thank you. We had a pleasant journey.”
“And the road? Not too rough, I hope?”
“No, not at all.”
“And your rooms? I trust you are comfortable.”
“Very.”
“And the view of the lake—”
“Is beautiful,” Jane said, smiling now. “You may be easy, Mr Bingley. Nothing has yet occurred to distress me.”
He coloured slightly, then laughed at himself. “Then I am relieved too soon, perhaps. The visit has barely begun.”
Elizabeth, standing near enough to hear, thought this not a bad summary.
Darcy greeted her with his usual bow, but the glance that accompanied it was less usual. It contained recognition, enquiry and something like caution, as though he wished to know whether Silvermere had already confirmed her suspicions and feared the answer would be yes.
“Miss Bennet.”
“Mr Darcy.”
“I hope your journey was comfortable.”
“Very. The road was obliging, the hedgerows ornamental, and the house has already made a most determined effort to impress me.”
“With success?”
“With partial success. I admire it too much to trust it entirely.”
He looked toward the windows, where the lake shone beyond the terrace. “Beauty is not in itself suspicious.”
“No. But arrangement often is.”
His gaze returned to her. “Silvermere is very well arranged.”
“So I had observed.”
There was no smile now, but there was something warmer than amusement in his expression.
They stood together not quite apart from the room, yet in a small interval of understanding which seemed to create its own privacy.
Elizabeth was aware of others moving, speaking, settling; of Lady Ashbourne’s voice; of Bingley near Jane; of Felix directing a footman.
Yet for a moment her attention rested wholly upon Darcy, and upon the curious ease of being serious with him without explanation.
“You know Lady Ashbourne better than I do,” she said.
“Not well. But enough to think she is not a woman to be carelessly underestimated.”
“I never underestimate women who have persuaded society to call control elegance.”
Darcy’s mouth almost curved. “That is a severe description.”
“Is it inaccurate?”
“No.”
“Then I shall keep it.”
His eyes moved briefly toward Lady Ashbourne, who was at that moment receiving Mrs Lyndhurst with perfect cordiality. “Control may be necessary in a house such as this.”
“It may. The question is always what it prevents.”
“Disorder, perhaps.”
“Or disclosure.”
He did not answer at once. That he did not dismiss the possibility pleased Elizabeth more than agreement spoken too quickly would have done.
Before their exchange could continue, Mrs Lyndhurst made her presence felt in the room with the soft brightness of a woman who never entered violently yet somehow contrived to make everyone aware she had arrived.
She was perhaps in her forties, fashionably dressed, handsome enough to resent younger beauty only in private, and gifted with an expression of concern so habitual that Elizabeth suspected it could be summoned on behalf of anything from a ruined reputation to a misplaced shawl.
Beside her stood Miss Amelia Trent, pale, slight and quiet, with a manner so unobtrusive that it seemed less natural than trained.
Mrs Lyndhurst greeted Lady Ashbourne with affectionate admiration and declared the house perfection, the lake enchanting, the journey delightful, and the company already promising every felicity. Her glance rested upon Jane and Bingley with a brightness Elizabeth did not enjoy.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” she said, moving toward Jane almost at once, “how very charming to find you here. Lady Ashbourne has gathered such a pleasing party. One might almost think happiness itself had been invited and persuaded to attend.”
Jane smiled with her usual courtesy. “You are very kind.”
“Oh, kindness has nothing to do with it. I speak only what every eye must see. There are some young ladies upon whom fortune smiles with particular sweetness.”
Bingley, standing beside Jane, looked as if he wished to be delighted and uneasy at the same time. Elizabeth saw Jane’s fingers tighten slightly around her fan.
Mrs Lyndhurst continued, “And some gentlemen, too, are favoured in their prospects. Though perhaps I say too much. One must not anticipate what is not announced, however natural anticipation may be.”
This was said with a laugh intended to excuse everything it made impossible to ignore.
Jane’s colour rose. Bingley’s expression changed. For once, he did not answer with embarrassed cheerfulness. He looked at Jane first, and whatever he saw there steadied him.
“Mrs Lyndhurst,” he said pleasantly, “I believe Lady Ashbourne mentioned the east terrace as having the finest view of the lake. Miss Bennet, if you have not yet seen it, perhaps Mrs Gardiner and I may persuade you to inspect it before the light alters.”
It was smoothly done—not brilliant, perhaps, but kind and timely.
He turned a public pressure into a general movement, and in doing so removed Jane from the centre of it.
Mrs Gardiner accepted at once. Jane’s gratitude was visible only to those who knew how to read her, but Elizabeth read it. So, she thought, did Darcy.
Mrs Lyndhurst, briefly deprived of her subject, smiled as though the rearrangement had been her own idea. “An excellent thought. The lake must be admired while it is most becoming.”
“Lakes,” Elizabeth murmured to Darcy as the party began to shift, “are fortunate. Their admirers seldom expect them to reply.”
“Unlike young ladies.”
“Precisely.”
His expression darkened very slightly. “Bingley handled that well.”
“He did.”
The simple admission carried more feeling than Elizabeth had intended. Darcy heard it, and she saw that he understood not only her approval of Bingley but the history of concern behind it.
They moved with the others toward the terrace, and in that movement Elizabeth observed two more members of the party.
Mrs Celia Harrow stood near one of the long windows, watching the company arrange itself without attempting to claim any place in it.
She was younger than Elizabeth had expected from the gravity attached to her name, perhaps eight-and-twenty, though sorrow or caution had lent her a composure beyond her years.
She wore grey—not mourning exactly, but a shade sufficiently subdued to avoid comment and sufficiently becoming to suggest she had not surrendered entirely to invisibility.
Her face was fine rather than pretty, with dark eyes, a clear brow, and a mouth accustomed, Elizabeth thought, to closing upon words before they escaped.
She was not timid. Timidity shrinks from notice; Mrs Harrow appeared to have learned how to receive it without offering it nourishment.
Lady Ashbourne treated her with civility. Not warmth. Not coldness. Civility, exact and defensible. Mrs Lyndhurst looked at her with interest carefully disguised as sympathy. Miss Trent, Elizabeth noticed, did not look at Mrs Harrow directly at all, yet seemed aware of her with every nerve.
Near the terrace door stood Miss Portia Vale.
She was introduced a few minutes later as Felix’s cousin, though the resemblance between them was chiefly useful as contrast. Miss Vale was not handsome in the polished style of her cousin, nor did she appear greatly troubled by the fact.
She had a strong brow, intelligent eyes, and an expression which suggested she had been expected to be grateful for tolerance and had found the expectation tiresome.
Her gown was proper but not fashionable; her manner, when presented to Elizabeth, was curt enough to be nearly rude and honest enough to be refreshing.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” said Felix, performing the introduction with his usual ease, “my cousin, Miss Portia Vale.”
Miss Vale curtseyed. “I hope you will like Silvermere.”
“So do I,” Elizabeth replied.
Portia looked at her, then smiled unexpectedly. “That is a better answer than saying you are sure you shall.”
“I try not to be sure before there is evidence.”
“Then you may survive the visit.”
“Portia,” Felix said lightly, “you will make Miss Elizabeth think us inhospitable.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, “only interesting.”
Felix laughed, but Miss Vale’s eyes rested on Elizabeth with sudden approval.
Colonel Avery arrived last before luncheon, and his entrance introduced into Silvermere’s controlled atmosphere a quantity of weather it had not authorised.
He was a large, blunt-featured man of late middle age, with iron-grey hair, a heavy step, and the air of someone who had been obliged in youth to obey orders and had spent the remainder of life making amends by ignoring suggestions.
He greeted Lady Ashbourne with real affection and no ceremony.
“Eleanor,” he said, taking both her hands. “You look too thin.”
Lady Ashbourne did not flinch, though several nearby guests did so on her behalf. “And you, Colonel, remain too frank.”
“At my age, it saves time.”
“It has rarely saved mine.”
He laughed, kissed her hand, and turned to the company with a nod that acknowledged them all without troubling to distinguish rank by degrees. Elizabeth liked him before he spoke again and more when he did.