Chapter Two — Silvermere Receives Its Guests #4
During luncheon, the party settled into its first arrangement.
Lady Ashbourne presided with faultless ease.
Felix assisted so quietly that one might not notice how often he prevented hesitation: a dish recommended here, a question answered there, a servant directed by the smallest movement.
Darcy sat at some distance from Elizabeth, yet she was conscious more than once of his attention moving about the table in the same manner as her own.
He looked at people not when they spoke, but when another person’s speech touched them.
Elizabeth did likewise, and found herself, once or twice, following his glance to the same face.
Mrs Harrow spoke little, but when addressed she answered with intelligence and grace.
Miss Trent ate almost nothing. Mrs Lyndhurst praised everything and trusted nothing to pass without gentle interpretation.
Portia Vale said too little to please her cousin and enough to amuse Elizabeth.
Colonel Avery began one story about Lord Ashbourne’s youth which Lady Ashbourne redirected before it reached its second sentence.
“My husband,” she said, with a smile which contained warning as elegantly as a sheath contains a blade, “is not here to defend himself against your improvements upon memory.”
“Improvements!” Colonel Avery cried. “I have never improved a story in my life.”
“Then you must have been sadly misunderstood by everyone who has heard you tell one.”
The table laughed. The subject passed. Elizabeth saw Darcy notice the manner of its passing.
After luncheon, the guests dispersed according to the schedule which no one had been given and everyone somehow followed.
Some walked again upon the terrace. Mrs Lyndhurst retired to write letters, accompanied by Miss Trent, whose glance toward the door preceded her movement by several seconds.
Colonel Avery went to inspect the stables.
Portia vanished with the air of one escaping permission.
Mrs Harrow was invited by Lady Ashbourne to see the music room, and Jane, being asked whether she would like to accompany them, accepted.
Elizabeth found herself in the gallery a little later, having drifted there under the respectable pretext of admiring portraits.
In truth, she wished to understand the house beyond its public rooms. The gallery ran along the lake side, its windows tall and evenly spaced, the floor polished to such a shine that the pale light appeared to lie upon it in strips.
Portraits of Ashbournes and Vales hung between the windows, their expressions arranged in those varieties of confidence which posterity requires from people who have left descendants to defend them.
She paused before one gentleman whose handsome face had been painted with more charm than strength.
“Sir Edmund Vale,” said a voice behind her.
She turned. Darcy stood a few paces away.
“You move very quietly, Mr Darcy.”
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.”
“You did not. I was only beginning to suspect the portraits of speaking.”
He came to stand beside her. “In this house, I should not advise dismissing the possibility too quickly.”
Elizabeth smiled. “You grow fanciful.”
“No. Observant.”
She looked back at the portrait. “Sir Edmund Vale. Mr Felix Vale’s father?”
“Yes.”
“He was handsome.”
“He was considered so.”
“That is a cautious form of agreement.”
“I never knew him.”
“But you have heard of him.”
“A little.”
“And what does a little say?”
Darcy considered the painted face. “That he possessed charm enough to be forgiven often and judgement enough to require it.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “That is very neatly severe.”
“It is not my phrase. Colonel Avery said something similar some years ago.”
“Then I must cultivate Colonel Avery. He appears to say aloud what other people bury in qualifications.”
Darcy’s gaze moved from the portrait to the lake beyond the windows. “Lady Ashbourne was fond of Sir Edmund, I believe. He was connected to her husband’s family.”
“Fond enough to protect his memory?”
“Perhaps.”
Elizabeth studied the portrait again. “Memory is such a cooperative thing when families are concerned. It will often wear whatever expression is required of it.”
“Spoken from experience?”
“Spoken from having relations.”
That nearly won a smile from him.
They walked a little farther along the gallery.
Below, through the window, Jane and Bingley could be seen upon the terrace with Mrs Gardiner and Lady Ashbourne.
They were not alone. They were not permitted to be alone.
Yet the arrangement was so gracefully contrived that no one could have objected to it.
Lady Ashbourne spoke to Mrs Gardiner; Bingley stood near Jane; the lake shone; all was proper, pleasing and observed.
“Your friend is being very patient,” Elizabeth said.
Darcy looked down. “He is capable of it when the motive is strong enough.”
“I am glad to find it so.”
“You had reason to doubt him.”
Elizabeth did not answer quickly. “I had reason to fear he could be too easily persuaded against his own heart.”
Darcy’s expression changed slightly, and she knew he had heard in her words not only judgement of Bingley, but memory of his own interference. That subject lay between them still, no longer raw, perhaps, but not erased. Some past injuries are forgiven without being made unreal.
“He has learned,” Darcy said quietly.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “I think he has.”
A pause followed, not uncomfortable, but full. Darcy’s gaze remained upon Jane and Bingley. “Miss Bennet appears uneasy at being made the object of expectation.”
Elizabeth looked at him. “You see that?”
“Yes.”
“She is happy. But happiness watched too closely begins to feel like examination.”
Darcy said nothing for a moment. “Then Bingley must learn to guard her without hurrying her.”
Elizabeth turned to him with surprise. “That is exactly what he must learn.”
His gaze met hers. “He will.”
It was said simply, but with confidence. Elizabeth felt a flicker of gratitude. Darcy had altered, too. Once, perhaps, he would have trusted his own judgement of what Bingley’s happiness required more than Jane’s quiet right to define it. Now he saw the distinction. He named it.
They were interrupted by Felix, who came along the gallery with a portfolio under his arm and an expression of agreeable usefulness.
“There you are, Mr Darcy. My aunt wondered whether you had seen the south prospect yet. Miss Elizabeth, I hope the portraits have not oppressed you.”
“Not at all. I find them instructive.”
“That is a dangerous word in a family gallery.”
“Only for the family.”
Felix laughed easily. “Then I must hope you find us dull enough to be harmless.”
“I have rarely found dullness a guarantee of safety.”
“Miss Elizabeth refuses to be reassured,” he said to Darcy.
Darcy’s expression remained polite. “Not without evidence.”
Felix looked between them, still smiling. “Then Silvermere must submit to examination.”
“Most houses do,” Elizabeth replied. “The difference is whether they know it.”
Something—amusement, caution, interest—moved behind Felix’s eyes and disappeared before it could be named.
He bowed and turned the conversation toward the paintings, offering neat histories of each.
Elizabeth noticed that he spoke of Lord Ashbourne with respect, of Lady Ashbourne with devotion, of his own father with affection and vagueness.
Sir Edmund had been much loved, greatly missed, unfortunate in health, generous in disposition.
He had, according to Felix, left behind chiefly memories.
Elizabeth looked once more at the handsome portrait and wondered what else he had left behind.
The afternoon passed into evening with Silvermere’s order undisturbed.
Guests dressed; candles were lit; the drawing room warmed into gold and shadow.
If the house had appeared cool by day, it became by candlelight more persuasive.
Reflections deepened in mirrors; pearls glowed at throats; the lake beyond the darkened windows became invisible, leaving only the room and the people arranged within it.
Elizabeth, entering with Jane and Mrs Gardiner, had the curious sensation that Silvermere had drawn them more fully inside itself.
Dinner was served in a dining room of handsome proportions, panelled in pale wood and hung with portraits less numerous but more severe than those in the gallery.
Lady Ashbourne placed her guests with care.
Elizabeth found herself between Colonel Avery and Mr Felix Vale, with Darcy across and a little to her right.
Jane sat near Bingley, though separated by enough distance to satisfy propriety and enough nearness to make satisfaction difficult.
Mrs Harrow was placed not prominently, but not obscurely.
Miss Trent sat beside Mrs Lyndhurst, her silence absorbed into her employer’s conversation like a small object beneath a shawl.
For the first courses, conversation moved through expected channels.
The estate was admired, Bath compared to the country, the weather praised for having restrained itself, and local charity discussed with the solemn enthusiasm society often brings to benevolence when dinner is excellent.
Lady Ashbourne spoke of a subscription for widows of labourers injured in quarry work; Mrs Lyndhurst declared the cause affecting; Felix supplied particulars of sums raised and families assisted; Colonel Avery muttered that widows required fewer committees and more money.
Lady Ashbourne heard him and chose not to.
Elizabeth was entertained.
As the meal progressed, the conversation shifted, as conversation often does when people begin to feel secure, toward less neutral territory. Mrs Lyndhurst, having exhausted weather, charity and admiration, turned with the air of one reluctant to be interesting.