Chapter Two — Silvermere Receives Its Guests #5
“I heard the strangest account before leaving Bath,” she said. “A family quite undone by the discovery of old letters. Such a distressing thing. One does think people should be more careful what they preserve.”
Lady Ashbourne lifted her glass, then set it down without drinking. “Old letters are rarely harmless.”
“No, indeed. They outlive the temper in which they were written.”
“That,” Lady Ashbourne said, “is precisely their danger.”
Elizabeth looked toward her. The words had been spoken calmly, but with too much knowledge to be merely general.
Mrs Lyndhurst leaned forward slightly, encouraged.
“And they are so easily misunderstood. A phrase written in haste, a sentiment expressed before circumstances alter, a confidence never intended for other eyes—years later, all may be interpreted quite differently. I declare, I sometimes think a bonfire is the safest archivist.”
Felix smiled. “You would deprive future generations of much entertainment.”
“I would spare them much mischief.”
“Entertainment and mischief are cousins, Mrs Lyndhurst. Society would be dull if separated from both.”
Jane, who had been listening quietly, said, “Surely some letters ought to be kept. They may preserve affection as well as error.”
Bingley looked at her with such open warmth that Elizabeth was obliged to attend very closely to her plate.
Mrs Harrow spoke then, softly, from farther down the table. She had said little all evening, and the sound of her voice drew more attention than its volume warranted.
“Letters may preserve affection,” she said. “But they are dangerous also because they may be read by those for whom they were never intended.”
There was no dramatic silence. Such things did not occur at Lady Ashbourne’s table.
Yet something changed. A knife paused against porcelain.
Miss Trent’s eyes lowered. Mrs Lyndhurst’s expression brightened with the effort of appearing sympathetic rather than interested.
Felix’s smile remained, but his gaze moved quickly toward his aunt.
Lady Ashbourne did not look at Mrs Harrow.
Colonel Avery, who had been reaching for his glass, set it down untouched.
Elizabeth noticed all of it.
So did Darcy.
Their eyes met across the table for less than a second. It was enough.
Felix entered the pause with admirable smoothness. “Then we must all be grateful, Mrs Harrow, that most letters contain little more than invitations, bills and complaints about the weather. If posterity judges us by those, it will find us dull but innocent.”
Mrs Lyndhurst laughed, relieved to be directed into lightness. “Innocent, perhaps, but never dull where you are concerned, Mr Vale.”
“You are too kind.”
“Not at all. Merely observant.”
The conversation moved on. It did not recover exactly, but it resumed. That, Elizabeth thought, was the chief social skill of such rooms: not the prevention of disturbance, but the ability to lay a carpet over it before anyone could examine the floor.
The remainder of dinner passed with increasing elegance and decreasing ease.
Elizabeth spoke with Colonel Avery, who gave her three blunt opinions on Bath, two on the government, and one on modern young men which she suspected was aimed at Felix and enjoyed accordingly.
Felix, for his part, remained charming. He asked Elizabeth whether she preferred town or country, music or conversation, walking or reading, and contrived by each question to reveal nothing of himself while inviting her to reveal much of herself.
She answered with enough truth to be civil and enough evasion to be amused.
When the ladies withdrew after dinner, Lady Ashbourne conducted them to the drawing room, where tea was laid and the candles had been arranged to flatter both faces and furniture.
Mrs Lyndhurst immediately resumed possession of general conversation, praising the meal, the house, the servants, the lake by moonlight though no moon had yet appeared, and Miss Bennet’s complexion in candlelight with a freedom which made Jane blush.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” she said, “you must forgive an older woman for saying so, but happiness becomes you excessively.”
Jane’s eyes flickered down. “You are very kind.”
“There is kindness again,” Mrs Lyndhurst cried. “Why will young ladies always make truth sound like charity? Mr Bingley will think us all blind if we do not remark what is before us.”
Mrs Gardiner intervened before Elizabeth could. “My niece has had a long journey, Mrs Lyndhurst. I believe all complex compliments should be postponed until morning.”
Mrs Lyndhurst laughed. “How wise you are. Indeed, I am always too ready to be pleased.”
Elizabeth doubted this, but admired her aunt’s rescue.
The gentlemen soon rejoined them. Bingley came in looking first, inevitably, for Jane, and then, seeing her a little withdrawn, did not at once approach her.
Instead he spoke to Mrs Gardiner, then to Lady Ashbourne, then finally moved near Jane with a composure Elizabeth could not help applauding inwardly.
He had understood that eagerness, even when welcome, might add to the very attention from which he wished to protect her.
Darcy entered more quietly. Elizabeth, seated near the window, watched him observe the room: Lady Ashbourne by the hearth, Felix near the tea table, Mrs Harrow alone with a book she was not reading, Miss Trent beside Mrs Lyndhurst, Jane and Bingley divided by propriety and united by every glance they avoided. His eyes came at last to Elizabeth.
She smiled faintly. He came toward her.
“Do you find Silvermere less suspicious by candlelight?” he asked.
“More beautiful.”
“That is not the same answer.”
“No. I thought you would appreciate the distinction.”
He stood beside the window, not too near, looking out into the dark where the lake had disappeared. “Dinner was instructive.”
“Very. Letters are dangerous, widows are careful, nephews are agreeable, and Lady Ashbourne can stop a colonel’s story before it has drawn breath.”
Darcy almost smiled. “A concise summary.”
“You noticed Mrs Harrow’s remark.”
“Yes.”
“And the reaction?”
“Yes.”
“Then I need not describe it.”
“No.”