Chapter Two — Silvermere Receives Its Guests #6
Elizabeth looked toward Mrs Harrow. The young widow sat with her head slightly bent, the candlelight softening her profile but not the watchfulness of her posture.
Lady Ashbourne’s civility toward her had never failed, yet it seemed bounded by invisible lines.
Felix had spoken to her once after dinner, briefly and kindly, and Mrs Harrow had answered with equal politeness and no warmth.
Miss Trent had not approached her. Mrs Lyndhurst had looked often.
“I cannot decide,” Elizabeth said quietly, “whether Mrs Harrow has been invited here to be restored, observed or tested.”
“Perhaps Lady Ashbourne intends all three.”
“That is a great deal to ask of hospitality.”
“Hospitality often asks more than it announces.”
She looked at him. “You are becoming almost as suspicious as I am.”
“I am learning to admire evidence.”
“Then there is hope for you.”
This time he did smile, and Elizabeth was foolish enough to feel it like warmth.
Music was proposed soon after. It came from Lady Ashbourne, though with the air of having arisen naturally from the company’s wishes.
Jane was asked first, with many assurances that no one wished to impose, which of course made refusal more difficult.
Jane accepted, because she was Jane, and because music, unlike conversation, allowed feeling to exist without explanation.
The party moved toward the music room, a chamber opening from the drawing room through wide double doors.
It was one of Silvermere’s finest rooms: long, pale, and gracefully proportioned, with a pianoforte placed where candlelight would fall upon the performer without rendering the audience invisible.
Shelves held bound volumes of music. A harp stood unused in a corner.
Upon the far side of the room, half within the drawing room’s view and half apart from it, stood a handsome writing desk—an escritoire of polished wood with brass fittings, delicate but evidently secure.
Its lid was closed. A small key hung from Lady Ashbourne’s watch chain, though whether it belonged there Elizabeth could not know.
Jane sat at the pianoforte. Mrs Harrow, after a moment’s hesitation, was requested by Lady Ashbourne to turn the pages.
“If you would be so good, Mrs Harrow,” Lady Ashbourne said. “Miss Bennet should not be troubled to manage alone.”
Mrs Harrow inclined her head. “Of course.”
She moved to Jane’s side. The arrangement was graceful and, to any casual observer, kind. Elizabeth wondered whether kindness so precisely placed was still kindness, or whether it had become design.
Jane began to play.
The music was gentle, an air of feeling rather than display.
Under her hands, the room softened. Even Mrs Lyndhurst ceased speaking for a time.
Bingley stood near the doorway, listening with an expression so unguarded that Elizabeth felt, again, the ache of Jane’s approaching happiness.
Darcy stood a little apart, his face in shadow, but his attention no less complete.
Lady Ashbourne sat very still. Miss Trent watched Mrs Harrow turn the pages. Portia Vale looked at Felix.
And Felix—
Elizabeth’s gaze moved to him almost by accident.
He stood not far from Lady Ashbourne’s escritoire, his posture easy, his head slightly inclined as though attending to the music.
One hand rested upon the polished lid of the desk.
It was a light touch, perhaps meaningless.
A gentleman might rest his hand upon any piece of furniture while listening to music.
Yet there was something in the stillness of it, in the familiarity of the gesture, in the way his fingers lay near the brass lock without appearing to seek it, that fixed the image in Elizabeth’s mind.
Nothing happened.
Jane played on. Mrs Harrow turned the page at precisely the right moment. Lady Ashbourne watched them both with composed attention. Felix removed his hand from the desk and smiled at something Mrs Lyndhurst whispered. Darcy, across the room, looked once toward the escritoire, then toward Elizabeth.
She knew at once that he had seen it too.
The music ended. Applause followed, soft and sincere.
Jane coloured. Bingley looked as if praise were both insufficient and too public for what he felt.
Mrs Harrow stepped back from the pianoforte, her face calm, her hands folded.
Lady Ashbourne thanked Jane with warmth and Mrs Harrow with civility.
Felix complimented the performance. Mrs Lyndhurst declared herself moved beyond speech, which condition lasted less than a minute.
The evening continued. Another song was attempted. Colonel Avery refused to sing with unnecessary vehemence. Portia observed that the room should be grateful. There was laughter. Tea was taken. Candles burned lower. Silvermere received its guests with elegance, order and faultless care.
Yet when Elizabeth retired at last, the image remained with her more vividly than any music: Mr Felix Vale beside Lady Ashbourne’s locked escritoire, his hand resting lightly upon the polished wood; Mrs Celia Harrow turning pages for Jane; Lady Ashbourne watching both women as though each had been placed precisely where she intended.
Silvermere had received them beautifully.
Elizabeth was beginning to wonder what, exactly, it meant to keep.