Chapter Three — The Locked Escritoire #2
Plans for the day were proposed. Some would walk to the old chapel ruin after luncheon if the weather held.
Lady Ashbourne spoke of a visit, later in the week, to two cottages supported by her charitable fund.
Felix mentioned that the lake path was dry enough for ladies if they avoided the lower turn.
Portia Vale, who had entered late and appeared not at all apologetic, asked whether the lower turn was truly wet or merely disliked.
Felix laughed. Lady Ashbourne said only that the upper path was pleasanter.
“There,” Elizabeth murmured to Mrs Gardiner, “is the first evidence that even paths have reputations.”
Mrs Gardiner smiled into her cup. “Then I trust you will not attempt to restore the lower turn before luncheon.”
“I shall wait until after.”
When breakfast loosened into departure, the company divided with the graceful aimlessness that in well-regulated houses is almost always guided by someone.
Lady Ashbourne suggested that the morning air was at its best before noon.
Mrs Lyndhurst declared herself eager to admire the gardens.
Bingley, with an effort Elizabeth saw and appreciated, did not immediately ask Jane to walk.
He first asked Mrs Gardiner whether she intended to go out, then expressed a hope that Miss Bennet might be of the party if she wished it.
Jane agreed. The small group formed around them: Mrs Gardiner, Mrs Lyndhurst, Miss Trent, Bingley, Jane, and later Portia, who joined as though by accident and looked as if she might prefer the stables.
Elizabeth remained a few minutes behind, partly because she wished to see whether Mrs Harrow went with them.
She did not. Lady Ashbourne detained her briefly to ask after a note concerning some charitable matter.
The exchange was perfectly ordinary, but Felix, passing at that moment, supplied the answer before Mrs Harrow could give it.
“The parcel from Mrs Wetherby was sent yesterday, Aunt. Mrs Harrow was good enough to assist with the list, but I believe Clary has the final copy.”
Lady Ashbourne inclined her head. “Thank you, Felix.”
Mrs Harrow’s expression did not change, yet Elizabeth thought she saw something close behind her eyes—irritation, perhaps, or the old habit of suppressing it.
Felix turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth, do you not walk?”
“In a moment.”
“You prefer to examine the house first?”
“Is examination permitted?”
“At Silvermere, everything is permitted that leaves no damage.”
“That is a more generous rule than many houses allow.”
“Or a more cautious one.”
He smiled as he spoke, and because he smiled, the words might be taken either as pleasantry or warning. Elizabeth answered with equal lightness. “Then I shall endeavour to leave only impressions.”
“Those may prove harder to remove.”
Before Elizabeth could reply, Lady Ashbourne directed Felix to consult with Mrs Clary regarding some arrangement for dinner, and he moved away at once, obedient, useful, unruffled. Elizabeth watched him go. His usefulness, she began to think, was too polished to be wholly self-forgetting.
When she joined the walking party outside, she found Jane and Bingley at the centre of an arrangement that was both kind and cruel by virtue of being so carefully informal.
The gardens lay south of the house, formal near the terrace and softening as they descended toward the lake.
Gravel paths shone pale after the morning dew.
Box hedges enclosed beds where tulips were fading and roses preparing themselves with the solemnity of debutantes not yet presented.
Beyond the more disciplined walks stood orchards, a small wilderness, and the glimmering turn of the lake through trees.
Mrs Lyndhurst was in full possession of conversation.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” she said, as Elizabeth approached, “Silvermere must seem to you quite romantic. There is something about a country house in spring that makes every possibility appear more natural, does it not?”
Jane smiled with composure. “Spring is always agreeable.”
“Agreeable! How modestly you put it. I am sure Mr Bingley has a more animated opinion.”
Bingley, who had once been very easy to draw into precisely such a trap, looked first at Jane. He saw, as Elizabeth did, the slight tightening of her hand upon her shawl.
“I have a very animated opinion of Silvermere’s breakfast,” he said cheerfully. “And of Colonel Avery’s remarks upon the newspaper, though perhaps those should be repeated only in military company.”
Mrs Gardiner laughed. Jane’s shoulders softened. Mrs Lyndhurst, deprived of her intended subject, permitted herself to be diverted.
“A very safe answer, Mr Bingley.”
“I am learning prudence.”
Portia Vale, walking near Elizabeth, gave a dry little sound that might have been approval. “A rare accomplishment in a gentleman. We must encourage it.”
Bingley laughed, not offended, and the party moved on.
For a little while the walk continued in groups that altered naturally enough.
Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Lyndhurst paused to admire the view toward the lake.
Miss Trent remained near her employer, though her eyes went often toward the house, as if she expected to be summoned or discovered missing.
Portia took a different path for several yards, then returned with a sprig of lilac she seemed to have broken in defiance of some unseen rule.
Elizabeth lingered behind to examine a stone urn cracked almost invisibly beneath its moss.
The flaw pleased her. It was the first thing at Silvermere that had not been perfectly corrected.
Jane and Bingley, by these movements, fell a few steps behind the others.
Elizabeth, who was not so dishonourable as to listen deliberately but not so inattentive as to hear nothing, saw rather than heard the change between them. Bingley’s expression had grown more earnest. Jane’s face, turned slightly away from the others, was serene but alert.
“I hope,” Bingley said softly, “that Mrs Lyndhurst did not distress you.”
“No. Not distress.”
“Trouble you, then?”
Jane looked down the path, where sunlight lay across the gravel in broken patches. “It is difficult to be troubled by kindness.”
“Is it kindness?”
Jane smiled faintly. “Perhaps not always. Sometimes it is expectation dressed kindly.”
Bingley was silent for a moment. “I am sorry.”
“You have done nothing.”
“I have not done enough, perhaps.”
Jane turned to him then, and Elizabeth, though too far to hear every word, saw the seriousness in her sister’s face. She stepped a little farther away, giving them what privacy a garden path and curious company allowed.
Bingley lowered his voice. “Miss Bennet, there is something I have wished—”
Jane’s hand moved slightly, not quite raised, not quite restraining, but enough. “Mr Bingley.”
He stopped at once.
She looked toward the others, then back to him. “Not here.”
His colour rose, and for one painful moment Elizabeth feared he would be wounded by the check. But Jane’s expression held no rejection. It held feeling so tender and steady that any man with sense enough to deserve her must understand it.
“I beg your pardon,” he said quietly.
“There is nothing to pardon.” Jane’s voice was low, but Elizabeth caught the softness of it. “Only—there are some things too precious to be hurried by opportunity.”
Bingley looked at her as though those words had altered him.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, of course.”
Jane’s smile trembled a little. “I do not doubt you.”
The relief that passed over his face was almost painful in its openness. “Then I can wait.”
“I hoped you would understand.”
“I do. Or I shall. I mean to understand anything you wish me to understand.”
It was not a polished reply. It was better than polished. Jane’s eyes grew bright, and she turned them again toward the path lest anyone see too much.
By the time they rejoined the others, Bingley’s cheerfulness had returned, but not quite as before.
It had more gravity beneath it. Elizabeth, watching him offer Jane his arm over a damp patch of gravel without making the service an occasion, felt her former reservations give way by another degree.
He wanted certainty, certainly; but he had chosen Jane’s peace over his own relief.
It was a small victory, perhaps, but love was often made trustworthy by small victories.
The peace did not last.
They had scarcely returned to the terrace, and Lady Ashbourne had just come from the house to receive them, when Mrs Clary appeared in the doorway.
The housekeeper’s face was composed; indeed, it was the composure that first alarmed Elizabeth.
Distress in a capable servant is rarely shown unless it has been almost mastered.
Mrs Clary’s hands were clasped too tightly before her.
“My lady,” she said.
Lady Ashbourne turned. “Yes, Clary?”
“A word, if you please.”
There was no impropriety in the request, yet everyone near enough to hear understood that something had disturbed the household order. Lady Ashbourne’s expression did not change, but her stillness sharpened.
“Excuse me,” she said to her guests.
She went inside with Mrs Clary. Felix, who had emerged from another doorway at almost the same moment, saw them and followed without seeming to do so. Darcy, coming up from the lower path where he had been walking with Colonel Avery, noticed the movement. Elizabeth noticed Darcy noticing.
Mrs Lyndhurst, naturally, noticed everyone.
“How strange,” she murmured. “I hope nothing is wrong.”
Portia Vale said, “People generally do hope so, just before beginning to enjoy themselves.”
Mrs Lyndhurst stared. “Miss Vale!”
“What? I spoke generally.”
Elizabeth might have laughed, had she not been watching the door.
For several minutes nothing happened. Then a footman crossed the hall inside with too much speed. Another servant disappeared toward the back stairs. Lady Ashbourne’s voice was heard once, low and firm. Felix returned to the terrace, his expression grave but controlled.