Chapter Three — The Locked Escritoire #5
She smiled despite herself. “I have discovered that Sir Edmund Vale died with unsettled accounts, that Mrs Harrow’s silence cost her something, and that Miss Portia Vale distrusts her cousin with refreshing plainness.”
Darcy’s expression grew thoughtful. “Portia said this?”
“In more interesting phrases.”
“Portia is not cautious.”
“No. But she is not foolish either.”
“No.”
They began to walk slowly toward the gallery. The house was quieter now; many guests had withdrawn to rooms or letters, though Elizabeth suspected little writing was being done. News, when not permitted to become public, has a way of becoming private everywhere at once.
Darcy said, “I spoke with Colonel Avery. He believes the desk was opened deliberately.”
“Colonel Avery believes most things bluntly, but in this case I agree.”
“As do I.”
“The lock?”
“Too cleanly forced.”
She looked at him with satisfaction. “I thought so.”
“I saw that you did.”
“Then we are both guilty of looking too closely.”
“I should prefer to say accurately.”
“How generous.”
They reached a window overlooking the lake. Morning had passed into a bright, deceptive noon. The water reflected the house with less perfection now; a breeze had disturbed the surface, breaking the pale fa?ade into wavering fragments. Elizabeth found she trusted the broken image more.
Darcy stood beside her, not too near. “Miss Bennet.”
His tone had altered. Elizabeth prepared herself.
“Yes?”
“You will take care?”
“I am always careful.”
His look made his opinion of this claim plain.
She lifted her brows. “You disagree?”
“I think your idea of care sometimes includes approaching danger with intelligence and calling it observation.”
“Observation is not the same as interference.”
“In your case, the distinction has historically proved unreliable.”
She laughed, but the laugh did not fully ease the tension. “That is unfair.”
“Is it untrue?”
“It is incomplete.”
He looked at her then, and the concern in his face, though carefully governed, was unmistakable. It irritated her at once because it moved her. She did not wish to be managed by his fear, and she liked still less that the fear had any claim upon her feeling.
“You need not look so grave, Mr Darcy. A forced desk and missing letters do not yet constitute a personal peril.”
“Not yet.”
“Then let us not hurry them.”
“I am not attempting to restrain your judgement.”
“No. Only my movements?”
A faint colour rose along his cheekbones. “I have no right to restrain either.”
“That is true.”
The words were sharper than she intended. His expression closed slightly, and she regretted it before she was ready to soften.
After a moment he said, more quietly, “I only meant that there may be more at work here than a private inconvenience.”
“I know.”
“And if Mrs Harrow’s name is involved—”
“I know that too.”
“Then you must also know that whoever has begun this may not welcome being understood.”
Elizabeth looked away toward the lake. The breeze moved across the water, breaking Silvermere into silver fragments. “I have known that before.”
“Yes,” he said. “That is why I speak.”
The simplicity of the answer disarmed her.
She looked back at him. His face was grave, but not commanding.
Beneath his caution lay something more vulnerable than authority.
Fear, perhaps. Not distrust of her. Fear for her.
She was not yet prepared to receive it tenderly, but she could no longer mistake it for arrogance.
“I shall take care,” she said, less lightly.
He bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“For a man who does not intend to restrain me, you are very relieved.”
“For a woman who claims to be careful, you are very often in need of relief being felt by others.”
This time she laughed properly. The tension eased, though it did not disappear. Between them now lay not only shared suspicion, but the more difficult knowledge that concern could be both unwelcome and dear.
By late afternoon, Lady Ashbourne had gathered the principal guests in the drawing room.
The room had been restored to order; tea had been laid; the disturbance in the sitting room might, by visible evidence, never have occurred.
Yet everyone knew it had. The very perfection of the room seemed now like a denial too prompt to be convincing.
Lady Ashbourne stood before the hearth. Felix was at her right, grave and attentive.
Mrs Clary was not present. Mrs Harrow sat beside Jane, pale but composed.
Miss Trent remained near Mrs Lyndhurst. Colonel Avery stood rather than sat, a sign either of impatience or strategy.
Darcy was near the windows. Elizabeth sat with Mrs Gardiner, watching.
“I am sorry,” Lady Ashbourne began, “that the peace of your visit has been disturbed by a household matter which ought never to have entered the notice of my guests.”
Mrs Lyndhurst murmured sympathy. Lady Ashbourne continued.
“I have made such enquiries as are proper within the house. At present, I have no reason to believe that anything of material value has been taken.”
Colonel Avery made a noise. Lady Ashbourne ignored it.
“A small number of private letters are missing. They concern no estate business, no legal matter, and no subject upon which any guest need feel alarm.”
Elizabeth noted the phrasing. No subject upon which any guest need feel alarm. Not no subject of consequence. Not no person’s reputation. Not no danger. Lady Ashbourne’s language, like her house, was arranged with precision.
“For the sake of my household,” Lady Ashbourne said, “and to spare unnecessary speculation, I must ask that the matter remain within Silvermere for the present. No constable will be summoned unless further circumstances require it. I shall not have servants exposed to suspicion beyond what is necessary, nor my guests troubled by public nonsense over a private mischief.”
The request was command enough. Mrs Lyndhurst declared it wise. Felix said his aunt was entirely right. Mrs Gardiner inclined her head. Bingley looked uneasy but silent. Jane glanced at Mrs Harrow, whose face revealed nothing. Colonel Avery frowned.
“Eleanor,” he said, “private mischief has a way of growing if shut in warm rooms.”
Lady Ashbourne met his gaze. “Then we shall keep the room cool.”
It was a fine answer. It ended discussion because it sounded like wit.
Elizabeth watched the company accept the arrangement.
It was done smoothly, almost gratefully.
Everyone understood the reasons. Public scandal would injure the house more than the theft.
A constable would bring questions, servants would talk, neighbourhood curiosity would feed upon fragments, letters would become more dangerous by being named.
Silence appeared prudent. Containment appeared kind.
Discretion, that flexible virtue, had once again been summoned to preside.
And perhaps, Elizabeth thought, it was prudent. Perhaps Lady Ashbourne was right to prevent a private injury from becoming public entertainment.
Yet as she looked from the locked expression of Mrs Harrow to the anxious pallor of Miss Trent, from Felix’s polished concern to Darcy’s grave watchfulness, from Lady Ashbourne’s controlled face to the closed door of the sitting room beyond, Elizabeth felt the old unease settle more firmly within her.
The first victory of any concealed wrong was not the act itself.
It was persuading respectable people that silence was prudence.