Chapter Six — Paper, Ink and Politeness #2
Instead, Elizabeth admired the view, commented upon the lake, asked whether Miss Trent had visited Silvermere before, and received answers so modest that they might have been sewn rather than spoken.
“Only once,” Miss Trent said. “Some years ago. With Mrs Lyndhurst.”
“And did you like it?”
“It is a very beautiful place.”
“That is not always the same thing.”
Miss Trent glanced at her, startled, then looked down. “No. I suppose not.”
“Beautiful places may be exacting. One feels almost rude for not being happy in them.”
This won the smallest of smiles. “Yes.”
They walked a few steps.
Elizabeth continued lightly, “I have found that houses with histories expect guests to admire what has survived, and not ask too many questions about what has disappeared.”
Miss Trent’s hand tightened upon her reticule.
“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth said, as if she had not noticed. “That sounded severe. I have lately been among several stories in which disappearance was made more convenient than explanation.”
Miss Trent’s voice was very low. “Stories do attach themselves.”
“To houses?”
“To women.”
Elizabeth turned her head slightly, careful not to fix her too directly. “Yes. Especially to women who cannot afford contradiction.”
The words moved through Miss Trent like a physical alarm.
She looked ahead, then behind, then toward Mrs Lyndhurst. No one was attending to them.
Felix was speaking to Lady Ashbourne. Mrs Lyndhurst had turned her energies upon Mrs Gardiner.
Portia was walking with Colonel Avery now, and Darcy had dropped behind them both.
“You are thinking of someone,” Elizabeth said.
“I did not say so.”
“No.”
Miss Trent swallowed. “I knew Margaret Ellery’s sister.”
Elizabeth did not answer. To speak too quickly would be to startle the truth back into hiding.
“Not well,” Miss Trent continued. “We were girls. Her name was Ruth. She lived with cousins after everything happened. She did not talk of it often. People think poor relations gossip because they have nothing else. They do not understand that gossip is a luxury when one may lose one’s place for repeating the wrong truth. ”
Elizabeth felt the full sadness of this, but kept her voice calm. “And what did Ruth say?”
“That Margaret did not vanish because she was guilty.” Miss Trent’s eyes fixed upon the path. “She was sent away after refusing to sign a statement.”
“A statement?”
“She would not sign it. Ruth said that over and over. She would not sign. I never knew the exact words. Only that it would have admitted—confirmed—that Margaret had behaved improperly. That she had mistaken Sir Edmund’s kindness.
That she had attempted to make trouble for the family after he refused her. ”
Elizabeth’s attention sharpened almost painfully. “Who asked her to sign?”
“I do not know.”
“You are certain?”
“I do not know.” The answer was urgent, frightened. “Ruth would not tell me, if she knew. Or perhaps Margaret never told her. It was all broken by then. But there was a phrase. Ruth remembered it because it was said more than once.”
“What phrase?”
Miss Trent’s voice fell to a whisper. “For the protection of the family.”
Elizabeth said nothing for a moment. The words were too familiar in shape, if not in precise usage.
For the protection of the family. How many unkindnesses had passed through the world under that respectable banner?
How many women had been silenced, hidden, married, dismissed, disbelieved, or sent away so that some family might continue to admire itself in public?
“That phrase,” Elizabeth said at last, “has carried a great deal of cruelty.”
Miss Trent’s eyes filled suddenly, though she did not weep. “I should not have said anything.”
“You have said nothing dishonourable.”
“That is not always enough.”
“No,” Elizabeth said softly. “It is not.”
Before she could ask more, Mrs Lyndhurst turned back toward them with bright concern. “Miss Trent, my dear, you are falling behind. I cannot think the lake air agrees with you.”
Miss Trent at once lowered her head. “I am quite well, ma’am.”
“Still, come here. Lady Ashbourne is telling us of the old chapel. You must not miss it.”
Miss Trent moved away, relief and fear mingling in every step. Elizabeth watched her go, aware that she had gained a fragment and a responsibility.
The path now led toward the old boathouse, a low stone building half-covered in ivy, where two small boats rested under shelter and the water lapped softly against dark posts.
Lady Ashbourne explained its history with grace.
Felix supplied a recollection of summer parties held there in his youth.
Portia, under her breath, said she remembered more arguments than parties.
Colonel Avery declared that Lord Ashbourne had once fallen in while trying to prove he could row better than a groom.
Lady Ashbourne corrected him with a look; Colonel Avery cheerfully insisted upon the truth; Mrs Lyndhurst laughed as if disorder were charming only when safely old.
They continued through the rose walk, where the first buds had begun to open and the air held that green, peppery promise of summer not yet sweetened into fullness.
Mrs Harrow still walked near Jane. Felix approached them once more at a turning, offering to point out a rare rose planted by his aunt, but Mrs Harrow declined with the same calm courtesy as before.
Jane remained beside her. Bingley, seeing Felix withdraw with perfect politeness and not-perfect feeling, looked suddenly less amiable than usual.
By the time they reached the chapel ruin, the party had loosened into smaller groups.
The ruin stood upon a slight rise beyond the formal gardens, its stones weathered pale grey, its roof long gone, its narrow windows open to sky.
Ivy climbed one wall; grass grew where pews might once have stood; an old yew leaned nearby, dark and watchful.
It was the sort of place guidebooks would call romantic and local children would call inconvenient for games.
Elizabeth liked it. Ruins were honest in a way preserved houses rarely allowed themselves to be.
They did not pretend nothing had fallen.
Lady Ashbourne, having brought them there, permitted the company to scatter within and around it.
Mrs Lyndhurst declared the place affecting.
Portia said she supposed that was what stones became when no one could afford repairs.
Colonel Avery laughed. Jane and Mrs Harrow stood near the open arch, speaking quietly.
Bingley remained at a distance, attentive but disciplined.
Felix accompanied Lady Ashbourne to the yew tree, where he appeared to be pointing out a damaged branch.
Miss Trent sat upon a low stone with Mrs Gardiner nearby.
Elizabeth found herself for a few moments at the far end of the ruin, where a broken window framed the lake in silver.
Darcy came to stand beside her as naturally as though the arrangement had been made in advance by the same intelligence that governed Silvermere, though Elizabeth knew neither of them would have admitted it.
“You have been successful,” he said.
“Have I?”
“Miss Trent looked frightened after speaking with you. In this house, fear seems frequently attached to information.”
“That is a grimly accurate observation.”
“And you?”
“I have learned that Margaret Ellery did not merely disappear. She refused to sign a statement confirming her own misconduct.”
Darcy’s expression altered at once. “From Miss Trent?”
“She knew Margaret’s younger sister. The statement would have protected the family.”
At that phrase Darcy looked toward Lady Ashbourne, who stood some distance away beneath the yew. “For the protection of the family?”
“Yes.”
“Convenient.”
“Respectable.”
“Dangerous.”
“All three are often related.”
He turned back to her. “Colonel Avery would not accuse Sir Edmund plainly beneath Lady Ashbourne’s roof.”
“How loyal of him to propriety.”
“He came near enough. Sir Edmund was charming, indebted and weak.”
“A dangerous combination in a man born to expect forgiveness,” Elizabeth said.
Darcy looked at her with surprise.
“Colonel Avery’s phrase?”
“Almost exactly.”
“Then perhaps the colonel is becoming predictable.”
“Or you understand men of that kind too well.”
Elizabeth looked out through the ruined window. “I understand the world that forgives them too readily.”
Darcy did not answer.
She continued, more quietly, “Margaret knew something about Vale family money. Mrs Harrow tried to help—or failed to help in time. Margaret was discredited. A statement was prepared. Letters vanished. Now, years later, a letter reappears, accusing Mrs Harrow precisely when old accounts may threaten someone living.”
Darcy’s eyes were fixed upon the lake. “And whoever altered the letter understands society very well.”
Elizabeth gave a short, humourless smile. “Society has made itself easy to understand. Give it a woman to blame, and it will often forget to ask who benefits.”
The words seemed to strike him. He looked at her, not with shock, but with an emotion more difficult to receive. Respect, certainly. Pain, perhaps. Something warmer beneath both.
“You see such matters with painful clarity,” he said.
Elizabeth’s breath caught very slightly, though she hoped he did not observe it. She answered by looking still through the broken stone frame at the water beyond. “Pain is sometimes the price of seeing women as people rather than ornaments in other people’s stories.”
Darcy was silent. The silence did not rebuke her. It did not even disagree. It stood beside her, grave and intimate, and for that reason more unsettling than speech would have been.