Chapter Seven — The Widow and the Companion
Rain came to Silvermere in the night and remained there with the persistence of a guest too well connected to be asked to leave.
By breakfast, the lake had darkened from silver to pewter, its surface fretted by countless small disturbances, and the reflection of the house, once so precise as to appear almost boastful, was broken into a wavering confusion of pale stone, black windows and grey sky.
Water ran steadily down the long panes of the breakfast room, gathering the gardens into blurred streaks of green.
The formal paths, so exact under sun, had softened at the edges.
The roses bowed beneath the weight of rain not yet heavy enough to be called a storm, but quite sufficient to prevent walking, sketching, boating, inspecting ruins, admiring views, or any other occupation by which a troubled company might distribute itself over several acres and pretend not to be confined within one another’s curiosity.
Silvermere House, deprived of air and distance, became smaller.
Elizabeth Bennet felt it almost at once.
Corridors which had seemed merely long the day before now appeared to lead too deliberately from one guarded room to another.
Doors closed more softly. Footsteps travelled farther.
Voices, lowered in caution, acquired greater importance by the very effort of being kept private.
The lake, visible from so many windows, no longer offered breadth, but a repeated grey reminder that the world beyond the house had withdrawn itself.
Silvermere had become, for the day at least, not an estate but a vessel; and all aboard it knew, however much they might speak of embroidery and cards, that something had been found in the ash pan which could not easily be folded away with the letters.
Lady Ashbourne, being a woman who preferred action to visible disturbance, made arrangements before the rest of the party had fully accepted the weather.
If walking was impossible, there would be indoor occupation.
The drawing room was supplied with work baskets, books, newspapers, a card table, a chess board and fresh flowers, though the flowers looked, to Elizabeth, rather like prisoners of good taste.
The music room was opened after breakfast, with the pianoforte placed ready and the harp dusted, though no one seemed eager to approach the blue volume still absent from its shelf.
Writing materials were laid upon several small tables.
Lady Ashbourne observed, with perfect serenity, that rainy mornings were often most productively spent in correspondence.
Elizabeth, hearing this, could not help glancing at Darcy.
His eyes had moved, at precisely the same instant, toward the closed door of the small study where the paper trimmings had been discovered.
Their gazes met. Neither smiled. The irony of a house full of stolen, altered and half-burned letters encouraging correspondence was too exact to require expression.
Mrs Lyndhurst, however, found no such difficulty.
“What a charming arrangement,” she cried, settling herself near the fire with a basket of coloured silks. “There is something so domestic, so soothing, in a rainy day spent among friends. We are quite shut in together, are we not?”
Portia Vale, who had chosen a chair by the window and appeared to resent the rain personally, said, “That is one description of the condition.”
Felix, standing near Lady Ashbourne’s chair with a newspaper folded in his hand, laughed lightly. “Portia, you are determined not to be soothed.”
“I prefer to know what is being done to me.”
“By the weather?”
“By everything.”
Lady Ashbourne looked up. “Then perhaps you will find occupation in a book.”
“I have often found books more honest than conversation.”
“Then choose one with care.”
The exchange was delivered with sufficient dryness to amuse Colonel Avery, who had taken possession of the hearth as though it were a strategic position and stood warming his back before it while looking at the rain with frank disgust. Mrs Gardiner smiled into her sewing.
Jane, seated near her aunt, had taken up a piece of work, though Elizabeth suspected it would progress slowly.
Bingley hovered for a moment, uncertain whether sitting near Jane would expose her to comment and sitting far away would seem neglectful.
After a moment’s visible struggle, he chose a chair near enough for conversation but not so near as to invite Mrs Lyndhurst’s immediate joy. Elizabeth approved the decision.
Mrs Harrow came in late. Not very late; never so late as to be accused of avoidance.
But late enough that the room had already established its groups, and therefore her entrance required adjustment.
This was the cruelty of her position. If no one moved, she was isolated; if anyone moved too quickly, she was pitied; if she sat alone, she was proud; if she approached others, she risked seeming importunate.
She stood for a fraction of a second in the doorway, with the rain-grey light behind her, and in that instant Elizabeth saw the exhaustion which the young widow had concealed before the company.
Then Mrs Harrow came forward with composure, accepted Lady Ashbourne’s greeting, and took a chair by a small table where a volume lay unopened.
Miss Trent followed Mrs Lyndhurst’s movements as a shadow follows a body not from devotion, but compulsion.
She sat a little behind her employer, embroidery in hand, eyes lowered.
Yet Elizabeth noticed that whenever Mrs Harrow moved, Miss Trent’s attention moved also.
Not openly. Never openly. But some part of her seemed drawn toward Mrs Harrow by fear and knowledge at once.
The morning might have passed in that strained theatre of occupation had Mrs Lyndhurst not found, as she invariably did, a way to make concern active.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” she said, after some minutes of thread selecting and sighing, “I cannot help thinking how difficult such circumstances must be for a young lady of your sensibility. To be drawn into painful matters through no intention of one’s own—how trying it must be.”
Jane looked up. “It is painful chiefly for Mrs Harrow.”
“Of course, of course. I meant no less. Still, there are degrees of exposure. A lady situated as you are, so admired, so much the object of—well, of warm hopes among your friends—must be cautious in her associations.”
Bingley’s hand tightened upon the book he was not reading.
Jane’s needle paused. “Must she?”
Mrs Lyndhurst, encouraged by the mildness of the question and mistaking it, as people often did, for yielding, leaned nearer with a sorrowful little smile.
“One does not wish to sound worldly, but the world exists whether one sounds it or not. A woman on the edge of an advantageous marriage has a duty to her future as well as to her feelings. It is very beautiful to be kind, but kindness should not make one careless of appearances.”
Mrs Gardiner looked up sharply, but Jane spoke before she could.
“If a woman’s happiness depends upon abandoning anyone unjustly accused, then it would not be a happiness I could respect.”
The words were quiet. That made them more astonishing.
Mrs Lyndhurst’s mouth parted slightly. Miss Trent lifted her eyes.
Mrs Harrow, across the room, had gone very still.
Bingley looked at Jane as if a curtain had been drawn aside and something sacred shown him—not new, perhaps, but newly bright.
Elizabeth, standing near the bookshelves, felt pride rise in her so strongly that she could not trust herself to speak.
Mrs Lyndhurst recovered first, though not gracefully. “My dear Miss Bennet, no one speaks of abandonment.”
“No,” Jane replied. “It is more often performed than named.”
The silence that followed was brief but complete.
Colonel Avery gave a low sound that was almost approval. Portia looked delighted. Felix’s gaze moved from Jane to Bingley and then to Darcy, measuring consequences. Lady Ashbourne’s expression did not change, but one hand rested more firmly upon the arm of her chair.
Bingley rose, crossed the room with admirable restraint, and did not immediately speak to Jane.
Instead he picked up a volume from the table beside Mrs Gardiner and asked, with an earnestness no one could mistake for interest in literature, whether Miss Bennet had ever read that particular collection of sermons.
Jane, recognising both the absurdity and the kindness, smiled.
“I have not.”
“Nor have I,” he said. “But I am persuaded, from the weight of it, that it must contain a great deal of improvement.”
Mrs Gardiner laughed. The tension loosened. Mrs Lyndhurst, having been quietly defeated by a young woman she had expected to patronise, returned to her silks with a colour not wholly attributable to the fire.
Elizabeth met Jane’s eyes across the room. Jane looked away first, a little embarrassed by her own courage, which made Elizabeth love her more.
It was some time before Elizabeth could approach Miss Trent without making the attempt visible.
Rain, however, was patient, and indoor confinement offered opportunities to those who could wait.
Mrs Lyndhurst, perhaps fatigued by her recent reverse, became absorbed in a debate with Lady Ashbourne over the proper management of charitable distribution during illness.
Felix was called to consult a note from the steward.
Darcy had disappeared toward the small study, no doubt pursuing the physical evidence with that controlled thoroughness which Elizabeth admired when it did not attempt to control her.
Jane and Bingley were engaged in a conversation so harmless on its surface and so full beneath it that Elizabeth had no wish to interrupt.
Mrs Harrow had withdrawn toward the music room, though the doors remained open.
Miss Trent sat alone at a small table near the window, sorting threads which had already been sorted twice.