Chapter Thirteen — Felix Vale Smiles
The morning cleared with a brilliance almost indecent.
After days of rain, uncertainty, shut doors and air thickened by secrets, Silvermere awoke beneath a sky rinsed clean and blue, with sunlight lying over the lawns in long, bright bands and every wet leaf polished into false innocence.
The lake, which had so lately reflected storm, now shone in broken silver beneath the breeze, and the paths, though still dark with damp in places, had recovered enough shape to invite walking.
Petals beaten down by rain clung to the gravel and grass, bruised but fragrant.
The house itself, pale and composed against the renewed light, looked from a distance as though nothing within it had ever been forced, forged, hidden, threatened or feared.
Elizabeth Bennet, looking out from the upper landing before breakfast, distrusted the loveliness at once.
There was a kind of weather, she thought, which seemed to conspire with hypocrisy.
A storm, at least, had the decency to look like trouble.
Sunlight could fall impartially upon evidence and deceit, upon wounded women and polished liars, upon a household preparing to expose its own shame and a gentleman smiling because he had not yet decided which lie might best save him.
The brightness did not cheer her. It sharpened everything.
By breakfast, the announcement had been made.
Lady Ashbourne, dressed in black silk with a narrow band of amethyst at her throat, presided with a calm so exact that no one acquainted with the last several days could have mistaken it for ease.
She waited until coffee had been poured, until Mrs Lyndhurst had exhausted two remarks on the improving weather, until Colonel Avery had expressed a view of poached eggs which could not be repeated in a nursery, and until Felix Vale, placed near the sideboard, had looked at her once too often.
Then she set down her cup.
“This evening,” she said, “I shall ask the principal members of this party to gather in the drawing room after dinner. Certain matters concerning the letters, and the misunderstanding that has unfortunately arisen from them, must be addressed.”
The word misunderstanding travelled around the table, not as truth but as signal.
Elizabeth saw Darcy’s eyes lift; Jane’s hand still upon her napkin; Mrs Harrow lower her gaze; Portia lean back with a look of grim satisfaction; Miss Trent turn very pale.
Bingley, who had begun to understand that domestic phrases often carried public consequences, looked not at Lady Ashbourne but at Jane.
Mrs Lyndhurst pressed one hand lightly to her bosom. “How very wise, Lady Ashbourne. Painful, of course, but wise. I am sure everyone desires only clarity.”
Colonel Avery muttered, “Some desire it more after trying everything else.”
Lady Ashbourne ignored him with the dignity of long practice. “I shall be obliged to all present for patience until that time.”
Felix bowed his head, grave and attentive. “Of course, Aunt. Anything that restores peace to the house must be welcome.”
Elizabeth looked at him then and felt a cold certainty settle within her.
He was radiant.
Not with obvious triumph, nor with alarm, nor with the strain of a guilty man visibly cornered.
Felix Vale had become, in danger, more agreeable than ever.
His manners seemed newly burnished. His smile had acquired warmth enough to persuade anyone who wished to be persuaded.
He spoke kindly to Mrs Harrow without pressing her, admired Lady Ashbourne’s courage without overdoing it, enquired after Miss Trent with exactly the right degree of concern, laughed at Colonel Avery’s bluntness, and helped Mrs Lyndhurst disentangle a ribbon from her bracelet as though the preservation of ladies’ accessories were his most pressing occupation.
Elizabeth trusted him least when he appeared most impossible to dislike.
After breakfast, the party scattered into the sunshine with that particular relief of people who do not know whether fresh air will improve their spirits but prefer to have witnesses fewer and walls farther away.
Lady Ashbourne withdrew with Darcy to review the order of the evening.
Mrs Gardiner took Jane briefly to write a necessary note.
Bingley went to the stables, though Elizabeth suspected he would return by way of any path Jane might later use.
Portia disappeared toward the lower gardens with the stride of someone hoping to quarrel with shrubs.
Mrs Lyndhurst remained inside, where she could prepare her expressions.
Mrs Harrow walked alone.
Elizabeth saw her from the terrace. Celia had chosen the path toward the side garden, where wet laurels gave shade and the gravel turned narrowly between yew hedges.
It was not a place chosen for display. Nor, unfortunately, for safety from those who preferred conversations unwitnessed.
Felix followed at a distance that appeared accidental until it ceased to be so.
Elizabeth’s first instinct was to go after them.
She had already taken one step when Darcy’s words from the previous evening returned to her with inconvenient force: allow me to stand near enough to be useful.
She looked back toward the library windows, where she knew Darcy was with Lady Ashbourne.
To summon him would take too long, and to abandon Celia to Felix’s private persuasion seemed intolerable.
Yet she did not pursue openly. Instead she crossed the terrace by another route and entered the rose walk from the far side, where a break in the hedge allowed sound to travel if one stood without moving and did not mind being scratched by wet leaves.
Felix’s voice came to her clearly, low and gentle.
“My dear Mrs Harrow, believe me, I speak from concern only.”
Mrs Harrow answered after a pause. “Concern has been much employed at Silvermere.”
“I cannot blame you for distrusting it. Yet I hope you will not distrust mine merely because others have been clumsy.”
“You have been many things, Mr Vale. Clumsy is not among them.”
A silence followed. Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, Felix’s smile.
“You think ill of me.”
“I think you wish me gone.”
“Because I believe departure may be your last protection.”
“My protection?”
“And the protection of those who have, perhaps unwisely, attached themselves to your cause.”
Jane. Elizabeth. Even Darcy, by implication. Felix’s courtesy had sharp little teeth.
Mrs Harrow’s voice remained controlled. “Speak plainly.”
“Very well. Whatever Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth may believe, society will not forgive a widow surrounded by old scandal, especially when present circumstances are so—unfortunate. If you leave quietly today, before this evening’s discussion, I believe my aunt may be persuaded to offer assistance.
A settlement, perhaps. A discreet arrangement.
You might live comfortably and without further exposure. ”
“And if I stay?”
Felix sighed, as though pained by necessity.
“Everything will be examined. Your delay years ago. Your correspondence. Your late husband’s affairs.
Your reasons for remaining silent. The packet found in your drawer.
The note beneath your door. Miss Trent’s uncertain memories.
Miss Bennet’s sentimental loyalty. Miss Elizabeth’s enthusiasm for discovery.
” His voice softened further. “Even if you survive the facts, Mrs Harrow, you may not survive the manner in which they are handled.”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened upon the hedge.
Mrs Harrow said nothing for so long that Elizabeth feared Felix had struck where fear still lived.
At last Celia answered, “You offer me exile as mercy.”
“I offer you privacy.”
“No. Privacy is what one chooses. Exile is what is arranged by those inconvenienced by one’s presence.”
Felix’s voice cooled almost imperceptibly. “You are braver this morning.”
“I am less alone.”
“An agreeable feeling. Not always durable.”
Before Mrs Harrow could answer, Jane’s voice sounded from the path.
“Mrs Harrow?”
Elizabeth, peering through the leaves, saw Jane enter the side garden from the opposite arch. She must have seen them from the house and come without hesitation. Her bonnet ribbons moved lightly in the breeze; her face was gentle, but her eyes, fixed upon Felix, were not uncertain.
Felix turned with perfect grace. “Miss Bennet. We were speaking of Mrs Harrow’s comfort.”
Jane came to stand beside Celia. “Then I am glad to assist the conversation.”
“I fear it was nearly concluded.”
“Was it?” Jane asked, looking at Mrs Harrow.
Celia’s face was pale, but something within it had steadied. She looked at Jane, and perhaps remembered the note Margaret had written, the forgiveness given before fear could be turned to malice, the hand Jane had offered when everyone else had stepped back.
“No,” Mrs Harrow said. “Not concluded.”
Felix bowed. “Then I shall leave you. I would not intrude upon confidences.”
“How considerate,” Jane said.
It was not sarcasm exactly. From Jane, sarcasm would have been too violent. It was simply truth shaped so gently that only those who deserved its edge would feel it.
Felix felt it. Elizabeth saw the flicker.
When he had gone, Elizabeth stepped from the other side of the hedge, removing a leaf from her sleeve with what dignity she could.
Jane looked unsurprised. “Lizzy.”
“I was admiring the wet laurels.”
Mrs Harrow gave a breath that was almost laughter and almost tears. “You heard?”
“Enough.”
Jane turned back to Celia. “You must not go because Mr Vale tells you departure is kindness.”
“He is not wholly wrong. If I remain, everything may be said.”
“Yes,” Jane replied. “But if you leave, everything may still be said, and you will not be present to answer.”
Mrs Harrow closed her eyes briefly. “I am tired of answering.”
“I know.”
“I am tired of being made brave.”
Jane took her hand. “Then you need not feel brave. Only stay.”