Chapter Thirteen — Felix Vale Smiles #3
Lady Ashbourne opened her eyes and looked at him with a weariness that seemed older than the house. “You speak like a man who has not had to preside over his own disgrace.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Perhaps. But I have known what it is to discover that pride, however sincerely held, may have done harm.”
She studied him for a moment, perhaps hearing more than the immediate matter required. “And what did you do?”
“I tried to become more honest than comfortable.”
Lady Ashbourne looked toward the door, beyond which Silvermere stretched in all its polished consequence. “Then tonight I must do the same.”
“Yes.”
She straightened. “Very well. If disgrace must enter my drawing room, it shall find the chairs properly arranged.”
It was both absurd and magnificent. Darcy, to his credit, did not smile.
Before dinner, Elizabeth and Jane found a few moments alone in Jane’s room.
The evening light lay soft upon the dressing table, where Jane’s gloves had been laid ready and a ribbon, pale blue, waited beside them.
Downstairs, the house prepared itself for revelation with the same care it once gave to concealment.
Servants arranged lamps, fires, trays. Lady Ashbourne gave orders in a voice steady enough to make everyone else steadier.
Somewhere in the lower hall, Colonel Avery’s stick struck the floor with martial impatience.
Somewhere else, Felix was no doubt smiling.
Jane sat near the window, looking out toward the darkening lake.
“I am frightened,” she said.
Elizabeth came to stand beside her. “For Mrs Harrow?”
“For her. For Miss Trent. For Lady Ashbourne, though she has been wrong. Even for those who will not deserve pity by the end of tonight.” Jane turned. “Public truth leaves wounds, Lizzy, even when it is necessary.”
Elizabeth sat opposite her. “Concealment leaves wounds too. Only deeper and less clean.”
“I know.” Jane looked down at her hands. “And yet I wish there were a way to restore without injuring.”
“You always have.”
Jane smiled faintly. “Perhaps I always shall.”
“That is one of your virtues.”
“And one of my follies?”
“Only when you mistake restoration for avoiding pain.”
Jane was silent for a little while. Then she said, “Mr Bingley would ask me now if I permitted it.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Yes. I believe the entire county could see that from a considerable distance.”
Jane blushed, but did not deny it. “I think I would answer him.”
Elizabeth softened. “Do you?”
“Yes. But not tonight. Not before this is done. I want our happiness to come after truth, not as a distraction from it. I do not want to be rescued from feeling what must be felt.”
Elizabeth took her sister’s hand. “My dearest Jane, you are wiser than all of us.”
“No.” Jane’s eyes were bright. “Only learning.”
“As are we all, though some of us with less grace.”
Jane laughed softly. “Lizzy.”
Elizabeth kissed her cheek. “When he does ask, it will be worth waiting for.”
Jane’s smile trembled. “I think so.”
Dinner was a ceremony of restraint.
No one ate much, except Colonel Avery, who appeared to consider eating well before battle a point of honour.
Mrs Lyndhurst looked pale with anticipation.
Miss Trent could hardly lift her fork. Mrs Harrow sat beside Jane and did not attempt to appear easy.
Portia watched Felix with such open dislike that Lady Ashbourne twice directed conversation elsewhere.
Felix himself was exquisite: attentive to his aunt, courteous to Mrs Harrow, amused by Colonel Avery, respectful toward Darcy, gently solicitous of Miss Trent, and possessed of a smile so steady that Elizabeth began to think of it not as expression but as weapon.
At last the meal ended.
The gentlemen did not linger over wine. Perhaps none trusted the room enough for separation.
They entered the drawing room while the tea tray was still being set aside and found it prepared with all Lady Ashbourne’s art.
Lamps had been lit, candles placed before mirrors, chairs arranged in a wide but intimate circle, the fire brought to a steady glow.
The curtains were drawn against the deepening dusk.
The room looked beautiful, composed, almost ceremonial.
Every face arranged itself.
Lady Ashbourne took her place near the hearth.
Not as hostess merely. Not now. She stood as mistress of Silvermere, certainly, but also as judge of the world she had helped maintain: its silences, its protections, its elegant evasions, its preference for peace over justice, its willingness to let women bear the cost of men’s charm.
Darcy stood near the table where the evidence had been placed beneath a closed portfolio.
Elizabeth sat beside Jane, with Mrs Harrow on Jane’s other side.
Bingley stood just behind them. Miss Trent took a chair near Mrs Gardiner, trembling but present.
Colonel Avery planted himself by the mantel as though he intended to prevent retreat by force if necessary.
Portia remained near the window, white-faced and fierce.
Mrs Lyndhurst sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Then Felix entered.
He paused upon the threshold, taking in the room: the light, the chairs, Darcy near the table, Lady Ashbourne at the hearth, Mrs Harrow not isolated, Jane beside her, Elizabeth watching.
And he smiled.
It was a beautiful smile. Warm, regretful, composed, almost tender.
Elizabeth looked at it and understood, with sudden clarity, that it was the last mask he had left.