Page 10 of The Mercy of Chance

The morning mist still clung to the meadow as Kitty Bennet made her way along the narrow footpath that led away from Longbourn’s gardens.

Her basket swung from her arm, already containing several bundles of herbs harvested in the dewy dawn—mint, rosemary, and thyme from her own perfectly tended beds.

Today, however, she sought something less common.

A persistent cough had troubled her for as long as she could remember, and Grandfather’s breathing had grown more laboured with each passing week.

Mr Jones had prescribed his usual draughts, but they brought only temporary relief.

It was time, Kitty had decided, to seek wisdom from a different source.

The path curved around a stand of ancient oaks before descending into a small, sheltered hollow.

There, nestled amid a riot of deliberately cultivated wildness, stood a stone cottage nearly concealed by climbing roses and ivy.

Smoke curled from the chimney, mingling with the morning mist.

Kitty paused at the gate in the rough stone wall.

Widow Euphemia Faxon was respected by those in Meryton who needed her remedies but viewed with suspicion by others—including Lady Lucas who referred to her as “that hedge-witch with her pagan concoctions”

and warned the local mothers against allowing their daughters anywhere near her cottage.

“Trafficking in superstition and heathen practices,” Lady Lucas had declared, with a sniff.

Her voice carried deliberately across the room.

Mrs Bennet had initially discouraged these visits until Widow Faxon’s salve had healed a persistent rash on Mary’s hands that Mr Jones had been unable to treat.

“I thought you might come today,”

called a voice from within the garden.

“The horehound is particularly fine this year.”

Kitty smiled, no longer surprised by the widow’s uncanny ability to anticipate visitors.

“Good morning, Mrs Faxon.

I hope I’m not calling too early.”

The old woman emerged from behind a tangled mass of brambles, her grey hair escaping from beneath a faded cap, her apron already stained despite the early hour.

Of unknown age, Agnes Faxon remained as spry as women of twenty years, her eyes sharp and knowing in her weathered face.

“For you, Miss Catherine, it is never too early.

Not when your grandfather’s chest is troubling him again.”

She gestured for the young woman to enter the garden.

“And your own cough has not improved, has it? I heard it from across the churchyard on Sunday.”

Kitty shook her head, following the older woman down a winding path between beds bursting with plants both familiar and strange.

“It wakes me at night, and Grandfather’s is worse.

The draught Mr Jones prescribed helps him sleep but does little for the catarrh.”

Mrs Faxon nodded sagely, stopping before a patch of plants with wrinkled, greyish-green leaves.

“Horehound,”

she said, pointing to the robust growth.

“God’s gift to those who suffer winter ailments.

See how the leaves have a whitish cast? That’s how you know it is potent.”

She bent with surprising agility to cut several stalks, adding them to Kitty’s basket.

“Take more than you think you will need.

The syrup keeps well, and your grandfather’s chest will trouble him again when winter comes.”

Kitty watched intently as the widow selected the best specimens, mentally noting which parts of the plant were harvested.

Years ago, she might have been thinking only of ribbons and lace, but loss and responsibility had awakened a different side of her nature.

The gardens at Longbourn—both ornamental and practical—had become her particular domain, her designs increasing both beauty and yield with each passing season.

“I have brought the notebook,”

Kitty said, pulling a small leather-bound volume from her pocket.

“May I record the recipe this time? I would like to add it to Aunt Eleanor’s book.”

“Sensible girl.”

Mrs Faxon’s approval was evident in her look.

“Knowledge should be preserved and passed on.

Too many remedies are lost because no one thought to set them down in writing.

Or did not have the ability.” She straightened, brushing soil from her hands.

“Come inside, and I’ll show you the best way to prepare it.”

The cottage interior was a single room, neat but crowded with bundles of drying herbs hanging from the rafters.

A large worktable dominated one side, covered with jars, bottles, and various implements.

The air was thick with mingled scents—sweet and sharp, pungent and soothing—that Kitty had come to associate with healing.

“First, you will need water—fresh spring water is best,”

Mrs Faxon instructed, moving to the hearth where a kettle already hung over the fire.

“And honey from hives that have harvested from medicinal plants.

I’ve some from your own bees at Longbourn—your sister Mary brought it last autumn in exchange for that salve for her hands.”

Kitty wrote diligently as the widow demonstrated, measuring horehound leaves into a pot, adding the boiling water, and setting it to simmer.

The rich, somewhat bitter scent filled the cottage.

“How did you learn all this?”

Kitty asked, watching as Mrs Faxon stirred the mixture with practised movements.

“From my grandmother, who learnt from hers.

Women’s wisdom, passed down.”

There was something like sadness in her voice.

“My daughter had no interest—she went to London to be a lady’s maid and considers such knowledge old-fashioned.

Perhaps someday she shall think differently.”

“I would have thought the same, once,”

Kitty admitted.

“Before Papa died, my only interests were following Lydia’s lead in gossip and fashions.”

Mrs Faxon smiled knowingly.

“Adversity reveals our true nature, for better or worse.

Yours, it seems, included a gift for growing things that might otherwise have lain dormant.

I knew your Aunt Eleanor, you know.

There was a lady who knew her herbs.”

She gestured to the simmering pot.

“Now we let this extract for half an hour.

Tell me about your plans for the kitchen garden whilst we wait.”

The next hour passed pleasantly as Kitty described her designs for expanding the herb section of Longbourn’s gardens, occasionally pausing to note Mrs Faxon’s suggestions for companion planting and harvesting times.

Mrs Faxon admonished Kitty to organise her medicinal herbs according to Aunt Eleanor’s system and review her aunt’s records kept in the small notebook filled with observations far ahead of their time about dosages appropriate for women’s physiology versus men’s.

The older woman conversed with genuine interest, her shrewd comments revealing a lifetime of practical knowledge.

When the horehound had simmered sufficiently, Mrs Faxon showed Kitty how to strain the liquid through a fine cloth, pressing the leaves to extract every drop of medicine.

To the resulting dark liquid, she added the honey, stirring slowly as it dissolved.

“Now,”

she said, reaching for a small, stoppered bottle, “the secret that makes this remedy singularly effective.” She added three drops of a fragrant oil to the mixture.

“Essence of lemon.

Hard to come by these days, with the war making imports dear, but of inestimable value for chest ailments.

The real fruit would be better, but lemons are all but impossible to find in Hertfordshire.”

Kitty made another careful note, watching as the widow bottled the syrup in a series of small, dark glass containers.

“One tablespoon for adults, morning and night, and an extra dose if the coughing is severe,”

Mrs Faxon instructed.

“Half that amount for children.

Keep it cool and dark, and it will serve you through autumn and beyond.”

As Kitty prepared to leave, her basket now containing the precious bottles along with a generous bundle of fresh horehound for future batches, Mrs Faxon pressed a small packet of seeds into her hand.

“For your gardens,”

she said.

“Plant them in a sunny spot with good drainage.

By next spring, you will have your own supply.

The plants will return year after year if properly tended.”

“Thank you,”

Kitty said, suddenly impulsive as she leant forward to embrace the older woman.

“For everything you have taught me.”

Mrs Faxon seemed momentarily startled by the display of affection before her weathered face softened.

“You are a good student, Miss Catherine.

Your grandfather is fortunate to have you looking after his health.”

“I sometimes feel I’m only playing at knowledge,”

Kitty confessed.

“Compared to what you know—”

“We all begin somewhere,”

the widow interrupted gently.

“My grandmother would laugh to see how proud I was of my first remedies.

Knowledge grows like your gardens—with patience, attention, and time.”

That evening, Kitty administered the first dose of the syrup to her grandfather, who regarded the dark liquid with a dubious expression.

“Widow Faxon’s remedy?”

he asked, sniffing the spoonful cautiously.

“The one Lady Lucas calls ‘witchcraft in a bottle’?”

“The same,”

Kitty confirmed with a smile.

“The witchcraft that cured Sir William’s gout last winter, although Lady Lucas prefers not to mention that part.”

“Well then,”

Mr Bennet said, his eyes twinkling with their old mischief despite his pallor, “let us hope it works as well on old men’s lungs as on baronets’ toes.” He swallowed the dose, his eyebrows rising curiously.

“Not unpleasant.

The honey conceals much of the bitterness.”

Elizabeth, who had been watching from the doorway, stepped into the room.

“You have become quite the apothecary, Kitty.

Mrs Hill tells me your feverfew tincture has eased Cook’s headaches considerably.”

Kitty felt herself flush with pleasure at the rare praise.

For so long she had been only “the second youngest Bennet girl,”

with no particular talent to distinguish her.

Jane had her beauty and gentle manner, Elizabeth her wit and understanding, Mary her books and serious mind, and Lydia her boundless eagerness and newfound expertise with livestock.

But in the gardens and stillroom, Kitty had at last found her own domain.

“I have only scratched the surface of what can be done with the right plants,”

she said, corking the bottle firmly.

“Mrs Faxon believes many ailments can be treated with what grows around us, if we only remember the old knowledge.”

“‘Old knowledge’,”

came Mary’s voice as she entered with the evening tea tray.

“Paracelsus wrote extensively on the medicinal properties of plants in the sixteenth century.

Modern medicine too often dismisses wisdom because it lacks a recent pedigree.”

“Whatever its pedigree,”

Mrs Bennet said as she followed Mary into the room, “anything that eases Father Bennet’s breathing is welcome at Longbourn.” She touched Kitty’s shoulder with an approving hand.

“Your garden plans have proved their worth many times over, my dear.”

Kitty took a spoonful of the syrup herself before settling near the fire with her mending.

By the following morning, her chest felt less tight, the persistent tickle that had triggered her coughing significantly diminished.

More remarkably, Grandfather’s breathing seemed easier, the harsh rattle that had accompanied each breath muted to a gentler sound.

Within a week, the improvement was pronounced enough that even Mr Jones noted it during his regular visit to Longbourn.

“Whatever you have added to my prescribed treatments appears beneficial,”

he admitted with professional grace.

“Although I would caution against placing too much faith in folk remedies.”

“Of course, Mr Jones,”

Elizabeth assured him, whilst exchanging a private glance with Kitty that acknowledged the truth they both recognised.

The horehound syrup became a regular feature of Longbourn’s stillroom, Kitty dutifully recording each batch in her growing collection of household remedies.

She planted Mrs Faxon’s seeds in a sunny corner of the kitchen garden, tending the seedlings with the same care she gave her roses and herbs.

“Well?”

Mary looked up from her book as Elizabeth and Jane entered the parlour.

“Was Grandfather’s assessment of the drainage correct?”

“To the letter,”

Elizabeth replied, settling onto the sofa.

“Although Mr Darcy had some interesting suggestions about improving the flow near Oakham Mount.

He has implemented similar solutions at Pemberley.”

“Both gentlemen were quite civil,”

Jane added, taking her accustomed seat near the window.

“Mr Bingley seemed most concerned about being a good neighbour.”

“When he remembered to attend to the matter at hand,”

Elizabeth said with a meaningful look at her elder sister, whose cheeks coloured just perceptibly.

“Although I must say, Mr Darcy’s understanding is remarkable.

He spotted issues I had not yet noticed myself.”

Their mother, who had been sewing on the settee, suddenly showed signs of animation.

“Two single gentlemen of fortune, calling at Longbourn! Even though it was just business.

Still, Jane, Mr Bingley seemed most pleased with your company.”

“It was an estate matter, Mamma,”

Jane reminded her gently.

“Nothing more.”

“If it pleases you Mamma, you may write to your sister Phillips that two eligible gentlemen called,”

Elizabeth added with a laugh.

“That should provide sufficient material for speculation at her next card party.”

Later, as the sisters dressed for dinner in their shared chamber, Elizabeth watched Jane’s reflection in their mirror.

“He hardly took his eyes from you,” she said.

“Lizzy, please.”

Jane’s reflection showed her telltale blush.

“Mr Bingley was merely being polite.”

“There is polite, and there is looking as though one has discovered a rare jewel in a country lane.”

Elizabeth adjusted her hair pins.

“It matters little.

A man of his consequence would hardly consider…”

“No,”

Jane agreed quietly.

“And you must not encourage such thoughts in Mamma.

It is far from the first time a gentleman paid attention to me on first meeting.

Nothing will come of it and thinking of it will only lead to disappointment.”

Elizabeth turned to face her sister directly.

“Did you like him, though?”

“He was…”

Jane looked down as a becoming flush crept up her cheeks.

“Amiable.

Most gentleman-like.

But as you say, it signifies little more than a pleasant interlude.

What of Mr Darcy? He seemed quite engaged in conversation with you.”

“Because I was speaking of his friend’s estate.

I am sensible that I have rarely met anyone so knowledgeable in supervising an estate.

For a moment I quite forgot myself and spoke as freely as I do with Grandfather about such matters.”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“But you should have seen his expression when I first showed him that problem with the channel.

I might as well have suggested digging the trench myself.”

“You do not do yourself justice, Lizzy.

He seemed most attentive to your observations.”

“Perhaps, Jane, but a man of ten thousand a year does not seek a wife who concerns herself with drainage channels and water flow.”

Elizabeth’s voice carried a teasing lilt, but her fingers worried at the mend in her sleeve.

“Such things are beneath a gentleman’s daughter, I am sure.”

“Perhaps not all gentlemen think so.”

“Well, it matters not what they think, for we shall likely see little of either of them now that the business is concluded.”

Elizabeth moved to the window.

A brisk breeze had picked up, scattering the russet oak leaves in swirls.

“Although I will miss having someone to discuss estate matters with besides Grandfather.”

“Lizzy,”

Jane said, coming to stand beside her.

“You are worth far more than--”

“Than my unfashionable interest in cultivation? I should hope so.”

“Lizzy.”

Jane made a gentle enquiry.

“Your hand—what happened?”

Elizabeth glanced down at the handkerchief still wrapped around her finger, the fine linen marked with spots of dried blood.

“A splinter, nothing more.

Mr Darcy… assisted in removing it.”

Before Jane could enquire further, Elizabeth linked her arm through her sister’s.

“Come, let us not be melancholy.

We have managed perfectly well until now without eligible gentlemen of fortune disrupting our quiet life.

Although I do hope, for the sake of Netherfield’s fields, that Mr Bingley pays more attention to the drainage than he did today.”

Jane’s quiet laugh did not quite hide her sigh, and Elizabeth squeezed her arm gently.

They waited together, staring out at the dormant land that they worked so hard to maintain, each lost in thoughts they knew better than to voice, until Hill came to tell them dinner was ready.

Elizabeth found her mother the following morning surrounded by household books and correspondence.

Through the open door, she could hear Mary discussing the stillroom inventory with Kitty.

Those tasks would need to be managed quite differently when their cousin arrived.

“Mr Collins’s letter inviting himself to Longbourn arrived this morning,”

Mrs Bennet said without looking up.

“He means to grace us with a fortnight’s visit, beginning Tuesday next.” Her voice bore a ghost of the anxious flutter that once defined her.

“So soon? But the drainage work on the south field--”

“Must be completed before he arrives.”

Mrs Bennet finally raised her eyes from her papers.

“We cannot have him questioning our methods or suggesting his own improvements.

Your grandfather has already sent word to Mr Robinson about increasing the work crew.”

“And what of Mr Darcy’s consultation about the boundary drainage?”

“That, at least, may work to our advantage.

If Mr Darcy has already formed an impression of Longbourn’s competent management before Collins arrives…”

She paused.

“Your grandfather wishes to speak with us about how we shall arrange matters during the visit.

Shall we go up now? He is having a good day, and we have much to plan.”

They found Mr Bennet in his chair by the window, a book of agricultural improvements open on his lap.

His eyes, although tired, held their characteristic sharp intelligence.

“Collins grows bold,”

he said without preamble, holding up the letter.

“Listen to this: ‘I feel it my solemn duty to assess the state of my future inheritance, that I might better understand how to preserve its advantages and remedy its deficiencies.’ Remedy its deficiencies, my foot.”

“He means to find fault,”

Elizabeth said, taking her accustomed seat at his right hand.

“He means to establish his own authority,”

Mrs Bennet corrected, settling into the chair opposite.

“We must ensure he finds exactly what he expects to find—neither so much disorder that he might claim immediate intervention is needed, nor such perfect management that he grows suspicious.”

“A careful balance.”

Mr Bennet’s lips twitched.

“We have put Mr Collins off for the last time, I fear.

We must discuss how to present matters to him to give him the least reason to question the stewardship of the estate.

Frances, please tell my granddaughters what we have spoken of.” Elizabeth noted that Grandfather looked pale.

His hand trembled as he raised his teacup.

Mrs Bennet turned her eyes on her five girls, seated around their grandfather in their accustomed places.

“First, we must create the impression of one absolute line of authority.

All estate business must appear to flow from you, Father Bennet.

Elizabeth, you will need to modify your manner with the tenants.

No more direct instructions - everything must be presented as ‘Mr Bennet suggests’ or ‘Mr Bennet requires.’”

“And my morning inspections of the fields?”

“Must be undertaken earlier, before Collins rises.

He will expect to find you engaged in more lady-like pursuits during the day.

Perhaps you might take up your sketching again? Collins would find that a suitably feminine accomplishment.”

“Whilst allowing her to document estate conditions without raising suspicion,”

Mr Bennet noted with approval.

“But what of Jane’s work with the accounts?”

“She may continue as your secretary—that much can be explained as feminine duty to a grandfather.

Mary’s stillroom management we shall present as mere domestic excellence.

Kitty’s garden designs will become simple flower arrangement, and as for Lydia…”

“We shall keep our sister away from the sheep pens,”

Elizabeth said firmly.

“Although she will not thank us for it.”

Lydia tossed her head with a quick breath.

Like a governess-weary miss of twelve, she said, “I am certain I might go to see the sweet little kittens? Or pet the horses? I will not don my smock and boots, and it is not lambing season.”

“Better a fortnight’s restraint than a lifetime of Collins’s interference,”

her grandfather said.

“Now, Frances, what else have you planned?”

Mrs Bennet drew out her memorandum book.

“We must consider the daily schedule thoroughly.

Collins must see evidence of your authority, sir, without overtaxing your strength.

I suggest…”

Elizabeth listened as her mother detailed their strategy, thinking of Mr Darcy’s keen observations.

Would such deliberately constructed appearances withstand his scrutiny? And through him, Mr Bingley’s? Their other neighbours’ protective silence had served them well these five years, but new eyes might see what they wished to hide.

Yet they had no choice but to maintain their course.

Collins must be managed, their independence preserved, at least until… Until what? Until some magnificent marriage saved them? Until their management proved so exemplary that even Collins must acknowledge it? Until grandfather passed and they were forced to leave Longbourn?

Elizabeth pushed aside such useless speculations.

They would do what they must, as they had these past several years.

One day at a time, one careful decision after another, preserving their future through wit and will and careful management of appearances.

“Your grandfather will breakfast in his rooms - no need to tax his strength with stairs more than once a day.

You and I shall review estate business with him there, where Collins may observe how studiously you attend his guidance.”

Mrs Bennet’s expression softened as she glanced at her father-in-law.

“We must ensure these performances do not tire you unduly, sir.”

“I believe I can manage to look both authoritative and infirm,”

Mr Bennet said drily.

“I have had considerable practice in both roles.”

“The letters and papers will be arranged on your desk each morning,”

Elizabeth added.

“Collins must see evidence of your active management.

Although we should remove Aunt Eleanor’s agricultural treatises - he would hardly approve of such reading forming the basis of estate decisions.”

“The boundary books must remain prominent,”

Grandfather insisted.

“Collins needs to understand that I know every acre of Longbourn’s extent.

He has made too many remarks about possible encroachment by neighbours.” Mr Bennet smiled.

Rather than encroachments, the family had expanded the estate with additional lands exempt from the entail.

The careful acquisition of neighbouring fields and farms had required sacrifices, but they managed knowing it meant their future security.

“Mamma,”

Elizabeth said slowly, “how might our new neighbours at Netherfield affect our situation? Mr Bingley will naturally seek local guidance about estate management.

His friend Mr Darcy is unquestionably a man who understands property management thoroughly.

I fear our usual methods of preserving appearances may not serve with such observers.”

“That could prove awkward,”

Mrs Bennet mused.

“Sir William’s protection has served us well with the established neighbourhood, but new arrivals who take an active interest in estate matters…” She paused.

“Although perhaps Mr Darcy’s expertise might be turned to advantage.

If he could speak of respect for our management of Longbourn before meeting Mr Collins…”

“He already suffers from some resistance to accepting female capability in such matters,”

Elizabeth noted.

“Although he showed himself willing to be corrected.”

“Then we must consider how to manage both situations,”

her grandfather said.

“Collins must see my authority maintained, whilst Mr Darcy…” He coughed, and Elizabeth moved quickly to adjust his shawl.

“Whilst Mr Darcy might see Longbourn’s true competence without discovering how intentionally we guard appearances.”

“It would help if he had formed his impressions of us before Collins arrives,”

Mrs Bennet said thoughtfully.

“Elizabeth, might we arrange matters so that he sees more of Longbourn’s efficient management, whilst preserving the appearance of traditional patriarchal authority.” Mrs Bennet’s expression turned calculating.

“Sir William might be persuaded to speak of your grandfather’s innovative methods, preparing the ground for Mr Darcy to view our situation more favourably.”

“A complex dance,”

Elizabeth said.

“And one in which a single misstep could prove disastrous.”

“Yes, my dear.”

Her grandfather’s voice held weariness.

“Sometimes I wonder if we do you girls more harm than good with all this dissembling.

If we should simply…”

“No,”

said Mrs Bennet firmly.

“We have maintained this course for years.

We shall continue until the girls’ futures are secure.

Now, Elizabeth, let us review how the estate books should be arranged for Collins’s inspection.

Some evidence of feminine handwriting may be permitted - he will expect ladies to assist with basic recording - but all significant decisions must appear to be entirely by your grandfather’s hand.

You are the most skilled at replicating it.”

Mrs Bennet consulted a leather-bound volume from her desk.

“The Matthews pasture remains our most delicate situation.

His Lordship continues to maintain the fiction that he leases it to us, although the deed is secure in our strongbox.”

“Along with his rather desperate letter begging us to keep the true nature of the transaction private,”

Elizabeth added.

“Although I cannot blame him for wanting to preserve appearances.

The loss of ancestral lands is a bitter thing.”

“And yet his loss has been our gain,”

her grandfather said.

“That pasture has proved excellent for the sheep, especially since you implemented the new grazing plan, Lydia.”

“We must be scrupulously careful how we present that improvement to Mr Collins,”

Mrs Bennet said.

“While the work was completed with our own funds, we allowed Lord Matthews to imply he had some hand in improving it.

Better that Collins believe we operate with the oversight of a gentleman neighbour.”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched.

“Even if that gentleman’s only contribution was to lose spectacularly at hazard and then beg us to keep his shame private?”

“Lizzy,”

her mother admonished, although her own mouth quirked a bit.

“Such arrangements are not uncommon, although usually between gentlemen rather than…” She gestured vaguely at their unusual situation.

“The Willow Brook farm was a cleaner transaction,”

Mr Bennet noted.

“Old Mr Harris was happy enough to sell to us directly, with no need for elaborate pretence.”

“Although even there, we allowed the neighbourhood to assume it was grandfather’s decision rather than Jane’s careful calculation of the advantage,”

Elizabeth said.

“Your sister has a positive genius for estate accounting,”

Mrs Bennet said proudly.

“Although we must ensure Collins sees only the most conventional evidence of her abilities.

Now, about that new drainage channel along the Matthews land - Mr Bingley will need to be consulted about its effect on Netherfield’s water flow, but how shall we manage the discussion without revealing our true ownership?”

“As much as I detest disguise, I fear we ought to continue to maintain the two sets of ledgers.”

Mr Bennet said.

“Lizzy, you may be required to conduct a little fictional accounting to make it appear that Matthews retains the deed? Some small payments back to him could be conjured up? Perhaps the amounts paid later for the livestock he wished to sell?”

Elizabeth nodded and bent to the task, her pen imitating the more old-fashioned shapes of her grandfather’s hand.

Her thoughts kept returning to Mr Darcy’s penetrating gaze.

They could hardly maintain such careful appearances under the observation of a man accustomed to managing one of the largest estates in Derbyshire.

They must hold on to hope that Mr Collins was less astute.