Page 11 of The Mercy of Chance
L ydia, please help me move these embroidery frames to a prominent position,”
Jane directed, surveying the drawing room.
“Kitty, your watercolours on that table - be certain to leave some unfinished.
Mary, your music should appear recently employed and not so well-ordered.”
“I have selected some particularly tedious pieces,”
Mary said, arranging the sheets with precise carelessness.
“Simple enough to appear lady-like yet dull enough to discourage lengthy appreciation.”
Elizabeth entered with an armful of delicate needlework.
“Lydia, your sketch of the new lambs are in a most insipid style.
Show no evidence of your knowledge of breeding lines -simply a young girl’s sentimental drawing.”
“Perfect.”
Jane stepped back to assess the effect.
“Everything appears believably feminine, yet nothing invites prolonged examination.
Now, what of Mr Collins’s chamber?”
“The blue room,”
said Elizabeth.
“It catches every draught from the north wing, and the fireplace draws poorly.
I have placed extra blankets in the chest - they appear thoughtful, whilst suggesting he ought to have need of them.”
“And I have selected linens that, whilst perfectly clean and proper, are well worn and far from our finest,”
Jane added.
“The mattress has been turned but not replaced.
It remains somewhat lumpy on the left side.”
Mary looked up.
“Cook has planned a fortnight of menus that display our capability without extravagance.
The first days show our best offerings, then gradually shift to plainer fare.
All from our own produce, naturally, but prepared simply enough to imply greater economy.”
“The thought of deliberately serving indifferent meals…”
Jane sighed.
“Better indifferent meals than an indefinite visit,”
Elizabeth said firmly.
“Has Hill arranged the morning schedule?”
“Yes.
The fires will be lit in his chamber precisely half an hour too late for true comfort, although not so late he might reasonably complain.
And the hot water for shaving will arrive quite tepid and with sufficient delay to make him late for breakfast.”
“What of your mathematical studies?”
Elizabeth asked Mary.
“They must be well hidden.”
“Along with my notes on soil composition,”
Mary agreed.
“I have left only the most insipid novel and my prayer book visible.
Of course, I will carry that distasteful Fordyce volume with me at all times, although it pains me to pretend such intellectual vacancy.
I will be able to remove the binding and insert my notebooks instead in the coming days.”
Kitty entered with an armful of dried flowers.
“The bulk of the stillroom stores are concealed behind a few preserves and jellies.
All my designs for the kitchen garden are hidden away, replaced with pressed flowers and amateur sketches.”
“And Lydia?”
Jane enquired.
“Sulking in the stables, making the most of her last morning with the sheep,”
said Elizabeth.
“Although she has promised to affect proper feminine vapidity when required.”
“It seems a terrible deception,”
Jane murmured.
“It seems a necessary one.”
Elizabeth adjusted a tambour frame, leaving a dangling thread to suggest recent abandonment.
“Everything must appear exactly as a gentleman would expect to find a household of ladies: accomplished enough to be respectable, yet not so competent as to suggest unusual independence.”
“The drawing room at least is ready,”
Mary said.
“We can retreat here at a moment’s notice and appear utterly occupied with feminine pursuits.”
“And give thanks if Mr Collins knows nothing of good music, fine embroidery, or correct watercolour technique,”
said Elizabeth.
“For I fear our hasty preparations would not withstand truly knowledgeable scrutiny.”
Jane paused in arranging a bowl of late roses.
“Like Mr Darcy’s scrutiny?”
“Precisely.”
Elizabeth frowned at the elegant arrangement.
“Too artistic, Jane.
Make it appear more casually gathered.
We must not show too much skill in any direction.”
“A pity we cannot simply demonstrate our actual abilities,”
Kitty said wistfully, replacing her careful flower study drawing with a more amateurish attempt.
“A fortnight of pretence,”
Elizabeth reminded her.
“We have managed years of careful appearances.
We can certainly maintain the deception through one brief visit.”
Yet as she surveyed their artfully arranged scene of genteel feminine occupation, Elizabeth could not quite suppress a tendril of doubt.
They had practised these deceptions for so long - but would they withstand the close observation of their cousin?
Mary sighed, removing the sheet music.
“I suppose I must appear to prefer simple country airs.
Although it seems a waste of all those hours practising fingering.”
She replaced Bach with a simpler piece.
“At least I need not pretend complete musical ignorance.”
“Unlike my pretence with the sheep,”
Lydia said from the doorway.
She held up two sketches.
“Which do you prefer - the lamb drawn with proper anatomical understanding, or this one where I appear to think the ram has five legs?”
“Lydia!”
Jane exclaimed.
“You cannot leave that about.”
“Why not? Mr Collins would attribute it to charming feminine ignorance of animal husbandry.”
Lydia’s voice carried an unfamiliar sharpness.
“Never mind that I can recite three generations of breeding lines.”
“The five-legged lamb might be a touch too obvious,”
Elizabeth said drily.
“Perhaps adhere to proper anatomy.
And do try to seem interested in their sweet faces rather than their wool quality and breeding lines.”
“I was thinking of naming it ‘Precious Little Lamb’ or perhaps ‘Darling Sheep in Spring.’”
Lydia said with exaggerated sweetness.
“Rather than ‘Prime Example of Fourth-Generation Merino Cross-Breeding.’”
“Much better,”
Jane approved.
“Although perhaps with just a touch less irony in your tone when Mr Collins arrives.”
Kitty looked up from the table where she was arranging her watercolours.
“I have hidden all my garden planning sketches - and left these…”
She held up a painting of flowers, deliberately composed with incorrect perspective.
“It seems absurd to pretend I cannot draw a straight line when I regularly design planting beds to precise measurements.”
Elizabeth examined her own embroidery with a critical eye.
“I suppose this should be perfectly even.
A lady managing estate water works would have time to develop neater stitches.”
She deliberately pulled out several threads.
“There.
Now it appears I spend my days practising feminine accomplishments.”
“At least you need not hide your reading completely,”
Jane said.
“Although perhaps these…” She removed several agricultural treatises from the side table, replacing them with a volume of sermons and a book of poetry.
“Ah yes, for who would suspect a lady’s poetry reading concealed memorised passages about water flow?”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Although I shall miss discussing Aunt Eleanor’s notes on crop rotation.”
“And I must forget that I can draft a lease agreement and negotiate timber prices,”
Jane added.
“How strange that we must hide the very skills that have kept Longbourn prosperous these five years.”
“Whilst feigning devotion to accomplishments we have scarcely time to practise,”
Elizabeth agreed.
She surveyed their neatly arranged display of feminine incompetence.
“How fortunate our cousin knows so little of estate management that he will never recognise Mary’s agricultural notes in her ‘poetry,’ or Kitty’s irrigation designs disguised as flower sketches.”
“Or notice that the lady drawing charming lamb portraits can discuss wool futures,”
Lydia added.
“Although I still say the five-legged lamb has artistic merit.”
“We have learnt to be exact in all things,”
Jane said.
“Although for the next fortnight, we must appear to pursue excellence only in those areas society deems appropriate for ladies.”
Darcy had not intended to call at Longbourn again so soon.
The initial visit had been a necessary courtesy—the drainage issues between the properties required attention before the autumn rains began in earnest.
But Bingley, having encountered Miss Bennet, had insisted they ride out to “ensure Mr Bennet had not been overtaxed by their previous call.”
The chill October air had reddened their cheeks during their ride, the scent of fallen leaves rising from beneath their horses’ hooves.
Tree branches stood starkly against the pale sky, a reminder that winter approached, and drainage matters could not wait.
Darcy strongly suspected his friend’s concern had less to do with the elderly gentleman’s health and more to do with the gentle smile that had illuminated Miss Jane Bennet’s beautiful face when Bingley had complimented her work in her ledgers.
Her slender fingers had moved over the columns of figures with the same grace another young lady might employ at the pianoforte.
As they approached Longbourn on horseback, a flurry of activity drew his eye.
A farm cart stood by the kitchen entrance, a servant was unloading what appeared to be extra chairs, the wood scraping against the cart bed with each removal.
Young Lucas, Sir William’s son, struggled toward the house with an instrument case, his face flushed with the effort of maintaining its upright position.
Through the open door, autumn flowers in rich gold and russet hues sat in temporary disarray.
“They appear to be preparing for some entertainment,”
Darcy remarked as they dismounted, the leather of his saddle creaking beneath him.
Excitement illuminated Bingley’s features.
“Perhaps we have called at an inopportune time.
I daresay I am curious about what occasion merits such preparation in a household that seems primarily occupied with practical matters.”
The gravel crunched beneath their boots as a stable boy hurried to take their horses, his eyes curious beneath an unruly fringe of hair.
Hill, the housekeeper Darcy remembered from their previous visit, admitted them with a curtsy that betrayed mild surprise at their arrival, the subtle widening of her eyes betraying what her disciplined features concealed.
“Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy,”
she announced as she showed them into the drawing room, the scent of beeswax polish mingling with fresh flowers.
Mrs Bennet stood directing Kitty and Lydia in arranging vases of varying sizes, her hands filled with autumn roses whose fragrance permeated the room.
A half-arranged spray of goldenrod lay on a side table, waiting its turn.
“Gentlemen!”
Mrs Bennet’s eyebrows rose perceptibly.
“We did not expect callers this afternoon.
What a… pleasant surprise.” Her momentary pause spoke volumes.
Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia exchanged a glance, the younger girl’s eyes widening fractionally before her lips pressed together, a silent communication that conveyed some shared disappointment or concern.
“We wished to enquire about Mr Bennet’s health,”
Bingley explained, his voice carrying the warmth he employed for social pleasantries.
The polished floorboards gleamed in the afternoon light as he stepped further into the room.
“How considerate,”
Mrs Bennet replied, transferring the roses to Kitty’s waiting hands.
Several petals drifted to the floor, landing silently on the polished wood.
“My father-in-law will be pleased to hear it.
He is resting at present but is much improved, thanks in part to Kitty’s remedy.”
Miss Kitty’s cheeks flushed pink.
The memory of her earnest questions about herbal properties rose in Darcy’s mind, accompanied by an unexpected image of his mother bent over her stillroom books, her dark hair falling forward as she noted measurements and effects in her precise hand.
The door latch clicked, drawing all eyes as Miss Elizabeth and Miss Jane entered, both carrying additional flowers.
The scent of fresh greenery accompanied them, along with the subtle perfume of late roses.
A streak of pollen marked Miss Elizabeth’s sleeve, evidence of her involvement with the arrangements.
Miss Jane recovered first; her voice as gracious as Darcy remembered.
“Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy.
What a pleasant surprise.”
Miss Elizabeth’s expressive eyes registered a sequence of emotions—surprise, something resembling dismay, then a composed politeness that transformed her features.
“You find us in some disarray, I fear.”
Her voice carried a musical quality even in ordinary speech, a fact Darcy had not previously noted.
“We are preparing for a small gathering this evening,”
Miss Jane explained, setting her flowers on a nearby table.
A few drops of water sparkled on her fingers, catching the light.
“Just a few neighbours and friends.”
“Capital!”
Bingley leant forward, his eagerness evident in the sudden animation of his features.
“A dinner party?”
“A dance, actually,”
Miss Lydia replied, her voice lifting with an enthusiasm Darcy had not previously observed.
Her fingers ceased their nervous arrangement of rose stems.
“Our own private assembly, since—”
“Since we have had so few opportunities for music and merriment of late,”
Mrs Bennet interjected smoothly.
Her hand brushed her daughter’s arm in what appeared a casual gesture, although the warning in her eyes contradicted its lightness.
“My father-in-law enjoys hearing Mary play, and Sir William Lucas is always eager for a country dance.”
The undercurrent in this exchange spoke of some history—a disappointment or slight, perhaps.
The Bennet family’s unusual circumstances would naturally affect their social standing in a community as traditional as this one appeared to be.
The precise arrangement of flowers suddenly seemed less a festive preparation than a determined effort to create gaiety where it had been denied.
“How delightful,”
Bingley enthused, his gaze lingering on Miss Jane.
A beam of late afternoon sun caught in her golden hair, rendering it luminous against the darker panelling of the walls.
“I have always believed music and dancing to be among life’s greatest pleasures.”
Miss Elizabeth bent over her flowers, arranging them with particular attention.
Her hands, Darcy noted, bore none of the pristine softness expected of a gentlewoman—a faint callus marked her right index finger where a pen would rest, and a small scratch across her palm suggested gardening without gloves.
The imperfection rendered them more interesting than the unblemished hands so prized in London drawing rooms.
“Perhaps,”
Mrs Bennet said suddenly, setting down a vase with a decisive click against the wooden table, “you gentlemen might join our little party this evening? It is a modest affair, to be sure, nothing like the grandeur you must be accustomed to in London, but we would be honoured by your company.”
The invitation hung in the air, accompanied by the subtle scent of lavender from Mrs Bennet’s dress.
Miss Elizabeth’s head jerked up, her wide eyes meeting her mother’s in what appeared to be alarm, a spray of bellflowers momentarily forgotten in her hand.
Miss Jane froze in the act of arranging goldenrod, her normally graceful movements arrested mid-gesture.
The two younger girls, however, displayed undisguised excitement, Miss Lydia’s fingers actually clasping together in barely suppressed delight.
Bingley turned to Darcy, his eyes bright with anticipation.
The silent plea in his expression could not have been more eloquent had he spoken aloud: Say yes, man.
Darcy hesitated, the demands of social propriety settling on his shoulders like a familiar coat.
An evening of country dances with the local gentry was hardly how he had intended to spend his time at Netherfield.
Miss Bingley would undoubtedly purse her lips in that particular expression of disdain she reserved for provincial entertainments.
The society would be limited, the accommodations modest.
His gaze moved to Miss Elizabeth, who had composed her features but whose spine had straightened imperceptibly, her chin lifting with quiet pride as she awaited his response.
The autumn sunlight caught a small scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose—evidence of a life not confined to drawing rooms and shaded gardens.
There was something compelling about this family that defied conventional expectations.
The eldest daughters managed estate matters with a competence that would shame many gentlemen of his acquaintance.
During their previous conversation about property boundaries, Miss Elizabeth had demonstrated a knowledge of water tables and drainage requirements that had genuinely impressed him.
Even the younger girls had developed practical skills that went far beyond the typical accomplishments of young ladies.
“We would be delighted,”
Darcy found the words escaping his lips before his mind had fully formed the decision to accept.
The sensation of speaking without prior deliberation was so foreign to his nature that he nearly glanced over his shoulder, as if another gentleman had spoken in his stead.
Bingley’s face bloomed with undisguised pleasure, whilst Darcy experienced a peculiar sensation in his chest—something between discomfort and anticipation.
“Although I fear we are not properly attired for an evening of dancing.”.
“Nonsense,”
Mrs Bennet declared with a dismissive wave, the lace at her cuff fluttering with the movement.
“Our gathering is informal.
The gentlemen will be wearing their everyday attire, you may rely upon it.”
“Then we accept with pleasure,”
Bingley replied before Darcy could reconsider.
His voice carried the particular timbre of suppressed excitement Darcy recognised from their university days.
“What time shall we return?”
“The dancing begins at seven,”
Mrs Bennet replied.
“Although you are welcome to join us for a light supper beforehand, at six.”
As arrangements were confirmed, Miss Elizabeth’s expression caught Darcy’s attention.
Her head tilted to one side; her eyes narrowed in assessment.
The look contained neither coquettish approval nor calculated interest—rather, she appeared to be reconciling his acceptance with some preconceived notion of his character.
The directness of her gaze caused him to shift his posture, his shoulders squaring beneath his coat.
They took their leave shortly thereafter, promising to return for the evening’s entertainment.
The gravel of the drive crunched beneath their boots as they returned to their horses.
A faint strain of music drifted from a window—Miss Mary practising at the pianoforte, the notes of a country dance floating clearly in the still afternoon air.
As they rode back toward Netherfield, golden leaves occasionally drifting down to spiral in their wake, Bingley could hardly contain himself.
“What extraordinary good fortune!”
His voice carried above the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.
“A country dance is precisely what we need to feel properly welcomed.
Did you observe Miss Bennet’s expression? I believe she was pleased at our acceptance.
And how gracefully she arranges flowers—with the same precision she brings to estate ledgers, yet with such natural elegance.”
“I wonder,”
Darcy said, adjusting his grip on the reins as his horse sidestepped a puddle from yesterday’s rain.
“Would Miss Bingley be reluctant to join the entertainment?”
Bingley’s animated features faltered momentarily, a shadow passing over his customary good humour.
“Caroline and Louisa are dining with that family from Lyme—the Holisters, I believe.
They will not miss us.”
His voice lowered as they approached a hedgerow.
“Between ourselves, Darcy, I am rather relieved Caroline will not be present.
Her observations about country manners can be… less than kind.”
The understatement drew a rare smile from Darcy.
Caroline Bingley’s determination to find fault with everything that did not match London standards would undoubtedly have cast a pall over the evening.
Her last assessment of country fashion had nearly reduced a vicar’s wife to weeping at a garden party.
“It will be a simple country party,”
Darcy said, the autumn air cool against his face as they increased their pace.
“Nothing we have not attended many times before.”
The landscape was painted in russets and golds in the late afternoon light.
There was, to Darcy’s quiet astonishment, something about the evening had awakened his curiosity.
He most especially anticipated further conversation with Miss Elizabeth, whose observations on the drainage plans had revealed both practical knowledge and a sharp intellect unencumbered by the artificial delicacy so common among young ladies of his acquaintance.
Longbourn presented a transformed aspect when they returned that evening.
Lanterns illuminated the drive, their warm glow creating pools of golden light against the deepening blue of twilight.
The windows of the modest manor house gleamed with extra candles, and the sound of a violin being tuned drifted through the partially open door.
The scent of beeswax and autumn flowers greeted them upon entering, along with the subtle aroma of roasted meats from a supper evidently recently concluded.
The drawing room had undergone a remarkable transformation—furniture pushed against the walls to create a central space, autumn roses, and dahlias arranged in vases on every available surface.
The pianoforte had been positioned to allow Miss Mary both to play and observe the assembled company, whilst leaving adequate space for sets of dancers.
Sir William Lucas greeted them with his characteristic effusive courtesy, his flushed face suggesting he had already partaken liberally of the Bennet family’s hospitality.
“Mr Darcy! Mr Bingley! Capital, capital! We were just saying how pleasant it would be to have additional gentlemen for the dancing.”
Mrs Phillips, Mrs Bennet’s sister, scrutinised them with undisguised curiosity, her gaze lingering on Darcy’s cravat as though assessing its cost and fashion.
Mr Phillips engaged Bingley in conversation about shooting prospects, his voice carrying the enthusiasm of a man eager to ingratiate himself with a wealthy new neighbour.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of several young men whom Darcy did not recognise.
From their attire—good quality but lacking the particular cut and fabric that marked London tailoring—he judged them to be from the more prosperous farming families.
Not gentlemen by birth, but respectable, nonetheless.
The easy manner with which the Bennet sisters greeted them suggested established acquaintance.
“Mr Robinson and his brother,”
Miss Elizabeth explained, appearing at his elbow.
The subtle scent of lavender accompanied her, mingled with the fresher fragrance of garden herbs.
“They manage the largest tenant farm at Longbourn.
John has a particular gift with draft horses, whilst Thomas has introduced several innovations in crop rotation.”
Darcy observed the easy manner with which Miss Lydia greeted the younger Robinson brother.
A becoming flush coloured her cheeks, and her normally rapid speech slowed to a more measured pace as she enquired after some livestock concern.
The young man’s attentive posture as he replied suggested mutual interest that transcended mere neighbourly regard.
“Your sisters appear to have found their respective spheres of interest,”
he remarked to Miss Elizabeth, noting how the candlelight caught the amber highlights in her hair he had observed earlier.
“Necessity has proved a most effective teacher,”
she replied.
Her voice carried a challenge, her chin tilting upward defiantly.
“I understand it might seem peculiar to one accustomed to more traditional divisions of labour.”
“On the contrary,”
Darcy countered, “I find it admirable that you manage not just the household but the home farms as well.”
Miss Elizabeth’s expression registered surprise, a momentary widening of her eyes before her features settled into thoughtful reassessment.
The transformation pleased him more than seemed entirely rational.
Before she could respond, Miss Mary took her place at the pianoforte and struck the opening chords of a country dance, the young Lucas boy joining her with his violin.
“Shall we form sets?”
Sir William called out, his voice carrying over the preliminary notes.
“Mr Darcy, perhaps you would honour us by standing up for the first dance.
Allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.
You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” Sir William took Elizabeth’s hand and gave it to Mr.
Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it.
Darcy turned to Miss Elizabeth, with grave propriety, and requested to be allowed the honour of her hand.
Elizabeth accepted with a composed expression that revealed little of her thoughts, though her eyes held a speculative quality he could not quite interpret.
As they took their places for the dance, he noted that Bingley had, predictably, secured Miss Jane as his partner.
The younger Robinson brother stood with Miss Lydia, whilst Sir William partnered Miss Kitty.
Mr Phillips and his wife completed the set, the gentleman adjusting his waistcoat with the air of one conscious of dancing before distinguished company.
The first notes resonated through the room, Miss Mary’s playing revealing unexpected skill.
The precision of her touch compensated for what might have been lacking in passion, and the small size of the gathering lent an intimacy to the proceedings that larger assemblies often lacked.
The young Lucas son’s violin accompaniment blended harmoniously, creating a fuller sound than Darcy had anticipated from such modest arrangements.
The wooden floor creaked beneath their feet as the dance began, the familiar pattern bringing them together and apart in the familiar rhythm of the figures.
Miss Elizabeth moved with natural grace, her steps light and assured despite what must have been limited opportunities for practice in recent years.
The touch of her hand against his during the turns sent an inexplicable warmth through his fingers, travelling up his arm in a sensation both foreign and strangely pleasant.
“You dance well, Miss Elizabeth,”
he said during a moment when the pattern brought them together, the music temporarily softer as the Lucas boy adjusted his fingering.
“You are surprised, sir?”
she replied, a spark of amusement illuminating her eyes.
“Did you expect that calculating crop yields might render one incapable of remembering dance steps?”
“Not at all,”
he responded, finding himself unexpectedly enjoying her challenge.
The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been classified as a smile.
“Merely that opportunity for practice must be limited.”
“One does not easily forget the things that bring joy,”
she said as they separated again, the words carrying a wistful quality that lingered in his mind as the dance continued, her skirts swirling with each turn.
Throughout the evening, the interactions of the small gathering proved more interesting than Darcy had anticipated.
The social divisions he had expected were less rigid here than at formal assemblies.
Sir William conversed with the Robinson brothers about agricultural matters, his hands gesturing expansively as he described some new method being employed at Lucas Lodge.
Mrs Phillips engaged Miss Mary in a discussion of music that revealed the older woman possessed more knowledge than her provincial appearance might suggest.
Most notable was the transformation in the two youngest Bennet sisters.
Miss Lydia, who had sometimes seemed somewhat sullen during their earlier encounters, now displayed animation and even wit as she partnered various gentlemen.
Her laugh carried across the room during a particularly lively tune, genuine and unaffected.
Miss Kitty’s natural shyness diminished visibly as the evening progressed, and more so when discussions turned to gardens and herbal lore.
Her posture straightened, her voice grew firmer, and her normally hesitant expressions gave way to confident assertions when describing her remedy for winter coughs.
As for Miss Elizabeth, Darcy found her a more engaging partner than any he had encountered in recent memory.
When she spoke of Longbourn, her voice took on a particular shade that communicated genuine attachment—not only to its social position but to its physical reality.
She described a stand of ancient oaks with the same appreciation another young lady might reserve for fine jewels and detailed the particular qualities of the north pasturage with evident knowledge of its soil and drainage.
“You speak of the estate as a farmer might,”
he said during their second dance together, the music faster now, their movements bringing a slight flush to her cheeks that enhanced rather than diminished her appearance.
“I speak of it as someone who loves it,”
she corrected him, her voice carrying above the music without effort.
“Not merely for what it represents in terms of position or income, but for itself—its particular character and needs.”
Darcy inclined his head in agreement, the memory of summer afternoons spent tracing Pemberley’s boundaries and unique qualities at his father’s side.
rising unbidden.
“Pemberley inspires similar sentiments in me.
My father always insisted that true stewardship required understanding every aspect of the estate, from the grandest reception rooms to the most modest tenant cottages.”
“A philosophy we share,”
she said, and for the first time that evening, her smile contained no reservation, transforming her countenance from pleasantly handsome to unmistakably beautiful in the candlelight.