Page 12 of The Mercy of Chance

T he evening progressed with a pleasant informality that Darcy had not expected to enjoy.

Supper, served on simple but well-polished dishes, featured produce from Longbourn’s gardens and kitchens—roasted fowl with herbs he recognised from Miss Kitty’s careful cultivation, vegetables whose freshness spoke of recent harvesting, and preserves whose colour and clarity would not have disgraced a London table.

Miss Mary relinquished the pianoforte to Miss Elizabeth for several songs, revealing the latter’s more expressive, if less technically precise, playing style.

Her fingers moved over the keys with the same confidence they likely brought to estate ledgers, and if an occasional note went astray, the warmth of her interpretation more than compensated.

Sir William persuaded Miss Lydia to demonstrate a Scottish reel with young Robinson, which they performed with such enthusiasm that even Mr Phillips was moved to applaud vigorously, his usual pomposity forgotten in genuine appreciation.

Throughout it all, Bingley’s enchantment with Miss Jane Bennet grew increasingly evident.

His gaze followed her movements across the room, his expression holding the particular admiration Darcy had observed only during his friend’s frequent attachments.

Miss Bennet’s response remained more measured—she received his attentions with gentle pleasure but without the calculated encouragement so common among young ladies with matrimonial aspirations.

Whether this indicated disinterest or simply a more reserved nature remained to be determined, though Darcy inclined toward the latter interpretation.

As the evening drew to a close, the candles burning lower in their holders and casting longer shadows across the polished floor, Darcy had come to stand beside Miss Elizabeth at the window, their quiet proximity unremarked yet unmistakable.

The glass reflected their images against the darkness outside—his tall figure in stark black and white, her more colourful form beside him, the autumn flowers in her hair catching the warm light.

“Your sister seems to have captured my friend’s admiration,”

he said, watching as Bingley assisted Miss Jane in rearranging some music sheets, his hands lingering near hers longer than strictly necessary.

“Jane captures admiration wherever she goes,”

Miss Elizabeth replied, genuine affection warming her voice.

“Although she remains largely unaware of it.”

“And you?”

Darcy asked, the directness of the question surprising even himself.

“What do you make of Bingley’s evident partiality?”

She considered for a moment, her reflection in the glass showing a thoughtful expression.

“I think Jane finds Mr Bingley’s company pleasing.

But she has learnt caution these past years.

We all have.”

“Caution?”

The trace of wine from supper lingered pleasantly on his tongue, perhaps explaining his uncharacteristic persistence in personal matters.

“Our circumstances are… unusual, Mr Darcy.

The neighbourhood does not always know how to place us.

Are we gentlewomen to be courted, or anomalies to be pitied? Most have settled on the latter view.”

There was no self-pity coloured her words, only a clear-eyed assessment that reminded him of his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam’s reports from the continent—factual, unembellished, but revealing deeper truths to those who knew how to listen.

Something in her candour unsettled him—in the gentlest, most disarming way.

“Society often fails to recognise true worth when it appears in unexpected forms.”

“How philosophical,”

she said, her reflection showing a slight smile.

“I had not expected such sentiment from you, Mr Darcy.”

“No?”

he replied, genuinely curious, turning from the window to observe her directly.

The candlelight caught the fine structure of her cheekbones, the intelligence in her dark eyes.

“What had you expected?”

“From our limited acquaintance, I had formed the impression that you placed great importance on the proper forms of society.”

“I value order,”

he acknowledged, noting how the simple dress she wore, whilst lacking the elaborate trimmings fashionable in London, suited her figure admirably.

“But I value substance more.

Your family’s management of Longbourn demonstrates a commitment and competence that many gentlemen of my acquaintance would do well to emulate.”

Her expression suggested she had not anticipated this response.

A flash of reassessment passed across her features, followed by something that might have been the beginning of a genuine smile.

Before their conversation could continue, however, Bingley approached to announce that they should take their leave, as the hour was growing late.

The farewells were marked by genuine warmth on all sides.

Mrs Bennet thanked them for their attendance with a sincerity that Darcy found touching, whilst Sir William insisted they must repeat the gathering at Lucas Lodge in the near future, his expansive gestures suggesting he already envisioned the arrangements.

Miss Mary, normally so reserved, blushed to thank Darcy for his compliments on her playing, her fingers nervously adjusting her music sheets.

As they prepared to depart, Miss Elizabeth accompanied them to the door, the hallway somewhat cooler than the drawing room had been, with its assemblage of dancers and candles.

“I hope the evening proved not too tedious, Mr Darcy,”

she said, gentle defiance lingering behind her courtesy.

“I imagine it bears little resemblance to the entertainments you are accustomed to in town.”

“It was unlike any evening I have spent in London,”

he agreed, the night air cool against his face as the door opened before them.

Then he added with complete honesty, “And all the better for it.”

The surprise that flickered across her features was followed by a genuine smile that remained in his mind long after they had left Longbourn behind.

The ride back to Netherfield took them through the cool autumn night, stars visible in a sky clearer than London ever offered.

Bingley’s enthusiastic commentary about Miss Bennet’s many perfections—her grace, her beauty, her unexpected knowledge of agricultural matters—washed over him, requiring only occasional murmurs of agreement.

“I must say, Darcy,”

Bingley remarked as they approached Netherfield, the house a dark mass against the night sky, “that was a most enjoyable evening.

I should like to reciprocate such hospitality.

Why, I might hold a ball at Netherfield! Would that suit?”

Darcy realized with a jolt that, unlike his usual revolt at such a prospect, he saw merit in another evening spent in such a way.

“I would think the prospect of a Netherfield ball would extremely agreeable to every family in Meryton.

It would further establish your place as a leading gentleman of the area.”

Darcy said.

“Then we shall plan a ball! I am certain Caroline would be delighted to arrange for it.

Another evening as enjoyable as this one, but in my own ballroom.

I say, I had not expected you to enjoy yourself so thoroughly.

You actually smiled—several times! Miss Elizabeth Bennet must be a truly remarkable conversationalist.”

“She is… unusual,”

Darcy conceded, unwilling to reveal the full extent of his interest despite the darkness that would have hidden any betraying expression.

“The entire family defies conventional expectations.”

“In the most delightful way,”

Bingley agreed fervently.

“Miss Bennet’s understanding of estate matters is remarkable.

And did you observe how she spoke with the tenant farmers? Such natural dignity, yet without condescension.”

Darcy answered with a quiet inclination of the head, though his thoughts had already strayed to Miss Elizabeth’s direct gaze and challenging observations.

There was something compelling about a woman who had faced adversity and emerged not just unbroken but strengthened—who had taken on responsibilities that society deemed unsuitable for her sex and executed them with intelligence and determination.

Such a woman, he reflected as they turned their horses toward the stables, would understand the true meaning of partnership in marriage.

The image of Miss Elizabeth at Pemberley rose unbidden—no mere ornament at his table, but a true partner in its stewardship—discussing estate improvements in his study, walking the boundaries with knowledge equal to his own, bringing her practical wisdom to the challenges that arose.

It was a thought that continued to occupy him well into the night, long after Bingley had retired to dream, no doubt, of golden hair and gentle smiles, accompanying him into dreams that left him both unsettled and strangely content upon waking.

“Mr Collins approaches from the Meryton road,”

Kitty announced from her post at the breakfast room window.

They had taken turns being stationed there since dawn, allowing the family to orchestrate their positions perfectly.

“Excellent.”

Mrs Bennet made a final adjustment to her cap.

“Hill has already taken your grandfather’s morning chocolate to the study.

When Collins enquires, we shall tell him Mr Bennet is surveying the south fields - he has missed him by not half an hour.

As soon as Mr Collins has retired to refresh himself, Lydia will place the muddied boots by the door to support our story.”

In truth, Mr Bennet rested comfortably in his study, having rehearsed this particular deception the day before.

His mud-spattered boots, intentionally dirtied by Hill, would testify to his regular field inspections without requiring him to actually undertake them.

“Jane, you have you completed the estate book edit?”

Elizabeth confirmed.

“Yes, although I had to create a full new set of pages.

His last letter asking pointed questions about the sheep fold made me suspect he might demand to examine those records.”

The sound of wheels on gravel brought them to attention.

Through the window, they observed a tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty.

His air was grave and stately.

Mr Collins stepped down from the hired gig, his attention immediately fixing upon the fa?ade of Longbourn with an air of ownership that made Elizabeth’s fingers itch to ensure the true estate books were thoroughly hidden.

“Remember,”

Mrs Bennet said gently.

“We are nothing more than ladies who assist your grandfather out of duty.

Nothing more.” Each lady took her assigned spot in the drawing room, looking for all the world as though they were accustomed to spending their days in lady-like pursuits.

Mr Collins’s knock echoed through the hall.

When Hill admitted him, he entered with the aspect of one taking the measure of rooms for new carpets.

“My dear cousins,”

he announced, his voice as unctuous as his letters had suggested.

“How fortunate you are that I have come to assess the state of my future inheritance.

I observe already that the shrubbery requires attention - although naturally ladies cannot be expected to notice such things.”

Elizabeth caught Kitty’s slight flinch - she had designed those plantings herself - and stepped forward smoothly.

“How kind of you to show such interest, Cousin.

But I believe my grandfather is even now examining the south fields.

Shall we await his return in the drawing room? I believe Mary was about to favour us with a country air.”

Mr Collins stood several inches shorter than Elizabeth, although his manner suggested he believed himself to look down upon them all.

His clerical black showed signs of recent brushing that somehow only emphasised its shabbiness, and his attempts at elegant gesture succeeded mainly in displaying his coat’s too-short sleeves.

“The drawing room appears tolerably well-maintained,”

he pronounced, examining the furnishings with a look of critical assessment, as one mentally calculating their worth.

“Although perhaps lacking the touch of a more… sophisticated hand.

At Rosings Park, where I have the honour to serve as rector, Lady Catherine de Bourgh has often remarked that a drawing room should display evidence of truly elegant accomplishments.”

He lingered near the larger pieces, no doubt considering what he might find worth keeping.

His hands, she observed, bore no calluses, no signs of sun—pudgy and soft, untouched by a day’s real work.

Yet he spoke as if with the authority of an experienced landowner.

“And this passage,”

he continued, stepping into the hall, “might be improved by the removal of these old prints.

Lady Catherine says that pastoral scenes in halls are quite outmoded.

Although naturally you ladies cannot have had the opportunity to observe more current fashions.”

Jane’s hand touched Elizabeth’s arm in warning.

Their grandfather deeply valued those prints–his sister Eleanor’s careful collection of agricultural innovations disguised as rural tableaux.

“Will you join us for tea, Cousin?”

Mary suggested, heading off his wandering.

“Although I fear you find us quite informal compared to Rosings Park.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

Collins preceded them with the tone of a benevolent inspector.

“One cannot expect the same standards, of course.

Although when the time comes…” He left the sentence hanging indelicately.

The dining room had been thoroughly prepared - not too neat, suggesting daily use, but not so disordered as to indicate careless housekeeping.

Collins circled the table, running a finger along the surface.

“Lady Catherine always says that one may judge the character of a household by the state of its mahogany.

This piece would derive considerable advantage from more consistent care.”

He paused.

“Although in light of your situation, one cannot reasonably anticipate such.” Elizabeth bit back several responses about the true character revealed by examining table surfaces.

The scent of furniture polish and the gleam of the surface of the woods was testament to its pristine condition.

Instead, she said mildly, “We find our present arrangements serve tolerably well.”

“Natural enough that you should think so.”

His smile held condescending sympathy.

“Limited experience must necessarily result in limited understanding.

When I come into the property - although of course I pray that day remains distant - you will see the advantages of more sophisticated methods.”

Through the window, Elizabeth glimpsed Lydia hastily retreating from the barn, having no doubt been checking on her beloved sheep.

They had agreed she must not be caught anywhere near the flocks during Collins’s visit.

“Shall we continue to the library?”

Collins enquired.

Jane suggested smoothly.

“I believe my grandfather keeps that room quite private for estate business.”

Collins’s expression sharpened with interest.

“As his heir, I naturally take a particular concern in estate matters.

Perhaps we might examine--”

“But surely,”

said Mary, her voice carrying just the right note of innocent respect, “you would wish to take refreshment first? Grandfather takes such pride in maintaining perfect order in his business affairs he would wish to be present for your review.

Why, only this morning he was saying how grateful he is that Lady Catherine’s rector shows such appreciation for correct forms and ceremony.”

Collins swelled visibly at this reference to his patroness’s approval.

Mary, Elizabeth noted with concealed admiration, had managed both to flatter their cousin and protect their documentation with a single careful suggestion.

Elizabeth smiled broadly at Mary, who grimaced and then winked.

“Quite right, quite right,”

Collins agreed importantly.

“One must observe the proper forms, as Lady Catherine herself has often remarked.

Although naturally, as heir--”

A sudden commotion from the stillroom interrupted his pronouncement.

Elizabeth recognised the distinctive sound of Kitty’s agricultural journals hitting the floor.

“I believe Cook has been quite busy,”

Mary said smoothly, before Collins could investigate.

“She has been preparing her special seed cake, Cousin.

She was most particular about following my grandfather’s housekeeper’s receipt exactly–he so values the old family traditions.”

Collins’s attention diverted easily to the prospect of refreshments, his eyes lingered on the stillroom door.

“Most proper to maintain traditional methods,”

he approved.

“Although at Rosings, Lady Catherine says--”

A muffled thud from above suggested someone had dropped a ledger in Grandfather’s study.

Jane coughed delicately.

“Please take a seat, Mr Collins.”

“Thank you Cousin Jane.”

Collins directed a particularly smarmy smile in her direction, his eyes roving over her figure in a rather impious manner.

“Perhaps after tea we might proceed to the garden?”

she suggested.

“The roses were quite fine this autumn.

My grandfather takes such pleasure in maintaining the standards set by his dear sister Eleanor.”

“Ah yes, my late second cousin.”

Collins adopted a suitably solemn expression.

“Although I believe she held some rather… unconventional opinions about estate management?”

“Oh, hardly that,”

Mary interjected, her eyes widening with calculated dismay.

“She simply recorded her observations about the flowers and weather.

See here--” She gestured to the deceptively peaceful garden view.

“The roses she planted still bloom exactly where tradition suggests they should.

Grandfather often says no truly refined lady would dream of questioning established methods.”

Jane poured as Collins absorbed this masterful reshaping of Eleanor’s legacy.

Mary had managed to transform their aunt’s agricultural innovations into feminine flower-fancying, all while appealing to his respect for tradition and authority.

Their cousin might think himself perspicacious, but he was no match for Mary’s particular brand of wide-eyed manipulation.

She had learnt to wield apparent innocence as skillfully as she wielded her account books—although the latter talent must remain completely hidden.