Page 14 of The Mercy of Chance

L ONGBOURN ESTATE, Hertfordshire, November 15th, 18—

The Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Rosings Park, Kent

Your Ladyship,

I hasten to communicate to your noble attention a most unexpected and fortuitous circumstance that has transpired during my sojourn at Longbourn, the estate which Providence has destined to be my future home.

Your Ladyship’s most esteemed nephew, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, has graced this humble abode with his distinguished presence!

I was momentarily rendered speechless (a condition your Ladyship knows occurs but rarely) upon the announcement of his arrival.

That my insignificant residence-to-be should be honoured by the very nephew your Ladyship has so often mentioned with deserved approbation! Mr Darcy carries himself with precisely that dignified mien your Ladyship had led me to expect and exhibits that superior understanding which marks him as worthy of his illustrious connections.

I have already begun to assert my rightful authority over the supervision of Longbourn, as per your Ladyship’s most sagacious counsel.

The female members of the family have, I regret to inform your Ladyship, been permitted an unseemly degree of involvement in estate matters.

I have made it abundantly clear that such masculine pursuits are beyond the natural capacity of the feminine understanding, citing your Ladyship’s own wisdom on the proper sphere of feminine accomplishments.

Mr Darcy appeared most attentive during my exposition of these principles.

It may interest your Ladyship to know that Mr Darcy finds himself here in the company of several young ladies, my cousins, who possess a certain provincial attractiveness.

Although I would never presume to question Mr Darcy’s discernment, I felt it my Christian duty to make subtle reference to his long-standing betrothal to your Ladyship’s daughter, the Honourable Miss Anne de Bourgh.

I trust I have not overstepped in reminding him, however obliquely, of the expectations attendant upon that most advantageous connection which has been, as your Ladyship has often intimated, fixed since the cradle.

Of my cousins, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, in particular, demonstrates an unfortunate tendency toward impertinent wit and independent thinking—qualities which, whilst perhaps momentarily diverting, can never compare to the refined breeding and genteel demeanour of Miss de Bourgh.

I have observed Mr Darcy’s gaze fall upon her with an expression I cannot quite decipher, but I am certain a gentleman of his elevated understanding would never be seriously diverted by a young lady of such inferior connections and modest fortune.

I continue to implement your Ladyship’s invaluable instructions regarding the future management of Longbourn.

The chimney in the second parlour shall indeed be replaced according to your specifications, and I have already selected the precise spot where the new hen house shall be constructed, following your Ladyship’s most specific directions as to its ideal orientation.

I remain, with the most profound respect and eternal gratitude for your condescension in guiding one so unworthy as myself,

Your Ladyship’s most humble and obedient servant, William Collins

The Lucas’s drawing room hummed with the excitement of a country evening party, where social divisions could be either softened or sharpened by proximity and punch.

Sir William Lucas moved among his guests with practised bonhomie, but even his efforts could not completely smooth the undercurrents Darcy observed with growing interest.

“Miss Eliza,”

Charlotte Lucas said warmly, claiming her friend’s attention from Mr Collins’s endless monologue about Lady Catherine’s opinions on female education.

“My father told me how well the new drainage plan protected the lower fields during last week’s rains.”

“Most unseemly,”

Caroline Bingley murmured at Darcy’s elbow.

“To hear them discuss ditches and fields as if they were farmers.

I suppose when one has no choice but to scramble in the dirt--”

Darcy moved away from her, ostensibly to observe the card tables.

He watched as the local gentry divided themselves: the Longs and Sir William largely comfortable with the Bennets’ practical approach to their estate, whilst others like the Gouldings and Harringtons kept a subtle but definite distance.

“Mr Darcy!”

Collins had somehow again materialised at his side.

“I was explaining to my fair cousins how Lady Catherine would consider it most improper for gentlewomen to concern themselves with such base matters as agriculture.

She firmly believes that female delicacy is corrupted by attention to the coarser aspects of estate management, which Providence has designated as the province of gentlemen.

I am sure you would never wish to see your intended, Miss Anne de Bourgh, exposed to such unrefined subjects.

When I am master of Longbourn--”

“I understand the current management has increased yields remarkably at Longbourn.

And Miss de Bourgh is my cousin, not my intended.”

Darcy interrupted coldly.

Mr Collins was struck dumb momentarily by this shocking response and Darcy took advantage of the event.

He turned to cross the room, his eyes following Elizabeth as she joined a whist table with Charlotte Lucas and two elderly gentlemen who, he noted, treated her with marked respect.

Across the room, Bingley had claimed the seat beside Jane Bennet.

Even from this distance, Darcy could see his friend’s characteristic animation heightened by her gentle presence.

Miss Bennet’s tranquil smile remained whilst Bingley spoke, although her eyes occasionally darted with concern to where her grandfather dozed in a corner chair, looking frailer than he had at their last meeting.

“Really, Mr Darcy,”

Miss Bingley had found him again.

“One must feel for the neighbourhood, forced to watch this spectacle of gentlewomen playing at being stewards.

Of course, with their connections—or lack thereof—they can hardly hope to maintain a higher sphere.”

“They are indeed gentlewomen.”

Darcy’s voice was arctic.

“Gentlewomen with profound competence.

Not everyone has the luxury of ignoring the source of their prosperity, Miss Bingley.”

Darcy fixed his gaze on a point just past Miss Bingley’s left shoulder, refusing to meet her eager eyes.

“Profound?”

Miss Bingley’s laugh tinkled like breaking glass.

“My dear Mr Darcy, you cannot be serious.

What could country misses possibly know of such matters? I suppose,” she added with poisonous sweetness, “one must make allowances for their… circumstances.”

Darcy felt his jaw tighten.

Miss Elizabeth’s precise observations about soil composition and water flow, her quick grasp of complex drainage problems that had baffled more experienced men contrasted with Miss Bingley’s affected ignorance.

“Their circumstances appear to include maintaining a profitable estate through intelligence and diligence,”

he said, his tone dropping several degrees below freezing.

“Ignorance is not refinement, Miss Bingley.”

A dull flush crept up Miss Bingley’s neck.

She fingered her expensive necklace, searching for a response that would both soothe his evident displeasure and maintain her assault on the Bennets.

Before she could speak, Darcy continued, his voice cutting:

“I have found that those most eager to disparage others’ understanding often reveal the limitations of their own.

If you will excuse me, I have not yet conversed with our hostess.”

He gave her a precise bow and strode across the room, leaving her open-mouthed behind him.

He drew a deep breath, surprised by his own vehemence.

He walked without direction, then stopped to observe Elizabeth and Charlotte’s whist game.

Their easy friendship was evident in their shared glances and half-hidden smiles, most notably when Collins’s voice rose above the general conversation with yet another reference to his noble patroness.

“You see, Miss Lucas,”

Collins was saying to Maria Lucas, who looked about her for an avenue of escape, trapped by a deluge of words, “Lady Catherine herself has often said that young ladies should devote themselves to appropriate accomplishments.

Why, Miss Anne de Bourgh is the very model of genteel behaviour-”

“I believe,”

Charlotte cut in smoothly, laying down a winning card, “that appropriate accomplishments include whatever skills are necessary to fulfil one’s duties.”

Darcy smiled, and drew into their corner, away from Miss Bingley’s obvious attempts to catch his eye.

“Quite so.

I have always found that true accomplishment lies in rising to one’s responsibilities, whatever form they may take.”

The grateful look Elizabeth gave Charlotte spoke volumes about their friendship, even as Collins began another effusive speech about Lady Catherine’s views.

Darcy noted how the Lucas family had positioned themselves as allies to the Bennets, creating a buffer between them and the more censorious elements of local society.

Meanwhile, Bingley’s laugh mingled with Jane Bennet’s softer one, both seemingly ignoring the social currents swirling around them.

The evening painted a clear picture: the Bennet ladies were walking a precarious line between necessity and propriety, with their allies and detractors clearly drawn.

And hovering over it all was Collins, his combination of obsequious attention to rank and barely concealed eagerness for control becoming more unsettling with each passing hour.

Elizabeth observed her sister Kitty seated between Mary and one of the Lucas cousins, noting how her trained eye contemplated the floral arrangement.

The scent of wilting blossoms hung in the air, confirming what Elizabeth could read in her sister’s slight frown—the late autumn flowers were poorly chosen, already dropping russet petals onto the pristine white tablecloth.

She knew Kitty’s fingers must be itching to rearrange them into something more sustainable.

The gentle hum of conversation and the delicate clink of silver against china filled the room as Mr Blackwood entered the dining room last, having lingered in the library.

A shaft of golden afternoon light caught the leather-bound volume beneath his arm, drawing Kitty’s eye.

Her sister’s expression brightened, the slight widening of her eyes and straightening of her posture signalling recognition.

Elizabeth could tell from Kitty’s subtle reaction that she had identified the distinctive gilt spine of Brookshaw’s “Pomona Britannica”—a work their grandfather had shown Kitty in the Longbourn library many times, teaching her to study the exquisite fruit illustrations for their revelations about cultivation.

“Mr Blackwood,”

Kitty said during a lull in the conversation.

“I beg your pardon, but I observe you have Brookshaw’s work with you.

His illustrations of the Ribston Pippin are most illuminating with regard to pruning technique.”

Mr Blackwood turned toward Kitty, his countenance shifting from civil indifference to marked attention.

“You are acquainted with Brookshaw’s work, Miss Catherine?”

“I am, sir.

I must own I find his direction regarding espalier training somewhat wanting when compared with Kennedy’s ‘Treatise Upon Planting.’ Have you had occasion to examine both?”

Mr Blackwood leant forward, his tea seemingly forgotten.

“Kennedy’s treatise is indeed most instructive,”

he said.

“Do you not agree that Brookshaw’s illustrations of the branch formations…” He paused, regarding Kitty with fresh consideration.

“Pray tell, Miss Catherine, you have studied these matters in detail?”

“Since father’s passing, we have been obliged to manage Longbourn ourselves, under the supervision of our grandfather,”

Kitty explained, her voice steady despite the old grief that still touched them all.

“The kitchen gardens and orchards are my particular charge.

I have learnt that a thorough understanding of each plant’s nature is essential to correct placement within the scheme.”

“The scheme?”

Mr Blackwood enquired.

“Yes, sir - for instance, I have made certain trials with complementary plantings.

The apple trees in our south orchard were quite poorly until I introduced particular flowering herbs beneath them.

The bees are better drawn to them, you see, and the herbs serve to discourage certain pests whilst providing dried bouquets and…”

Kitty fell silent, suddenly aware of having spoken at such length about matters of cultivation at a party.

But Mr Blackwood’s expression betrayed nothing but keen interest.

“The Goulding’s orchards have been much troubled by woolly aphids,”

he said, lowering his voice as if imparting a confidence.

“I wonder if perhaps… that is, your observations would prove most…” He straightened, seemingly recollecting himself.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Catherine.

I nearly suggested an improper inspection of the fruit trees.”

“There can be nothing improper in discourse on estate improvements,”

Kitty responded, her cheeks growing warm, the pink flush spreading across her fair skin.

“I believe my sister Jane assisted Mrs Goulding with the planning of her rose garden this past spring.

Perhaps we might all walk out to view the orchards one afternoon?”

His smile reached his eyes, creating the smallest of creases at their corners.

“That would be entirely proper, would it not? Although I must warn you, Miss Catherine, I hold decided thoughts on the matter of root stock selection.”

“As do I, sir. As do I.”

Kitty’s smiled with genuine pleasure, illuminating her features from within.

The sudden radiance revealed what careful propriety had heretofore concealed—a natural vivacity and warmth of spirit.

From across the table, Elizabeth caught Kitty’s eye and offered a subtle, approving nod.

She was pleased to see her sister finding someone who appreciated her horticultural knowledge rather than finding it unsuitable for a young lady.

Would it not be delightful? The simplicity of it: Mr Blackwood was a gentleman of modest means from a family of local standing, a suitable match for Kitty should their shared interest in horticulture blossom into something deeper.

Elizabeth Bennet adjusted the ledger under her arm as she made her way through Meryton’s crowded market square.

The early autumn air carried the mingled scents of fresh bread, livestock, and hay.

She and Lydia had negotiated a favourable price for Longbourn’s wool when she spotted Mr Darcy examining the merchants’ wares.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

He bowed, more deeply than strictly necessary for a market day encounter.

“I had not expected to encounter you in the marketplace.”

“Then you underestimate the wool trade, Mr Darcy,”

she replied, patting her ledger.

“Longbourn’s sheep may not rival Pemberley’s, but their wool still requires selling.”

A flash of surprise crossed his features.

“You handle the transactions yourself?”

“Lydia and I did.

Whom did you expect me to send?”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“We have no steward, and Grandfather is not able to travel into town.

We found it more profitable to conduct our business without a factor’s commission.

Although I admit, Mr Bentham,” she nodded towards the merchant, “was sceptical of dealing with a woman at first.”

The merchant had the grace to look abashed.

“And I was wrong, Mr Darcy.

The Misses Bennet drive a harder bargain than any man I know.”

Darcy’s expression shifted from surprise to interest.

“I must acknowledge, I have left such matters to my steward at Pemberley.

Although given the latest reports…”

He hesitated.

“Reports may lead one astray when one lacks practical knowledge of the trade,”

Elizabeth offered.

“My grandfather insisted we learn every aspect of estate management, from the shearing to the selling.”

“Then perhaps you would share your insights?”

There was a new note of respect in Darcy’s voice.

“I find myself increasingly convinced that an owner’s direct oversight cannot be replaced.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, she caught sight of her sister Jane deep in conversation with Mr Bingley near the grain merchant’s stall.

Jane was consulting her own ledger whilst Bingley listened intently, his usual affable smile replaced by focused attention.

“It seems your friend is receiving an education in grain prices,”

Elizabeth said.

Darcy watched the pair for a moment.

“Bingley has much to learn about estate management.

He is fortunate in his teacher today.”

“As are the Netherfield tenants.

Jane has already noticed their grain stores will not last the winter at current consumption.”

Darcy’s attention snapped back to Elizabeth.

“I advised Bingley similarly, but he seemed uncertain how to address it.”

“Then perhaps you should both join us this afternoon.

We are meeting with our tenants about crop plans for next season.”

Elizabeth paused, suddenly aware of how forward this sounded.

“That is, if you have no other engagements.”

“None that take precedence over good estate management,”

Darcy replied, his voice warming.

“I own, Miss Elizabeth, I am nearly as interested in the teacher as the lesson.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat again.

Her heart quickened beneath her spencer, but she met his gaze steadily, willing her expression to reveal nothing of the confusion within.

The hustle of the marketplace continued—the calls of vendors, the bleating of sheep, the earthy scent of wool and bread—yet somehow his words had created a peculiar stillness, as although they stood in the eye of a storm.

She took a moment to consider her response, conscious of her ledger against her arm.

Her practical mind attempted to make sense of his words, to categorise them as mere pleasantries rather than anything more significant.

The softening of his mouth and the crease near his eyes—could this mean genuine admiration?

A man whose fortune allowed him such finely tailored clothes, whose every gesture spoke of authority—surely he could not seriously consider a country gentleman’s granddaughter as anything more than a passing diversion.

If Mr Darcy was flirting, it must be idle amusement from a man stranded in provincial society.

She would not permit her foolish heart to build castles from such insubstantial materials.

Better to respond with humour, to keep things safe.

“Then you should pay extra attention, Mr Darcy,”

she said, her voice steadier than her pulse.

“I expect my students to excel.”

The autumn breeze caught her bonnet ribbons.

She adjusted them, hiding her turmoil with practised grace.

A cart rumbled past, briefly separating them.

She used those seconds to compose herself, to rebuild the necessary distance.

A slight smile tugged at his mouth, transforming his severe features into something unexpectedly approachable.

The light caught his eyes, revealing flecks of amber.

“I shall endeavour not to disappoint.”

Elizabeth felt the dangerous pull of that smile.

She clutched her ledger more tightly—a reminder of her duties, of the estate that depended on her clear thinking.

Romantic fantasies had no place here—not when Longbourn’s future hung in the balance.

As they parted, she was struck by how different Darcy seemed here, among merchants and farmers.

There was a directness she had not seen before, a genuine interest in the practical matters that consumed her days.

Perhaps, she reflected, adjusting her ledger once more, there was more to the master of Pemberley than she had supposed.

The afternoon brought the warmth of weak sunshine and the bustle of Longbourn’s tenant farmers gathered near the granary.

Jane stood by the barn with Mr Bingley, listening as old Mr Granger described the damage rootworm had done to the early crop.

Elizabeth had brought Darcy to the far end, where she unrolled the maps of the western fields.

“These parcels have had wheat two years running,”

she said.

“We propose rotating in barley and letting the farthest section go to wheat.”

The oak table in Longbourn’s steward’s office bore an assortment of parish maps, crop ledgers, and last year’s grain tallies.

Four tenant farmers stood respectfully whilst Elizabeth traced the field boundaries with her finger.

“Mr Waters, you planted rye in the north field these three years past.”

Elizabeth looked up at the weathered farmer.

“The yield diminished with each harvest.”

“Aye, Miss.

Ground’s near spent.”

Waters shifted his weight.

“But I have not seed enough for wheat, and my children must eat.”

Mr Darcy, who had been studying the harvest figures, raised his head.

“At Pemberley, we found success with field peas planted before the wheat.

They return vigour to tired soil.”

“Field peas fetch a fair price,”

Waters said thoughtfully, “although the initial outlay for seed…” He hesitated.

“And if the spring proves wet, the risk of losing both peas and the chance for a wheat planting.”

“But should the crop succeed, you would have feed for your animals, food for your family, and surplus to sell.

The improved soil would benefit next year’s wheat as well.”

Jane said.

“We might share the risk,”

Elizabeth added.

“Half the pea harvest to repay the seed cost, the remainder yours to sell or store as you choose.”

The farmer Mills spoke up.

“Begging pardon, Miss, but my own father grew field peas in rotation.

Made a fine profit selling to the drover’s horses passing through, he did.”

“Indeed,”

said Darcy.

“Pemberley’s tenants supply the coaching inns.

The demand remains steady through winter.”

Waters rubbed his chin.

“If the estate shares the risk… and with the coaching trade…”

He straightened.

“I would try it, Miss.”

“The true risk lies in doing nothing,”

said Darcy.

“Each poor harvest weakens both tenant and land.”

Elizabeth noted how Darcy offered his estate’s experience without condescension, speaking as one farmer to another despite the vast difference in their circumstances.

The discussion turned to winter provisions.

Hayes, whose farm lay near the river, spoke of his root cellar’s success.

Soon the farmers engaged in vigorous debate over the merits of various storage methods.

“If we might arrange shared transport,”

Jane suggested, “those with extra root storage might assist those without.”

“The river farms helping the hill farms,”

Elizabeth mused, “and the hill farms sharing their hay in return.”

The meeting continued through the afternoon.

They addressed the price of winter wheat seed, the timing of the pea planting, the repair of shared fencing, and the coordination of harvest labour.

Elizabeth observed how Darcy’s practical knowledge and Bingley’s amiable nature drew forth the farmers’ own expertise, creating solutions that served all.

A second farmer, Jacob Hayes, stepped forward.

“Begging pardon, but what of winter fodder? Even with better yields next year, we will be hard pressed to feed both animals and families through February.”

Elizabeth exchanged glances with Jane.

This was the heart of their concern.

“Netherfield’s lower meadow produced excess hay this season,”

Bingley offered.

“I had thought to sell it at market, but--”

“If we might negotiate a fair price,”

Jane said, “and arrange shared transport…”

“The cost of carting would eat any profit,”

Hayes protested.

“Not if we use the return journey of the clay wagons,”

Darcy said.

His eyes met Elizabeth’s.

“The routes align.”

Elizabeth studied the maps again, calculating distances and costs.

“Mr Hayes, if we were to distribute the carting among all farms concerned, each might send one man and horse for a single day.

Would that prove manageable?”

The farmers huddled together, murmuring over figures.

Elizabeth observed how Darcy waited in patient silence, offering neither pressure nor presumption.

Hayes finally turned back.

“It might serve, Miss.

Although it would mean trusting each man to do his part.”

“As we must all do our part,”

Elizabeth said.

She looked around the room.

“We either stand together through winter or we all fall short.”

As the farmers filed out, Elizabeth heard Waters remark to Hayes, “First time I have seen quality like that gent take dirt under their nails and not seem shamed by it.”

She caught Darcy’s eye and saw he had heard as well.

His slight nod acknowledged that true respect, like fertile soil, must be cultivated over time.