Page 15 of The Mercy of Chance

E lizabeth paused at the dining room doorway; a stack of her grandfather’s books balanced precariously in her arms.

She had intended to return them to his library but halted at the sound of her grandfather’s voice.

“You must credit the tenant’s payment against the outstanding balance, Mary,”

Grandfather was saying, his voice stronger than it had been in months.

“Mr Wilson has been diligent, even in his difficulties.”

Elizabeth smiled to herself.

Mary sat at the small writing desk tucked into the alcove beside the sideboard.

She was largely hidden from view unless one stood directly in the dining room entrance, as Elizabeth now did.

Mary sister had been taking on more of the estate’s accounting work lately, a task she approached with the same methodical precision she applied to all her exercises.

“But Grandfather,”

Mary replied, “should we not first deduct the cost of repairs to the north field fence? The old ledger suggests—”

“Bah! The old method leaves too much room for error.

I managed Longbourn’s accounts for forty years.

The tenant pays rent, we credit the account.

Repairs come from the maintenance fund.

Keep them separate, or we will never make sense of it come quarter day.”

Elizabeth was about to enter when a movement in the shadowed corridor to her right caught her attention.

Mr Collins, their odious cousin, was creeping along the passageway with exaggerated stealth, his stockinged feet sliding along the polished floor, one finger pressed to his lips although there was no one there to silence.

Curiosity getting the better of her, Elizabeth retreated a step, partially concealing herself behind the door frame whilst maintaining her view of both the dining room and the approaching Mr Collins.

Her cousin reached the doorway and peered in, his mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.

From his position, Elizabeth realised, he could see Grandfather gesturing emphatically at the seemingly empty room, Mary hidden by the sideboard.

“Dear me,”

Mr Collins murmured to himself, although loud enough for Elizabeth to hear.

“Most distressing.

Most distressing indeed.”

Grandfather continued, unaware of his audience.

“Now, the figures for the southern pasture will be quite different.

Have you found the second ledger I mentioned?”

Mr Collins’s eyes widened in alarm.

He clutched at his clerical collar, tugging it as although it had suddenly tightened.

“Speaking to phantoms,”

he whispered, crossing himself with a flourish that would have scandalised his patroness had she witnessed such a papist gesture.

“The poor afflicted old gentleman.

Clearly, age has robbed him of his faculties.

How fortunate that a man of God is present to witness this unfortunate decay.”

Elizabeth bit her lip to suppress a laugh.

The pompous fool actually believed her grandfather was hallucinating, carrying on a conversation with imaginary entities! She watched as Mr Collins backed away, shaking his head in what he apparently thought was a demonstration of Christian pity.

“Lady Catherine has often remarked that the elderly must be treated with particular condescension when their minds begin to wander,”

he muttered, retreating down the corridor.

“I shall inform her that this situation requires closer supervision.

Indeed, it is fortunate that Longbourn will soon have my guiding hand.”

Once he had disappeared around the corner, Elizabeth allowed herself a quiet chuckle before entering the dining room.

“Good evening, Grandfather. Mary,”

she said, placing the books on the table.

“I could not help but overhear your discussion of the accounts.”

Mary looked up from her work, ink stain marking her index finger.

“Elizabeth, perhaps you might explain to me Grandfather’s system of—”

“There is need of explanations from either of you impudent girls,”

the old man huffed, although his eyes twinkled.

“In my day, accounts were kept properly.”

“And I have no doubt they were,”

Elizabeth replied, taking a seat beside him.

“Though I must tell you both something vastly amusing.

Our cousin Mr Collins was just at the door and, unable to see Mary in her alcove, has concluded that you, Grandfather, are conversing with spirits.”

Mary’s mouth dropped open.

“Surely not!”

“Surely so,”

Elizabeth continued, barely containing her mirth.

“He intends to inform Lady Catherine that you require ‘closer supervision’ as your faculties are failing.”

Grandfather Bennet’s weathered face creased into a smile—the first genuine one Elizabeth had seen from him since their cousin’s arrival.

“Let him think it,”

the old man said with unexpected mischief.

“Perhaps I shall begin conversing with the manor’s ghosts at breakfast tomorrow.

That should send our unctuous cousin scurrying back to his precious Lady Catherine.”

“Grandfather!”

Mary admonished, “It would be most improper to mislead a man of the cloth.”

“Improper, perhaps,”

Elizabeth agreed, “but exceedingly amusing nonetheless.”

Miss Catherine Bennet walked between her sister Mary and Mrs Goulding along the orchard path, listening to Mr Blackwood discourse on the particular merits of various apple stocks.

The late autumn air still carried the sweet scent of ripening fruit, and she studied the placement of the trees with a critical eye.

“You see, Miss Bennet,”

Mr Blackwood gestured to a row of younger trees, “these were grafted this past spring using the method prescribed by Brookshaw.”

Kitty paused, observing the uneven growth of the new branches.

“If I may, sir…”

She hesitated, but his expression of genuine interest gave her courage.

“Whilst Brookshaw’s illustrations are exceptional, I believe in this instance his method has proved less successful than might be wished.

The angle of the graft appears too severe.”

Mr Blackwood’s eyebrows rose.

He stepped closer to examine the tree she indicated.

“The sap flow is restricted,”

she continued, her voice gaining assurance.

“See how the leaves above the graft point are smaller? In our orchards at Longbourn, we have found that a more gradual angle, such as Kennedy suggests, allows for better growth.

Although I would not presume-”

“Pray continue, Miss Catherine,”

he said, his attention fixed on the branch she had indicated.

“Your observations interest me greatly.”

“We have had particular success with a method that…”

She drew a small notebook from her reticule and sketched the technique quickly.

“Thus, you see? The cambium layers align more naturally.”

Mrs Goulding had drifted ahead with Mary, leaving them in view but out of earshot.

Mr Blackwood studied Kitty’s sketch with evident fascination.

“Most illuminating.

And you have implemented this method successfully?”

“Indeed, sir.

Although I must own our first attempts last season were not satisfactory.

We learnt that the timing of the graft is of greater consequence than Brookshaw suggests.

The phase of the moon-”

She stopped herself, fearing she had revealed too much interest in such practical matters, but Mr Blackwood was already nodding.

“The lunar influence on sap flow is too little considered in modern treatises,”

he said.

“My grandmother kept extensive records on the subject.

I should very much like to compare her observations with your experience.”

A fallen apple lay in their path.

Instead of stepping over it, Mr Blackwood retrieved it, examining the skin.

“Would you give me your opinion on this specimen, Miss Catherine? The colouring suggests it may be a Ribston Pippin, but the form is not quite true.”

Kitty accepted the apple, turning it with consideration in her gloved hands.

“No, sir, I believe this is a Cornish Gillyflower.

See the distinctive russeting pattern around the stem? Although I grant you the shape is somewhat irregular, likely due to insufficient thinning of the fruit in early summer.”

His expression shifted from polite interest to genuine respect.

“You are perfectly correct, Miss Catherine.

I have lately come to think my own knowledge of pomology may be found wanting in comparison to yours.”

“Oh! No, indeed, sir.

But I have had the great advantage of practical experience.

Theory and practice together must surely yield the best results.”

“Just so,”

he replied, his gaze lingering on her face a moment longer than strict propriety might dictate.

“Just so.”

They walked on, discussing the relative merits of various rootstocks, their words mingling with the gentle autumn breeze through the apple boughs.

Kitty felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun when Mr Blackwood solicited her opinion on the placement of new saplings he had ordered for the Gouldings’ northern slope.

Jane sat in Longbourn’s morning room, the sun warming the leather of her account books as she worked.

Her quill scratched across the page as she recorded the quarter’s wool profits, each neat figure a testament to Lydia’s successful management of their expanded flocks.

The peaceful scene was disrupted by Mr Collins’s noisy entrance.

He seemed incapable of entering a room without speaking.

His rumpled clerical black and ceaseless chatter clashed with the room’s orderly atmosphere.

Jane’s quill paused mid-calculation, a drop of ink bleeding into the paper.

She watched it spread with determined focus, maintaining her composed expression as Mr Collins launched into a rehearsed address.

Her fingers tightened as placed a blank sheet over her ledger and stopped the inkwell.

The morning room felt suddenly warm despite the November chill seeping through the windows.

“Miss Bennet.”

The words dropped like stones into still water.

Mr Collins adjusted his cravat with damp fingers before positioning himself rather too closely before her desk, his shadow falling across her figures.

The sun through the window caught the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip as he planted his feet in the precise stance he likely used for sermons, hands clasped behind his back.

Jane’s nostrils flared at the competing scents from her cousin.

Her sensitive nose, usually soothed by beeswax polish, fresh ink, and lavender sachets, was assaulted by a pungent mix: stale body odour from unwashed skin mixed with a sharp, sour scent of sweat, pungent and intense.

His unlaundered clothing added a musty, stale aroma mingled with rancid bear fat pomade.

Hungary water layered on top created a cloying mess of rosemary and brandy.

She turned her head abruptly toward the window, seeking relief in the crisp scent of frost-touched herbs from the garden.

Even this movement brought a fresh wave of Mr Collins’s bouquet.

A sickish heat rose in her throat.

Her stomach clenched.

She took shallow breaths through her mouth, grateful for the lingering taste of mint tea from breakfast.

Her fingers whitened around the quill as she fixed her eyes on her ledger, recalling the last number drying unfinished.

The familiar scent of iron gall ink offered a small anchor.

“Upon careful consideration of the manifold virtues you possess,”

he continued, his voice taking on the sonorous quality he no doubt practised in front of a mirror.

His breath, laced with eggs, coffee, and decayed teeth, added a final insult to the room’s already beleaguered air.

“Not least among them your admirable attention to practical matters, I find myself compelled—by reason, position, and proper regard for my own comfort—to bestow upon you my hand in marriage.

It is, I am convinced, a most advantageous arrangement.

A wife of quiet disposition and proven capability in managing household minutiae is precisely what I require.

I have no taste for female frivolity, and you appear free of it.

Your mild manner will, I daresay, render you agreeable enough company.”

“Of course, I would be remiss if I did not pay a compliment to your beauty.

I daresay your elegance and manifold attractions would reflect considerable credit upon me, Lady Catherine has often lamented the plainness of clergymen’s wives; she will be gratified by my good fortune.

Indeed, I consider it divine favour that one so well-favoured in appearance should be made available to me for matrimony.

Such pleasing attributes are, in my view, highly auspicious for the future vitality of the Collins line.

I trust you will not let sentimental trifles obscure the prudence of such a match.

This is a generous proposal, Miss Bennet, and I fully expect my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.”

As he spoke, Jane felt a sensation not unlike seasickness rise within her—a slow, rolling nausea that crept from her stomach and tightened around her throat.

That he should so coolly enumerate her domestic virtues as if she were a well-bred dairy cow, then refer to her beauty as though it were a decorative bauble bestowed solely for his benefit, stirred something sharp and unfamiliar beneath her usual calm.

He spoke of comfort, of consequence, of Lady Catherine—but not once of her.

Not once of what she might wish, feel, or deserve.

And yet he stood there, perspiring and smug, looking upon her with the complacent certainty of a man already accepted.

She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, an attempt to block the taste of the air itself.

She longed for her private sanctuary in the stillroom, with its clean herbaceous scents of dried rosemary and mint, the sharp clarity of dried orange peel, and the comforting aroma of stored apples and quinces. Even the dairy, with its honest smell of fresh manure, would be preferable to this assault on her senses.

The grandfather clock ticked louder than usual.

Jane felt each beat match her pulse.

A strand of hair tickled her cheek, but she dared not move.

She sat still as a deer sensing danger.

“You are most kind, sir,”

she managed gently, although her fingers gripped the quill until she felt its ridges.

A drop of ink fell, marring the clean sheet.

“But I must decline.

My duty lies in assisting my grandfather.”

The words came firmer than usual, born of long months watching her grandfather’s decline, reviewing ledgers by candlelight, and walking the fields at dawn.

Mr Collins blinked rapidly, his composure fracturing.

“But certainly, you must perceive,”

he pressed, his voice rising, “how your excellent qualities, joined with my superior position, would create an alliance of singular benefit.

With my elevation as master of Longbourn, you would remain in your familiar sphere as my wife.”

He leant forward, and Jane resisted leaning back.

The sunlight caught the sheen of his hair, and she saw he had nicked himself shaving.

“Lady Catherine herself has remarked—”

At the name, his chest swelled visibly beneath a waistcoat now too tight.

A thread dangled from one button, catching her eye as she searched for any distraction.

“Such a union would, I flatter myself, meet with Lady Catherine’s warmest approbation and preserve the estate’s prosperity under proper masculine guidance.”

“Mr Collins,”

she said gently, “you do me great honour—”

“Indeed, I must concur,”

he interjected.

“Whilst your portion is negligible, your other attributes and economy more than compensate.

Why, I observed yesterday your skill in preserving quinces.

Such talents are invaluable to a clergyman’s wife, and to the master of an estate.”

A faint blush coloured Jane’s cheeks, although whether from embarrassment, suppressed vexation, or imminent casting up of her accounts, none could say.

She drew a careful breath, folding her hands in her lap.

“Sir, please allow me to—”

“And of course,”

he interrupted, warming to his subject, “Lady Catherine often says, ‘A clergyman’s household must set an example of frugality and dignity.’ Such wisdom! Such penetration!”

Jane’s serenity began to crack.

She attempted again to speak.

“Mr Collins, whilst I am sensible of the compliment—”

“Oh! Your modesty does you credit, cousin.

I have given this matter the most serious thought.

The joining of our prudent minds cannot fail to be harmonious.

Indeed, I anticipate with particular pleasure the more...

intimate aspects of our union, as your figure possesses a certain bloom that speaks most eloquently of womanly vigor.

Lady Catherine herself has remarked that a wife of robust constitution is a blessing to any parsonage.”

Jane remained fixed in astonished silence, her countenance betraying such mortification as rendered her momentarily incapable of speech.

The color fled from her cheeks before returning with alarming rapidity as the full import of his words impressed itself upon her understanding.

Then she rejoiced to hear footfalls.

Elizabeth stood in the doorway, her quick eyes taking in the scene before her.

A slight furrow appeared between her brows as she noted her sister’s rigid posture.

“Jane, Mamma is asking for you.”

Jane rose with perhaps more alacrity than strict politeness warranted.

“Mr Collins, pray excuse me.

The duties of the household…”

“Of course, of course! Such domestic attention confirms the wisdom of my choice.

I shall await your assent with confidence.”

As Jane made her escape, Elizabeth lingered in the doorway, regarding their cousin with an expression that mingled amusement with concern.

She had never seen her gentle sister move quite so quickly whilst still maintaining an appearance of decorum.

It occurred to her that her own hasty retreat was in order.

The hours that followed were a particular sort of torture that only a country house could provide, where too many people occupied too little space with too much awareness of one another.

Jane applied herself to her usual tasks with deliberate focus, moving from stillroom to kitchen to study in careful patterns calculated to avoid solitude.

Elizabeth, understanding her sister’s strategy without need for explanation, contrived to be present at crucial moments, appearing with questions about the household accounts whenever Mr Collins’s footsteps could be heard approaching.

Their mother, observing these manoeuvres with poorly concealed disgust, intercepted Mr Collins himself as he attempted to follow Jane toward the stillroom.

“Mr Collins,”

Mrs Bennet’s voice carried the particular edge she reserved for unwelcome callers and overly persistent merchants.

“Are you not eager to write to your… distinguished patroness… about the improvements you mentioned at breakfast? Such a letter cannot be delayed.”

“My dear Madam, whilst Lady Catherine’s correspondence is indeed of the utmost—”

“I insist you attend to it directly.”

Mrs Bennet’s tone brooked no argument.

“The writing desk in the small parlour is at your disposal.

I believe you will find it quite… isolated… from any disturbance.”

Jane, safely ensconced in the study with Elizabeth, heard her mother’s voice drift through the corridor and felt a rush of gratitude.

Mrs Bennet would not see any of her daughters tied to a man whose conversation consisted primarily of his noble patroness’s opinions on the correct comportment of everyone save herself.

When the family assembled for tea, Mrs Bennet arranged the seating with careful precision, placing Jane between herself and Mary, whilst Mr Collins was relegated to the far corner with only Grandfather Bennet’s newspaper for company.

When the meal was complete Mrs Bennet rose with significant purpose.

“Come Jane, we must review the dinner menu with Cook.”

She cast a warning glance at Mr Collins, who had half-risen from his seat.

“Such tedious domestic matters would hardly interest a man of the cloth.”

But even Mrs Bennet’s vigilance could not extend indefinitely.

When she was called away to instruct the kitchen maid, Jane knew she ought to retreat as well.

But the day’s exertions had left her weary.

Surely Mr Collins would not attempt another approach so soon.

She lingered over her cup, savouring the momentary peace.

It proved a grave miscalculation.

Mr Collins was nothing if not persistent.

He again cornered Jane after tea,

“My dear Cousin Jane,”

the words coming from behind her chair caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.

Certainly, he was not already going to repeat his performance.

Indeed, he was.

He sidled up beside her and claimed the seat closest to her, bringing with him the odour she had so happily escaped not two hours earlier.

“I am certain you have had ample time to reflect on my offer, and I only say that you would have been less amiable in my eyes had there not been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have allowed you your little spell to recover your sensibilities after my discourse.

My attentions have been too marked to be mistaken.

Almost as soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my future life.

But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”

“My figures require attention, Mr Collins.”

Jane’s tone remained sweet, although it carried the same quiet firmness she used when directing tenants.

“I must return to the study.”

His face underwent a remarkable transformation, confidence melting into confusion like frost in sudden sun.

His complexion grew florid as understanding dawned.

“You would dismiss such a prudent and well-considered proposal for spinsterhood?”

He gripped the edge of the table, leaning forward.

“Allow me to expatiate upon the numerous advantages--”

“Thank you for your concern, sir.”

Jane stood gracefully.

“I am content to remain unmarried.” She moved toward the door with measured steps, her skirts whispering against the floorboards.

“But Miss Bennet, consider your position!”

Mr Collins pursued her down the corridor, his words tumbling over each other in increasing agitation.

“The security of marriage to the heir— Lady Catherine’s marked predilection for promoting such suitable alliances— The natural order of--”

Jane maintained her steady pace until she reached her chamber.

Only when the door was safely latched behind her did she allow her calm mask to slip, closing her eyes and leaning against the solid wood as Mr Collins’s continued protestations filtered through from the hallway.

She hoped, but was not fully confident, that he would not enter.

“Jane?”

Elizabeth’s whispered voice came from their shared dressing room door.

“Was that what I think it was?”

“Yes.”

Jane opened her eyes, a small smile touching her lips despite everything.

“Mr Collins has done exactly as Mamma predicted.

I had hoped she might be wrong about his timing.”

“Did he mention Lady Catherine?”

Elizabeth asked with a smirk.

“Three times in the first sentence.”

Jane’s smile turned rueful.

“Although he was quite enthused about my ‘excellent qualities in matters of household economy.’”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

“Heaven forbid he should mention any personal regard in such a practical proposal.”

“Ah.

I fear he did touch on that subject,”

Jane said,.

with an expression of mingled indignation and disbelief.

“You will scarce credit what our cousin has permitted himself to say,” she began, her voice hushed yet intense.

“He spoke of my figure in terms so particular, and with such evident...

appreciation of qualities no gentleman should remark upon, that I stood quite unable to respond.”

Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I cannot conceive how we shall face him at dinner.

Must we tell grandfather?”

From the hallway, Mr Collins’s voice rose in one final appeal: “Miss Bennet, I really must insist you allow me to explain the profound advantages--”

“Shall we escape through the garden door?”

Elizabeth suggested, as Jane’s composure threatened to crack.

“I believe the sheep need counting, and even Mr Collins would not follow us there.”

“Not in those old shoes,”

Jane agreed, her composure returning as she set her ledgers aside.

“Although I fear this is only the beginning.

He seemed quite… determined.”

“Then we shall be more determined,”

Elizabeth said firmly, leading her sister toward escape.

“After all, we have managed worse than one persistent parson.”