Page 18 of The Mercy of Chance

T he letter arrived with the morning post, its thick parchment and elaborate seal immediately identifying its source.

Mr Collins had snatched it from Hill’s tray with such eagerness that he nearly upset the breakfast dishes in his haste.

“From Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”

he announced, as though bestowing a royal proclamation upon the assembled family.

“Her Ladyship honours me with her personal correspondence.”

Elizabeth exchanged glances with Jane across the table.

Mr Collins had taken to observing their grandfather with exaggerated concern, offering unnecessary assistance and speaking to him in the overly loud tones one might use with a dim-witted child.

“I trust her Ladyship is in good health?”

Grandfather enquired, his authoritative presence commanding the head of the table.

“Indeed, sir, indeed.

Although she is, as always, burdened with the great responsibilities of her position.”

Mr Collins broke the seal, his lips moving silently as he read.

Suddenly, his countenance shifted from reverence to dismay.

“Oh! Most distressing...

yet one must obey...

her Ladyship’s wisdom is unparalleled...”

“Is something amiss, Mr Collins?”

Mrs Bennet asked.

Mr Collins looked up, his expression teetering between disappointment and self-importance.

“I am summoned back to Rosings immediately.

Her Ladyship writes that matters of parish business require my urgent attention.”

He folded the letter with precision.

“Her Ladyship is most explicit that I should depart without delay.”

Elizabeth suppressed a smile.

The “parish business”

undoubtedly stemmed from Mr Collins’s report of Grandfather’s condition.

She had overheard him composing his letter to Lady Catherine, detailing with morbid relish the “unfortunate derangement” of the Bennet patriarch, and speculating how such mental infirmity might affect the inheritance of Longbourn.

“Must you leave so soon cousin?”

Mrs Bennet asked, her tone measured and pragmatic but a small smile betraying her relief.

“We had expected to enjoy your company for at least another sennight.”

“Duty calls, Madam.

My noble patroness has expressed her opinion most forcefully, and one does not disregard the wisdom of such a distinguished personage.”

He cast a meaningful glance toward Grandfather Bennet, who was calmly buttering his toast, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.

“There are certain...

delicate matters that make my prompt return advisable.”

“What a pity,”

Mary remarked.

“We had hoped to discuss your parish’s approach to tenant relief during poor harvests.

Grandfather and I have been developing a new system at Longbourn.”

Mr Collins blinked, obviously unprepared for such a pragmatic enquiry.

“Perhaps on my next visit, Miss Mary.

Lady Catherine herself has most definite opinions on the management of tenant needs which I would be honoured to relay.”

“I shall order your trunk packed immediately,”

Mrs Bennet said efficiently.

“You may depart immediately after luncheon, if that suits.”

By midday, Mr Collins’s borrowed horse was saddled, and his modest luggage secured.

The man himself stood in the entrance hall delivering his protracted farewells.

The entire family had assembled, as propriety demanded, although Elizabeth noted that her grandfather seemed unusually eager to see their cousin off, remaining below stairs well beyond his usual habit.

“I leave with a heavy heart,”

Mr Collins proclaimed, bowing deeply to Mrs Bennet.

“Your hospitality has been everything that a humble clergyman could wish for.”

“You are welcome at Longbourn,”

Mrs Bennet replied with practised civility, although Elizabeth detected her mother’s hands tightening at her sides—the only outward sign of her relief.

Mr Collins turned to Grandfather Bennet, speaking with exaggerated clarity.

“And you, sir, I wish you...

peaceful days ahead.

My revered patroness has shared with me certain remedies for...

afflictions of the mind.

Perhaps on my next visit—”

“I look forward to it,”

Grandfather interrupted, his voice surprisingly strong.

“I shall have much to discuss with you.

The spirits have told me so.”

Mr Collins blanched.

“The... spirits?”

“Indeed,”

the old man continued.

“They are quite insistent about your future.

Most insistent.” He tapped his temple knowingly.

Mr Collins took an involuntary step backward.

“Well...

I...

that is to say...”

For perhaps the first time in his acquaintance with the Bennets, he seemed genuinely at a loss for words.

“Your horse awaits, cousin,”

Mrs Bennet intervened smoothly.

“We would not wish to delay you and incur her Ladyship’s displeasure.”

With a final bow and several backward glances at Grandfather Bennet, Mr Collins at last mounted his horse and set off down the lane, his rigid posture betraying his discomfort.

The November air rushed in with his departure, brisk and cleansing, as though the very wind rejoiced in sweeping away the lingering miasma of pomposity.

As the family turned back toward the house, Elizabeth saw her grandfather exchange a conspiratorial smile with Mary.

The old man had played his part to perfection.

“Well,”

said Mrs Bennet, once they were inside, “I suppose we might as well consume the special tea cake I had Cook prepare for this afternoon with Mr Collins.”

“An excellent suggestion, my dear,”

Grandfather agreed.

“And perhaps a glass of the good port as well.”

The family gathered in the drawing room, tea cakes distributed, and, at Grandfather’s insistence, small glasses of wine poured for all—an unusual indulgence for the middle of the day.

Grandfather, who had been far more animated since Mr Collins’s departure, accepted his glass with a gleam in his eye that Elizabeth had not seen in many months.

“I believe,”

the old man said, raising his glass, “that a toast is in order.”

“To Mr Collins’s safe journey?”

Jane suggested kindly.

Grandfather snorted.

“To Mr Collins’s journey, certainly.

May it be long, dirty, circuitous, and never again end anywhere near Longbourn.”

He lifted his glass higher.

“To the remarkable efficacy of feigned madness in ridding one’s home of unwanted guests.”

“Grandfather!”

Elizabeth admonished, although her lips twitched with suppressed mirth.

“Oh, let him speak,”

Mrs Bennet said with unusual solidarity.

“He has endured Mr Collins’s condescension more patiently than I could have.”

“To Lady Catherine, then,”

Grandfather amended, “whose imperiousness has, for once, served a useful purpose.”

Everyone raised their glasses in agreement.

News travelled swiftly to Rosings Park, borne on the wings of alarm and disappointment.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh, upon hearing of Mr Collins’s failure and the whispered rumours of Mr Bennet’s supposed madness, prepared to unleash a response as grandly disproportionate as her pride demanded.

Lady Catherine cared nothing for Longbourn’s fate or Mr Collins’s ambitions; it was the spectre of her nephew slipping beyond her grasp that ignited her fury.

If all of Hertfordshire must be sacrificed to save Anne’s prospects, so be it.

The lane that led from Longbourn to Meryton was pleasantly shaded by oak trees, offering relief from the midday sun.

Lydia Bennet walked at a brisk pace, a sturdy basket over her arm containing lists of supplies needed for the estate and a small leather-bound account book.

Although not officially out in society, she was permitted these practical errands into the village, accompanied by James, one of the stable boys, who followed a few paces behind, kicking stones and whistling tunelessly.

Lydia had been tasked with purchasing seeds for the kitchen garden, arranging for the repair of a broken plough part, and negotiating the price of new fence posts—responsibilities her sisters had increasingly entrusted to her as she demonstrated her sharp skills in negotiation.

Unlike Jane, who avoided confrontation, or Lizzy and Mary who tended to be overly outspoken, Lydia was fearless and effective in securing excellent terms for the estate.

Shy Kitty refused to accompany Lydia as the whole enterprise made her nervous.

Lydia’s r skill had not come overnight.

She recalled with clarity the first time, two years earlier, when she stunned the Meryton farmers into silence...

Lydia’s voice carried across the sheep pens, causing several farmers to turn in surprise at the sight of a young girl haggling like a seasoned dealer.

“Thirteen pounds ten per stone? Your wool may be fine, Mr Hawkins, but it is not spun from gold.”

The portly farmer flushed red beneath his whiskers.

“Now see here, Miss Bennet—”

“I have seen, sir.

I have examined your fleece most thoroughly.”

Lydia gestured to the samples spread before her.

“Whilst the staple length is admirable, the lanolin content is excessive, which will result in considerable weight loss during scouring.

Ten pounds eight is fair.”

Old Simmons stood a few paces behind her, arms folded across his chest, a glimmer of pride barely visible beneath his perpetual scowl.

Mr Hawkins glanced between them, apparently disconcerted at being outmanoeuvred by a slip of a girl.

“Twelve pounds even, and that’s my final offer.”

“Eleven pounds five,”

Lydia countered smoothly, “and we shall take your entire western field’s yield next season as well, provided the quality remains consistent.”

The deal was struck with reluctant respect, and as Mr Hawkins walked away, Lydia turned to Simmons with a triumphant smile.

“You have the makings of a proper wool merchant,”

the old shepherd acknowledged, the highest praise he had ever given her.

“I have been studying the market reports in Grandfather’s newspapers,”

Lydia confided as they walked back toward the Longbourn flock.

“And comparing them with the ledgers from previous years.”

They paused at the gate to the north pasture where their breeding ewes grazed contentedly.

Three years of Lydia’s dedicated study and Simmons’ grudging tutelage had transformed the Longbourn flock.

The introduction of Merino bloodlines—a suggestion Lydia had made after pouring over a treatise she had persuaded her grandfather to procure from London—had already improved their wool quality significantly.

“The breeding programme is working,”

Lydia observed, satisfaction evident in her voice.

“Another two generations and our fleeces will command premium prices.”

Simmons nodded.

“You have a good eye for it, miss.

Better than most men twice your age.”

Lydia’s face clouded suddenly.

“Mamma says I ought to be focusing on more lady-like accomplishments.

She caught me with sheep dung on my skirts yesterday and nearly had an apoplexy.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“That I had been gathering wildflowers and had suffered an unfortunate mishap,”

Lydia admitted with a mischievous smile.

“She believes what she wishes to believe.”

“And your grandfather?”

“He understands.

He sees the ledgers, after all.”

Her voice softened.

“And he says Papa would have been proud.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as they watched the flock.

Finally, Simmons cleared his throat.

“There is a new method for controlling hoof rot I have heard tell of.

Copper sulphate solution, they are using in the north.”

“We should try it,”

Lydia agreed immediately.

“I shall write to request information.”

“Already ordered some,”

Simmons admitted.

“Although we might experiment.”

Lydia beamed at this evidence of his confidence in their partnership.

“Mr Simmons, I do believe we are becoming progressives.”

The old shepherd’s lips twitched in what might nearly have been a smile.

“Dunno go spreading such slander, Miss Lydia.

I have a reputation to maintain.”

“The grandfather’s condition,”

Lady Catherine mused, tapping her fan against her knee with precision.

“You mentioned his increasing infirmity?”

Collins leant forward, scenting opportunity like a hound sensing game.

The winter light filtering through the mullioned windows cast his features in a sickly pallor that matched his obsequious demeanour.

“Indeed, your Ladyship.

Mr Bennet keeps largely to his study these days, emerging only for dinner.

The fire is maintained at all hours for his comfort, regardless of the expense.

Most concerning is his habit of allowing his granddaughters to manage affairs that ought by rights be directed by a man of sound judgement.”

“Sound judgement.”

Lady Catherine tested the phrase like a fencing master selecting a blade.

Her rings glinted in the firelight as her fingers continued their rhythmic tapping.

The silk of her morning dress rustled with each movement.

“One might question whether a gentleman who permits such unnatural arrangements demonstrates adequate capacity for management.”

“Your Ladyship’s penetration, as always, illuminates matters I had hardly dared contemplate.”

Collins’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that barely disturbed the still air of the morning room.

The subtle scent of his hair pomade, applied too liberally in anticipation of this interview, wafted between them.

“There have been… incidents.”

“Elaborate.”

“He was observed speaking to empty chairs at dinner last week.

And his signatures on recent documents appear… irregular.”

Collins paused delicately.

“The strain of managing an estate at his advanced age, one must suppose has taken a toll…”

“One must suppose,”

Lady Catherine cut in, “that the Court of Chancery might take an interest in protecting an ancient estate from the consequences of declining faculties.

Particularly when said decline permits such irregular arrangements to flourish.”

“The legal costs would be considerable--”

Collins dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, despite the winter chill in the room.

“The funds will be provided.”

Her fan executed a decisive snap.

“The taint of association with these peculiar notions of female capability must not be permitted to take root elsewhere.

My nephew’s inexplicable interest in their agricultural innovations suggests the contagion has already begun.”

“Your Ladyship is most generous.”

Collins’s bow sent a waft of nervous perspiration toward her Ladyship, causing a slight grimace to mar her aristocratic mouth.

“Although proving mental incapacity--”

“Requires evidence of incapacity to manage affairs, does it not? Which his very tolerance of current circumstances demonstrates rather conclusively.”

The fine lines around Lady Catherine’s mouth deepened like cracks in ice.

“The court was established to protect estates from mismanagement, Mr Collins.

I am certain that allowing young ladies to direct matters of drainage and crop interference qualifies as concerning evidence of a gentleman’s declining judgement?”

Collins’s bow combined perfect submission with barely concealed triumph.

“One might even suggest that his granddaughters take advantage of his weakened state to pursue their unusual interests.”

“One might indeed.”

Lady Catherine’s fan stilled completely.

The fire crackled in the grate, sending the shadows of both conspirators dancing grotesquely on the damask-covered walls.

“I shall write to my solicitor today.

We must move quickly, before my nephew’s fascination with agricultural discourse leads to even more inappropriate entanglements.

The notion of Pemberley’s master discussing drainage works with those chits…” Her shudder spoke volumes about the collapse of proper society such an event would herald.

“Perhaps if the court were to appoint a guardian more suited to directing both the estate and its young ladies toward more appropriate pursuits…”

Collins’s voice held a yearning that hung in the air.

“Precisely.”

Lady Catherine’s tone suggested campaigns already being mapped, generals positioning their forces for inevitable victory.

The leather of her chair creaked as she straightened, her posture rigid with purpose.

“The estate requires proper management, the young ladies require proper guidance, and my nephew requires protection from his own… susceptibilities.

Three purposes served through one judicious intervention, Mr Collins.”

Neither party seemed to notice how their careful plans rested on proving that allowing women to manage estate matters indicated mental deficiency—a position that might raise interesting questions about Lady Catherine’s own detailed management of Rosings.

Elizabeth might have delighted in such ironies, were they not shadowed by the genuine threat to her grandfather’s authority and her family’s independence.

“I shall begin collecting evidence of Mr Bennet’s… confusion immediately,”

Collins assured his patroness.

“By all means.

We must proceed with distinct attention to timing and strategy.”

Lady Catherine’s fan resumed its martial rhythm.

“Meanwhile, you will continue to observe and report on my nephew’s activities.

I must know precisely how far this… agricultural fascination has progressed.”

The morning room’s shadows lengthened as they refined their plans, the winter sun retreating beyond the formal gardens visible through the windows.

The fire sank to embers in the grate, casting their faces in an amber glow that masked the coldness of their intentions.

Neither noted how their careful plotting to protect rightful hierarchy might instead ensure its inevitable transformation.

For if Lady Catherine had truly understood her nephew’s character, she might have recognised that nothing would more reliably drive him to Elizabeth’s defence than such a direct attack on her family’s independence and dignity.