Page 19 of The Mercy of Chance

I n the private parlour of the Red Lion Inn, Mr Collins leant across the table toward Sir William Lucas, his voice pitched low beneath the general murmur of the public house.

“You must perceive the gravity of the situation, Sir William.

Five unmarried women—six with the widow Bennet—presuming to manage an estate? And the grandfather, poor man, so diminished in his faculties as to permit such unseemly behaviour.”

Collins’s small eyes were narrowed even further, his face flushed red.

Sir William shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

He glanced around the room, seeing the eyes of the patrons cast in their direction.

He raised his voice above the din.

“I find Mr Bennet in full possession of his wits and judgement, Mr Collins.

Indeed, his understanding of estate matters remains acute.”

Collins nearly jumped from his seat.

“Acute? He permits his granddaughters to negotiate with tenants.

To appear at market.

To manage accounts.”

Collins dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

“You must perceive how this undermines the natural order.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh, in her wisdom, assures me such conduct betrays a weakness of reason.” Collins glared, his chin lifted in defiance.

“The estate prospers under their stewardship,”

Sir William said.

“The tenants speak well of their management.” Sir William continued to shift in his seat, but his expression was firm and his posture rigid.

“The conservation of rightful authority supersedes mere prosperity!”

Collins’s voice rose sharply before he mastered himself.

“Consider my position, sir.

As heir to Longbourn, I bear responsibility for its dignity.

These young ladies require protection and guidance.

A firm hand to restore correct governance.”

“Your concern appears most earnest,”

Sir William said, “yet I perceive no evidence of disorder or deficiency in Mr Bennet’s judgement of these matters.”

“No evidence? When he permits women to usurp male authority? When he allows three of his granddaughters to dismiss my perfectly reasonable offers of marriage without consideration for their security?”

From his position near the fireplace, where he had paused upon entering the inn, Darcy listened with mounting indignation.

He had intended only to arrange rooms for his groom, not to witness this scheme.

That Collins had made offers to each of the elder Bennet ladies in a matter of days was preposterous.

Offensive.

Insulting.

Darcy shook himself.

If he was privy to this travesty, best he should hear the whole of it.

“I have consulted several men of law in London,”

Collins was now saying.

“They suggest that if local magistrates were to express doubt regarding Mr Bennet’s soundness of mind, the Court of Chancery might be persuaded to appoint a guardian.

Someone with established authority to direct both estate and family.”

“Yourself, I apprehend?”

Sir William’s tone grew severe.

“As heir, it would fall to me to assume such duties.

For the preservation of the family’s interests, you understand.”

“I understand,”

Sir William rose from his chair, “that you propose to employ the law to wrest control from a gentleman whose only display of questionable judgement appears to be allowing his granddaughters to excel in matters you deem beyond their sphere.”

“Sir William—"

“I apprehend further,”

Sir William continued, drawing himself up, “that you would abuse the authority of local magistrates to advance your own interests, with little regard for justice or truth.”

“I merely seek--”

“Good evening, Mr Collins.”

Sir William turned toward the door, then stopped short at seeing Darcy.

His eyes widened in surprise, but he offered a brief bow and departed.

Collins, following Sir William’s gaze, blanched at the sight of Darcy’s rigid countenance.

“Mr Collins.”

Darcy’s voice cut through the muted sounds of the taproom beyond - the clink of pewter, the murmur of conversation, the distant scrape of chairs.

“I believe we must speak of the proper application of law.

And of honour.”

“Mr Darcy, I had no notion--”

“No,”

Darcy interrupted, his quiet tone carrying more menace than a shout could have managed.

“You had no notion that anyone of consequence might object to your scheme.” He moved away from the fireplace, each measured step making Collins shrink further into his chair.

“Allow me to clarify the legal consequences of accusing a man of mental infirmity without cause.”

“But indubitably,”

Collins attempted, his voice reedy with anxiety, “as heir to Longbourn, I have some right to ensure fitting management--”

“You have the right,”

Darcy’s words fell like ice, “to respect the current owner’s authority.

Mr Bennet’s faculties are perfectly sound, as any physician of repute would attest.

To suggest otherwise, to attempt to use such false claims to wrest control…” He let the silence stretch until Collins squirmed.

“You may credit me when I say my Aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would find your manipulations most unseemly.”

The colour drained from Collins’s face at the mention of his patroness.

“Lady Catherine—”

“Would be most disturbed to learn that her parson had embroiled himself in such a scandal.”

Darcy’s fingers traced the edge of the mantelpiece.

“The penalties for such attempts at legal manipulation can be quite severe.

Particularly when the accused party has powerful connections.”

Collins sank back in his chair, his face ashen.

The fire popped and hissed, punctuating each devastating point Darcy raised about civil suits, criminal charges, and the irreparable damage to clerical reputation.

“Furthermore,”

Darcy continued, his voice dropping even lower, “Should word of this scheme reach the public, I would see every door in society closed to you—including those of Rosings Park.”

“But I only meant--”

Collins’s protest died under Darcy’s glacial stare.

“What you meant is immaterial.

What matters is what you will do.”

Darcy moved to loom over Collins’s table.

“You will return to Kent.

You will maintain a respectful distance from Longbourn and its inhabitants.

And you will pray that Mr Bennet is feeling merciful when I inform him of this conversation.”

The distant sound of laughter from the taproom served only to heighten the crushing silence that followed.

Collins stared into his port glass as though hoping to find escape there, his clerical collar suddenly seeming very tight indeed.

“Do we understand one another?”

Darcy’s question required no answer and received none save Collins’s jerky nod.

“Excellent.

I am certain you can find your own way back to your lodgings.

Good evening, Mr Collins.”

Darcy strode from the parlour, leaving Collins slumped in his chair, his schemes lying in ruins around him like autumn leaves.

The taproom’s cheerful noise seemed to mock his defeat as he contemplated the long, lonely ride back to Kent, and the even longer explanations that would be required when he arrived.

What would Lady Catherine make of his education in the consequences of attempting to abuse the law’s authority?

Or, perhaps, he need not mention it.

He would assure his patroness that he was proceeding apace, and hope that the lack of progress did not reach her attention.

The morning sun had barely cleared the trees when Darcy observed a gig approaching Netherfield from his position in Bingley’s study.

Miss Jane Bennet was driving, with Miss Elizabeth Bennet beside her.

His hand tightened imperceptibly on his teacup as he wondered at the unexpected visit.

“Bingley,”

he said, drawing his friend’s attention from his correspondence.

“We have visitors.”

Soon they were decorously arranged in the morning room, with Miss Bingley presiding over the tea service.

Miss Jane Bennet made their excuses with her usual gentle manner.

“I hope you will pardon such an early call,”

she said.

“But Lizzy and I had business in Meryton this morning, and our grandfather bid us deliver this letter to Mr Darcy on our way.”

Darcy accepted the sealed note, noting the slight tremor in Miss Elizabeth’s normally steady hands as she took her tea.

Something was amiss.

Excusing himself momentarily, he scanned the note.

The letter’s contents confirmed his suspicion.

Mr Bennet wrote succinctly of Collins’s arrival and legal threats, requesting Darcy’s advice at his convenience, given his experience in estate law.

“Miss Bennet,”

he addressed Jane, as propriety demanded.

“I would be happy to call at Longbourn this afternoon to discuss the matter with your grandfather, if that would be convenient?”

“Most kind of you, sir,”

Jane replied, her expression softening with relief.

“I am sure Grandfather would be grateful for your counsel.”

Throughout this exchange, Miss Elizabeth remained unusually quiet, although Darcy caught her watching him with an expression he could not quite interpret.

Concern? Wariness?

Elizabeth forced herself to sip her tea slowly, maintaining the appearance of a morning call whilst her mind raced.

She had argued against this scheme—coming to Netherfield under the pretence of business in Meryton, her grandfather’s meticulously worded note—It felt uncomfortably like seeking rescue.

Yet as she observed Mr Darcy reading the letter, his expression grave but composed, she had to acknowledge the sense in consulting him.

He would know what legal challenges they might face.

Still, Elizabeth could not quite suppress a twinge of… something.

Not quite resentment.

Not quite unease.

But a nagging worry that in seeking his advice, they would confirm any doubt Mr Darcy must harbour about women managing an estate.

And about her.

She could not deny that she cared about his opinions of herself, as ridiculous as that was.

He had often listened to her with that same inscrutable expression he wore in the drawing room - controlled, distant, impossible to read.

She had been proud to show him their results: wheat yields increased by a third, improved soil quality in the lower fields, and their innovative approach to the sheep fold.

His response had been brief - a simple “Most efficient, Miss Bennet”

-before turning to her grandfather.

The memory still unsettled her.

She had spent years studying agricultural treatises, corresponding with progressive farmers, under her grandfather’s name and calculating each change.

Their tenants had prospered.

Their profits had grown.

Even Mr Goulding had begun copying their methods.

Yet she could not tell whether Mr Darcy’s reserve masked approval or censure.

And now here they were, appearing at his door like supplicants.

Would he attribute their present difficulties to the natural consequence of women attempting to manage what should be a gentleman’s responsibility? Never mind that their books showed better profits than her father had ever achieved.

Never mind that they had bought up surrounding fields from their surplus.

Never mind that they had increased the tenants’ prosperity whilst maintaining healthy cash reserves.

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of her account ledger in her pocket.

Let Mr Darcy think what he would.

When he called this afternoon, she would have ten years of careful records to present.

Every decision documented, every improvement justified by results.

She had not proved herself to every sceptical neighbour, only now to be dismissed as a helpless female in need of rescue.

“The gardens are showing the last of their summer glory,”

Miss Bingley observed with determined brightness.

“Miss Eliza, you must give me your opinion on the new arrangements near the fountain.”

Elizabeth recognised the effort to separate her from the men.

She smiled with careful pleasantry.

“I would be delighted.”

As she followed Miss Bingley into the garden, Elizabeth cast one glance back.

Darcy, Miss Bennet, and Bingley were already deep in conversation, heads bent over what appeared to be dates and figures.

Her sister would handle it well, she knew.

Jane’s quiet competence often led people to underestimate her fine mind.

The gentlemen called at Longbourn the following day, a crisp autumn morning.

Grandfather had insisted on receiving them in the study rather than his bedchamber, determined to present himself as the master of Longbourn despite his infirmity.

Elizabeth and Jane attended him, whilst Mary took notes regarding the concerns they wished to address.

Kitty, coming in from the gardens with a basket of rose hips for the stillroom, encountered the visitors as they were departing.

She curtseyed politely, conscious of her work apron and the smudge of soil that likely marked her cheek.

“Miss Catherine?”

Mr Bingley said with his characteristic warmth.

“Your grandfather speaks highly of your contributions to Longbourn’s self-sufficiency.”

“You are too kind, sir,”

Kitty replied, feeling herself flush at being addressed by the gregarious new tenant who had occupied so much of the neighbourhood’s speculation.

“I simply tend the gardens.”

“Simply?”

It was Mr Darcy who spoke, surprising them all.

His tone, although formal, displayed genuine interest.

“I understand from Sir William that your medicinal garden has produced remedies of significant efficacy.”

Kitty blinked in surprise, uncertain how to respond to this unexpected subject from the austere gentleman.

“I have had some small success with traditional remedies, sir.”

“Mr Bennet’s improved health suggests your success is more than small,”

Mr Darcy observed.

His gaze fell to the basket she carried, where bundles of horehound lay among other freshly harvested herbs.

“Horehound, is it not? An excellent expectorant.”

“You are familiar with herbal medicine, Mr Darcy?”

Elizabeth asked, her tone suggesting she found this unexpected.

“My mother maintained extensive gardens at Pemberley, including medicinal plants,”

he replied.

“She believed modern physicians too readily dismissed traditional knowledge.” A shadow passed briefly across his features.

“Her remedies were sought throughout Derbyshire.”

“As were our Aunt Eleanor’s.”

Jane smiled faintly, remembering Aunt Eleanor’s frequent assertion that a woman with an organised stillroom need never depend on a man’s pocketbook or a doctor’s whims.

The conversation moved to other topics, as the transformation of the Longbourn drawing room had not escaped Darcy’s notice.

Where once precise rows of account books had dominated the shelves, interspersed with treatises on agriculture and law, now volumes of poetry and histories were artfully scattered about— needlework rested casually on a settee and a sewing basket dominated the table.

It was a shrewd artifice to disguise the room’s true purpose as a place of business rather than genteel leisure.