Page 2 of The Mercy of Chance
Elizabeth adjusted her bonnet against the August sun as she accompanied her mother from the draper’s shop. The household accounts tucked in her reticule weighed heavily on her mind—the new linen for Grandfather’s bed had cost more than expected, although his comfort could not be sacrificed.
“Lizzy, pray attend,” her mother murmured. “Mrs Long approaches, and I have not the patience for her particular brand of intelligence today.”
But Mrs Long had already caught sight of them, her pace quickening as she crossed the high street. “Mrs Bennet! Miss Elizabeth! Have you heard the news? A young gentleman of considerable fortune has taken Netherfield Park,” Mrs Long announced breathlessly, catching Mrs Bennet’s sleeve as the latter emerged from the sundries shop. “Five thousand a year, they say.” Mrs Long’s enthusiasm for the arrival of a young man in the neighbourhood seemed odd at first until Elizabeth considered the lady’s spinster nieces. Surely she hoped to ‘catch’ a husband for one of them.
Elizabeth exchanged a brief glance with her mother, noting the slight tightening of her lips. Before her father’s death, such news might have sent Mamma into raptures of anticipation. Now, she merely inclined her head with polite disinterest.
“Indeed. Let us hope he shall prove more attentive to the property than the previous occupant,” Mrs Bennet replied. “The house has stood empty overlong.”
“He is called Bingley,” Mrs Long persisted, clearly disappointed by this moderate response. “A single young gentleman from the north. He viewed the house on Tuesday and was so well pleased that he agreed to take it immediately. His servants are to arrive by the end of the month.”
Elizabeth’s thoughts turned immediately to the flooding along their southern fields. She traced the mental map of Longbourn in her mind, stopping at the marshy section where Netherfield’s boundary met theirs—the same section Grandfather had pointed to repeatedly. He had been concerned about it for months, but without a current tenant to address the matter, and with the estate holder, Mr Sims, long since departed to the West Indies, their options were limited.
“It is most unfortunate that my father-in-law cannot pay his respects when Mr Bingley arrives,” Mrs Bennet said. “The damp affects his joints too severely for any social calls.”
“But surely some arrangement might be made,” Mrs Long persisted. “Sir William Lucas will undoubtedly call upon the gentleman. Perhaps…”
“Yes, perhaps.” Her mother’s attention had shifted, and Elizabeth followed her gaze to see Mrs Hill hurrying toward them, her expression pinched with worry.
“Pray excuse us, Mrs Long,” Elizabeth interjected smoothly. “I believe our housekeeper requires our attention.” Elizabeth placed a gentle but firm hand on her mother’s elbow, subtly stepping between her and Mrs Long. ‘We really must attend to this matter,’ she murmured, guiding her mother with the comfortable ease of someone who had performed this manoeuvre many times before. Mrs Long’s mouth remained half-open, her next piece of gossip left dangling in the air as they retreated.
Mrs Long’s disappointment at having her gossip session curtailed was evident, but Elizabeth guided her mother away without further ceremony.
“Madam. Miss Elizabeth.” Hill bobbed a quick curtsy, then spoke in a whisper, her back turned to Mrs Long, well aware of her legendary penchant for gossip. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, but dear Mr Bennet has taken a turn. Miss Jane sent me directly.”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her throat with familiar dread. “How severe is it, Hill?”
“He was most insistent upon reviewing the harvest in the stable yard this morning, although Miss Jane tried to persuade him to wait. Then his chest seized up something dreadful. Miss Jane has sent for Mr Jones.”
“And where is Mary?” Mrs Bennet asked, already gathering her skirts to quicken her pace.
“Reading to Mr Bennet from one of his philosophy books, Madam, although he attends little. He keeps asking for the ledgers instead.”
“The western field yields,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. “We were calculating them this morning before I accompanied you to town. He was most eager to compare them with last year’s figures.”
As they hurried through Meryton’s High Street, Elizabeth noted her mother’s tense expression. “You are thinking of Mr Collins’s letter.”
“His expressions of concern for Grandfather’s health grow more pointed with each correspondence.” Mrs Bennet’s voice was low, and her expression pinched. The constant drum beat of intrusion from the heir to the estate’s entail was a source of worry. “We require more time, Lizzy. Your grandfather…” she trailed off.
“I know, Mamma.”
They walked in silence for several moments before Mrs Bennet spoke again. “This news of Netherfield—perhaps if things were different, I would have thought only of the marital prospects such a neighbour might represent, as does Mrs Long.”
“And now we think of drainage and boundary agreements.” Elizabeth attempted a smile. “How our concerns have altered.”
“Necessity has made farmers of us all,” her mother replied. “I daresay, when Mrs Long mentioned his five thousand a year, I did wonder…” She shook her head. “But there is no time for those considerations. Not with your grandfather’s health so precarious and the estate requiring constant attention. Sir William’s friendship has proved invaluable these past years, but we cannot forever depend upon the kindness of neighbours.” Sir William’s introductions had opened doors that remained firmly shut to a widowed woman and her daughters, but Elizabeth had noticed his hesitation growing longer with each encounter.
Elizabeth sighed. Her once-smooth hands now bore the telltale calluses of one who regularly worked alongside her tenant farmers, not with embroidery patterns. She well knew that their situation grew more awkward with each passing season, as her grandfather’s infirmity kept him ever more confined to Longbourn. In their dealings with the neighbours, their precarious acceptance was palpable. Mr Long’s eyebrows rose,, just perceptibly, before directing his response to his steward instead of to her. Just yesterday, Mr Goulding, a neighbour of long-standing, had the temerity to examine his pocket watch with pronounced deliberation mid-conversation, before turning abruptly to address a tenant on matters of the estate—as if she, the daughter of a gentleman, had suddenly become invisible in proper society.
Elizabeth squeezed her mother’s arm gently. “We shall find a way to secure an introduction to Mr Bingley. As tenant at Netherfield, he will see that the water table must be resolved before winter rains begin.”
“Yes.” Mrs Bennet’s chin lifted in the faintest elevation, the same subtle gesture Elizabeth had observed each time her mother faced a challenge after father’s passing. “Sir William might be persuaded to facilitate the connection, given the practicalities involved.”
As they hurried toward Longbourn, Elizabeth spared one last thought for the mysterious Mr Bingley. Perhaps she ought to think of some plan for introducing her family. Dear Jane deserved to find an amiable husband. But Hill’s worried expression suggested more immediate concerns required their attention. Thoughts of eligible young men quite fled her mind in favour of Longbourn’s needs.