Page 21 of The Mercy of Chance

A s he reached his horse, Darcy glanced back at the house.

Through the study window, he could see her still at work, her head bent over her papers.

The late afternoon sun caught the fine lines of her face, the graceful curve of her neck…

“Impossible,”

he said, although whether he meant her situation or his increasing preoccupation with her, he could scarce determine.

With a sharp gesture, he turned away.

He had responsibilities, a position to maintain.

He could not allow himself to be captivated by fine eyes and a quick mind, no matter how felicitously they were united in her form.

That he needed reminding was warning enough.

Darcy urged his horse toward Netherfield at a pace that matched his unsettled thoughts.

His response to Elizabeth Bennet had grown increasingly… inconvenient.

Today, watching her command of the estate’s records, her quiet confidence as she presented each detail of their management, he had nearly lost all sense of propriety.

Several times he had caught himself leaning forward, drawn into debate with an eagerness more suited to a fresh-faced Cambridge scholar than a man of his position.

The worst moment had come when she had lifted those fine eyes to his, challenging his assessment with a mixture of fire and reason that was altogether too compelling.

He had nearly… but no.

The mere notion of pursuing a lady in her circumstances was unthinkable.

No matter how gracefully she carried herself, how intelligently she spoke, how perfectly her smile…

He reined in sharply, acknowledging with grim humour that his thoughts, like his horse, needed better regulation.

This was precisely the sort of entanglement he must avoid.

A country squire’s granddaughter, managing an estate like a steward or bailiff? The notion of introducing such a connection to society - to his sister - was impossible.

His family, no doubt, would be horrified.

His duty was clear.

The Darcy name, his sister’s coming debut, his position in society - all demanded a suitable alliance.

Not this dangerous attraction to a woman who, however worthy, would be seen by his circle as little better than an oddity.

That she managed her role with more grace and wisdom than half the peers of the realm was beside the point.

And yet… the way she had defended her grandfather’s interests, practical yet passionate.

The quick mind behind her declarations, the flashes of wit she tried to suppress in serious discussion.

Even her perceived unsuitability showed an admirable devotion to duty over mere social pleasure.

“Enough,”

he muttered to himself, straightening in the saddle.

He would offer such assistance as their situation required, maintain a respectful distance, and master this… tendency to dwell on the particular expression in her eyes when she was pleased.

He had years of practice in doing what duty required.

This would be no different.

He had done his duty in offering assistance with their legal troubles.

That must be the end of it.

He would maintain a genteel distance, only when asked would he provide such advice as their situation required.

He dismounted his horse with perhaps more vigour than necessary, setting a brisk pace back to Netherfield house.

Yet try as he might, he could not quite banish the memory of her rare genuine smile, or the way her eyes had sparked when making an especially impertinent observation.

Most troubling of all was his growing suspicion that he was beginning to consider her quite the most interesting woman of his acquaintance.

The clock on the mantel struck the hour, each chime reverberating through the suddenly still room.

Lady Catherine’s fan resumed its martial rhythm, the silken folds snapping with the certainty of command.

Her summons brought forth an immediate response, the parson materialising with practised servility.

“Your Ladyship?”

“You speak of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s particular influence.

Elaborate.”

“Indeed, your Ladyship, she demonstrates a most unseemly grasp of agricultural principles.

Even Mr Darcy was observed to pay particular attention to her observations regarding drainage improvements.”

Lady Catherine’s fan snapped open with military precision.

“Drainage improvements? And my nephew attended these discussions?”

“With marked interest, your Ladyship.

He was even seen to…”

Collins paused for dramatic effect, “to walk out with two of them to inspect the affected areas.

Unchaperoned.”

The fan’s rhythm faltered momentarily.

Lady Catherine shook her head violently.

“This cannot be endured! These actions go beyond mere impropriety.

It threatens the very fabric of proper society.

What gentleman of consequence could permit himself…”

Her voice hardened with determination.

“Mr Collins, you must assert control over this situation.

The estate requires the protection of male guidance.”

“But your Ladyship, the entail does not permit--”

“This is not about the entail,”

she cut in.

You must establish that this ancient relation has lost his sense.

No court will allow a lunatic to retain control over your inheritance.

A competent guardian will be appointed, and, as the heir presumptive, you are the most appropriate choice.

You must ensure that his failings are well displayed.

Arrange matters so he cannot hide his episodes of confusion.

Take note of his ramblings and record them faithfully for presentation to the magistrate. My solicitor will direct you and recommend you as the most qualified to be placed in charge of the property and those unnatural viragos. The second eldest, with her pretensions to gentility, must be particularly subdued. Her impertinent opinions and forward manner, requires the firmest hand. Do not permit them to carry on their unfeminine meddling in matters of business. Such behaviour renders them unmarriageable and reflects poorly upon their upbringing. As guardian you will restore the natural order and dispose of the chits before they use their arts and allurements to entrap a decent gentleman. You will put a stop to their behaviour—walking unchaperoned through the fields, conversing with tenants, and presenting themselves at the market like common tradeswomen. Such hoydenish conduct must cease immediately upon your appointment. The property itself has doubtless been grievously mismanaged under the direction of females. Expect to find accounts in disarray and improvements neglected. You shall need to dismiss any servants who have grown accustomed to taking direction from these presumptuous young women. A household governed by females inevitably falls into disorder and impropriety. It is your Christian duty to rectify this unnatural situation before their reputations are utterly beyond redemption.”

Collins bowed deeply, mind already calculating the increased consequence such a commission might bring.

“I stand in humble awe of your Ladyship's perspicacity, which so clearly indicates where obligation must lead.”

The air seemed to hum with the force of her resolve, although the morning room’s shadows — stirred by the dust motes in the April light — seemed to whisper of a different fate, one where proud pretensions might yet find themselves undone by the very independence they sought to crush.

“See that my instructions are followed precisely.

It falls to me to guard my nephew against his own...

particular weaknesses.

No forward, ungovernable girl shall supplant my daughter in her destined situation—especially not one who harbors the impertinent notion that she possesses skills in land management.”

He bowed again, mentally composing the florid report he would send her after his triumph.

“You may depend upon my devotion, my Lady.”

Lady Catherine stilled, her hands tightening upon the back of a carved chair.

“And above all else, Mr Collins: my nephew must not disgrace himself—or his family.”

A package arrived at Longbourn addressed to Miss Catherine Bennet, in care of Mr James Bennet.

Inside, nestled in a bed of straw, were six lemons—their bright yellow a startling contrast to the autumn colours surrounding Longbourn.

The accompanying note was brief:

Miss Catherine,

I recall my mother’s insistence that fresh lemon greatly enhances the efficacy of horehound syrup for chest complaints.

I requested these to be delivered to you from my hothouse at Pemberley.

I would be interested to learn whether they might improve your remedy.

Your servant, F. Darcy

Kitty stared at the note in astonishment, then at the precious fruits whose cost and rarity made them an extravagant gift indeed.

“Well!”

Mrs Bennet exclaimed, examining one of the lemons with wondering fingers.

“It seems Mr Darcy is not nearly as proud and disagreeable as Lady Lucas thinks.”

“Or perhaps he simply respects competence, whatever its source,”

Elizabeth observed, watching her sister’s flushed face with thoughtful eyes.

That evening, Kitty prepared a new batch of horehound syrup, following Mrs Faxon’s recipe but substituting fresh lemon juice for the precious drops of essence.

The resulting remedy proved even more effective, easing Grandfather’s breathing more completely than any previous batch.

She sent a thoughtfully composed note of thanks to Netherfield, detailing the improvements observed and expressing her appreciation for his contribution to her grandfather’s health.

The note underwent no fewer than seven draughts before she was satisfied with its contents.

To her surprise, Mr Darcy himself called the following day, making particular enquiry about the efficacy of the lemons and asking detailed questions about her gardens and methods.

When he departed, he left with a small bottle of the improved syrup and an invitation for Kitty to correspond with his sister, who apparently shared an interest in herbal remedies.

“Remarkable,”

Mrs Bennet murmured drawing her shawl closer against the crisp evening as they watched him ride away.

“To think that Catherine’s garden remedies would interest a man with ten thousand a year!”

“I believe,”

Elizabeth said dryly, “it is Kitty’s knowledge that has impressed Mr Darcy, not her marital prospects.”

“Of course, of course,”

her mother agreed hastily.

“Although it is often the case that respect precedes warmer feelings.” Her expression grew thoughtful.

“But it is his appreciation of her skills that matters most.

I am not suggesting a potential suitor in Mr Darcy.

I value his recognition of Catherine’s worth.”

Kitty, listening to this exchange with mingled embarrassment and pride, realised, with quiet astonishment, that it was not Mr Darcy’s consequence she reflected on, but rather the unexpected connection they shared through their mothers’ gardens.

From the simplest of beginnings—a persistent cough, a walk to Widow Faxon’s cottage—had come not only relief for her grandfather but a new source of confidence in her own abilities.

That evening, she added a new page to her notebook, attentively recording the improved recipe with its precise measurements and observations.

At the top of the page, she hesitated a moment before writing:

Horehound and Lemon Syrup for Chest Complaints As taught by Agnes Faxon of Meryton, with improvements suggested by Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley

Knowledge preserved, passed down, and improved through shared wisdom—a legacy as valuable as Longbourn itself.