Page 23 of The Mercy of Chance

T he morning was cool but clear as Elizabeth took her usual path through the wilderness walk at Longbourn.

Her mind was so occupied with troubled thoughts that she nearly collided with Mr Darcy as he emerged from behind a stand of elder trees.

“Miss Bennet,”

he said, bowing elegantly.

“I am delighted to encounter you on your morning constitutional.”

“Mr Darcy,”

she replied, curtseying.

“I fear I am poor company today.”

He studied her face with concern.

“You appear distressed.

Is there some way I might be of service?”

Elizabeth hesitated, then sighed.

“Mr Collins visited yesterday.

He was most...

disagreeable.”

“Collins?”

Darcy’s brow furrowed.

“I understood him to have returned to Kent some time ago.”

“Indeed, he had.

But it seems his patroness has encouraged him to press his claims regarding the entail.”

Elizabeth’s voice faltered.

“He spoke most critically about my grandfather’s health, suggesting that he was no longer able to manage the estate.”

“The man is unconscionable,”

Darcy said, his voice low and controlled, although his eyes betrayed his anger.

“He will return in a week’s time with his solicitor.”

Elizabeth looked away toward the distant fields.

Darcy was silent a moment, then spoke with care.

“Miss Bennet, I hope you will permit me to say that should Collins return as threatened, you need only send word to Netherfield, and I shall attend immediately.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“That is most kind, sir, but I would not wish to impose—”

“It is no imposition.

My knowledge of the law—and of my aunt— might prove useful in such a circumstance.”

His expression softened.

“You—er your family should not face such unpleasantness alone.”

“Thank you, Mr Darcy.

Your offer brings me great comfort.”

She offered him a small smile before continuing her walk.

As they parted, Darcy questioned what madness had prompted him to insert himself so thoroughly into the Bennet family’s affairs? Only last night he had resolved to maintain a respectful distance from Miss Elizabeth, whose presence affected his equanimity in ways he found most disturbing.

Perhaps he ought to return to London with all haste, offering what assistance he could from a safe distance.

There, at least, he would be free from the daily temptation of Miss Elizabeth’s fine eyes and lively conversation.

And yet, the thought of Collins bullying the Bennets in his absence was intolerable.

No, he would remain at Netherfield for the nonce.

He was a gentleman offering assistance to a respected neighbour.

Nothing more.

Netherfield’s butler, trailed by a messenger, approached Mr Darcy at his desk reviewing correspondence.

Young Tom, the Longbourn stable boy, had barely stammered out “Mr Collins, sir--”

before Darcy was striding toward the stables, calling for his horse.

He arrived at Longbourn to find Collins in the study, a thin man with wire-rimmed spectacles at his elbow.

Elizabeth stood near her grandfather’s chair, her bearing rigid with barely contained fury.

“Ah, Mr Darcy.”

Collins simpered, although his eyes held a calculating gleam.

“How… unexpected to find you here.

I am sure you are aware, my dear cousin’s confused state requires more… appropriate supervision of the estate.”

“Indeed?”

Darcy’s tone could have frozen water.

“And this gentleman is…?”

“Mr Stevenson, my solicitor,”

Collins preened.

“Most highly recommended by my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

Darcy’s eyebrow rose fractionally.

“I was unaware of that name in Lady Catherine connections to the legal profession in… where did you say you practised, sir?”

The thin man shifted uncomfortably.

“Er, primarily in Kent, sir.”

“Kent?”

Darcy’s voice hardened.

“How remarkable.

I maintain rather extensive dealings with the law societies of Kent.

Pray, with which chamber are you associated?”

Collins interrupted before the man could respond.

“Such details are immaterial.

We are here about my poor cousin’s deplorable condition.

This morning, he was speaking nonsense about crop revolutions and drainpipes!”

“Was he indeed?”

Darcy moved to stand beside Mr Bennet’s chair.

“Perhaps, Mr Collins, you might enlighten us on these subjects yourself? Since you feel qualified to judge their sense or nonsense.”

“I… that is…”

Collins tugged at his cravat.

“It is not for me to speak of such things.

But when my noble patroness, Lady Catherine herself, agrees that--”

“Come now,”

Mr Bennet pressed, his eyes alight with savage amusement.

“You profess concern over my management of this estate.

Please, explain those basic principles of modern agriculture?”

“Well… one must… that is to say… one plants different crops…”

Collins fumbled.

“Indeed? Which crops, precisely? In what order?”

Mr Bennet turned to Jane.

“Jane, pray remind me of our rotation schedule for the north field?”

“Wheat, followed by turnips,”

Jane replied crisply, “then barley, and finally clover.

The turnips, of course, allow us to maintain the sheep through winter, whilst the clover replenishes the soil.”

Collins’s face had grown increasingly red.

“I declare it is not decent for a young lady to concern herself with such matters!”

“No?”

Mr Bennet’s smile was razor-sharp.

“Then perhaps you might explain to us the principles of modern drainage? The Elkington method has proved most efficacious in our lower fields.

You are familiar with Mr Elkington’s innovations, I should imagine?”

“Drainage is… that is… when water… flows…”

Collins pulled at his cravat.

“Lizzy, my dear,”

Mr Bennet turned to his elder granddaughter, “what depth did you determine optimal for the auxiliary channels?”

“Four feet, Grandfather,”

Elizabeth answered confidently.

“Although we found it necessary to dig to five feet at the junction points, as Mr Elkington suggests.

The clay soil, you understand.”

“Remarkable,”

Darcy murmured, his admiration evident.

“But… but…”

Collins spluttered, “these are matters for men of business! Indeed, you cannot expect--”

“Very well,”

Mr Bennet cut in.

“A simpler question then.

The current price of wheat at Mark Lane?”

“I… that is… a gentleman need not concern himself with such mundane--”

“Sixty-eight shillings per quarter at Monday’s market,”

Mr Bennet supplied crisply.

“Although I expect it to rise given the poor weather in Norfolk.

It could surpass last year’s top rate of one hundred and three shillings per console if the rain is severe.

Would you not agree, Mr Darcy?”

“Indeed, sir.

The latest reports suggest as much.”

Collins puffed up like an indignant toad.

“This is precisely what I mean! These fanciful notions of prices and weather! My noble patroness has assured me such minutia are the province of--”

“Your noble patroness,”

Darcy interjected, his voice sharp as a blade, “is not involved in the minutia of her estate because she delegates those matters to her steward who reports to me.

It is well she is not here to witness your behaviour, sir.

Nor, I suspect, would she approve of this spectacle.”

The alleged Mr Stevenson was already edging toward the door, his nerve failing in the face of Darcy’s increasingly thunderous expression.

“But… but…”

Collins spluttered, “Lady Catherine herself has promised her full support! Her influence in legal matters is beyond question!”

“I believe,”

Darcy cut in, his voice deadly quiet, “that you would be wise to consider your next words with extreme care, Mr Collins.”

Something in his tone made Collins falter.

He looked to his companion for support, only to find the space by the door conspicuously empty.

“I… that is… perhaps I have been hasty…”

Collins began to back away.

“A simple misunderstanding… Acting only from the deepest concern for the family, you understand…”

“Of course,”

Mr Bennet’s dry voice followed him.

“In days to come, cousin, you would be well-advised to remember that vigilance, like Christian kindness, ought properly to begin in one’s own sphere.

Especially as your own situation might not be materially enhanced through closer scrutiny.” They watched in silence as Collins fled the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall in an undignified retreat.

After a long moment, Elizabeth turned to Darcy.

“Mr Collins seemed most confident of Lady Catherine’s support.

Yet something in your manner suggested…”

She let the question hover in the air.

Darcy’s expression grew grave.

“There is a matter of some delicacy regarding Lady Catherine that I should perhaps share with you.”

He glanced at Mr Bennet, who nodded permission.

“The situation at Rosings is not what Mr Collins believes it to be.”

“Indeed?”

Elizabeth’s eyebrow rose in elegant enquiry.

“As of Michaelmas last,”

Darcy continued reluctantly, “I hold sole legal authority over the affairs of Rosings Park.

The Court of Chancery found it necessary to protect my cousin Anne’s inheritance after certain… unfortunate decisions by Lady Catherine regarding estate management and expenditure.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“Lady Catherine’s estate is under your superintendence?”

“It is indeed.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

“Although I beg you will not hold it against me.”

“That depends entirely,”

she replied, her eyes dancing despite the gravity of the situation, “on whether you share her reported views regarding the limited sphere of female influence.”

“I think, my dear,”

Mr Bennet interrupted with barely concealed amusement, “that Mr Darcy’s actions today have spoken rather clearly on that point.”

Darcy met Elizabeth’s gaze steadily.

“I have lately learnt, Miss Elizabeth, that capability knows no gender.

Although I own, I have seldom seen it demonstrated quite so thoroughly as at Longbourn.”

The look that passed between them spoke volumes, although both quickly looked away.

“Well then,”

Mr Bennet said briskly, reaching for his ledgers, “shall we return to the matter of spring plantings? I believe, Mr Darcy, you had some thoughts on Mr Coke’s experiments with sainfoin?”

Mary sat at her small desk by the window, a volume with the mark of Fordyce’s Sermons open before her.

In truth, within the binding it contained a treatise on soil amendments.

Her attention had wandered to the scene that had unfolded in Grandfather’s study below.

The raised voices had carried audibly enough through the floorboards–Mr Collins’s pompous declarations, Elizabeth’s controlled anger, and the steady authority in Mr Darcy’s tone.

She pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose, adjusting her spectacles.

How telling that Mr Collins should mistake genuine knowledge for confusion, expertise for senility.

Her own extensive reading in moral philosophy had taught her that some men feared what they did not understand, and rather than seek education, they would seek control.

Jane and Elizabeth managed the estate with such natural grace that few noticed the depth of learning behind their decisions.

Mary noticed.

She had watched Elizabeth pore over agricultural treatises deep into the night, seen Jane meticulously checking and rechecking calculations.

Their expertise was no accident but dedicated study–a pursuit Mary understood well.

She glanced at her own neat shelves, where volumes of philosophy and natural science stood alongside her books of sermons and music.

How Mr Collins would disapprove of such reading for a young lady! Yet it was this learning that had allowed her to assist Elizabeth in calculating optimal drainage angles for the lower fields, applying the principles of geometry she had studied.

The voices from below grew sharper.

Mary smiled as she heard Grandfather pose his agricultural questions.

She had always admired how he wielded knowledge—elegant, precise, and sharp as a sword.

A far cry from Mr Collins’s blustering appeals to unearned authority.

What would their pompous cousin make of her own current studies? A transcript of Sir Humphry Davy’s recent lectures to the Board of Agriculture lay hidden beneath her Fordyce volume, their revolutionary ideas about crop nutrition far beyond anything Mr Collins could comprehend.

Yet such knowledge had practical value–she had already begun experiments with different fertilisers in her small garden plot.

She heard retreating footsteps below, followed by the decisive slam of the front door.

So, Grandfather had routed the enemy.

Mary allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

Let Mr Collins return to his noble patroness and her outdated certainties.

Here at Longbourn, they would continue to learn, to innovate, to grow–both their crops and their minds.

Turning back to her desk, Mary opened her notebook and began to write, her neat hand filling the page:

“On the Practical Applications of Modern Natural Philosophy to Agricultural Innovation…”

After all, someone ought to document their methods for posterity.

And if her treatise happened to quote rather extensively from female authors like Mrs Montagu and Miss More–well, that was merely thorough scholarship.

Elizabeth was watching the afternoon sun cast long shadows across Meryton’s main street when she spotted Mr Darcy emerging from the bookseller’s shop.

He noticed her immediately, his quick stride carrying him to where she stood.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

He bowed.

“Your grandfather is well?”

“As well as can be expected, given recent developments.”

She shifted her basket.

“I have been considering your situation.”

His voice lowered naturally, although they stood alone.

“Your Uncle Phillips serves as your grandfather’s attorney, does he not? His reputation for handling property matters is quite sound.”

“Indeed, and we seek his counsel.

My grandfather values his judgement in legal matters.”

She paused.

“But you seem to have something specific in mind, Mr Darcy?”

“I do.

Whilst Mr Phillips’ expertise would prove invaluable, I have consulted with my solicitor in London who has dealt extensively with cases involving ancient entails.

If you would permit me, I believe the combination of Mr Phillips’ local knowledge and Mr Graves’s particular experience might serve your cause well.”

Elizabeth studied him for a moment, noting reluctantly the genuine interest in his handsome features.

“That is most generous, Mr Darcy.”

She hesitated, her fingers tightening on her basket.

The matter of expense needed to be addressed, yet speaking of it with him felt suddenly delicate.

She who managed Longbourn’s accounts with such steady pragmatism was uncharacteristically uncertain.

He seemed to sense her reservation.

“Miss Elizabeth?”

“I must be practical,”

she said at last, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“Whilst Mr Phillips’ services are within our means, a London solicitor…” She let the sentence hang, frustrated at the warmth she could feel rising in her cheeks.

This was simple estate management, she told herself firmly, no different from negotiating with any other provider of services.

Yet standing before him, whose wealth made such concerns trivial, the words stuck in her throat.

Darcy watched the colour rise in Elizabeth’s cheeks and recognised with sudden clarity the source of her hesitation.

Here was the careful steward of Longbourn, the same woman who had impressed him with her meticulous attention to crop rotation and tenant leases, wrestling with the practical constraints of her position.

Her discomfort touched him deeply—not because she had to consider such matters, but because she faced them with such forthright dignity.

“Miss Elizabeth,”

he said quietly, “Mr Graves’s fees are not nearly so dear as you might imagine.” He paused, weighing his next words.

To offer outright to pay would wound her pride, yet to say nothing would leave her in genuine difficulty.

“He has long served my family, and I would consider it a personal favour if you would allow me to facilitate his involvement in this matter.”

He saw a flicker of understanding cross her face—she was too intelligent not to grasp his meaning—but he pressed on before she could object.

“The combination of Mr Phillips’ local expertise and Graves’s experience with ancient entails would be particularly… efficient.”

He allowed himself a small smile.

“Graves has a peculiar fondness for cases involving old family documents.

I rather suspect he would consider this matter a professional pleasure.”

Elizabeth swallowed.

Her pride wished her to decline the generous offer.

Years of managing the estate accounts with frugality reminded her of their limited resources.

Rather than refuse, she deferred.

“I am grateful for your kindness.

Of course, any decision must be made by my grandfather.”