Page 24 of The Mercy of Chance

A s she rounded the bend near the blacksmith’s shop, Lydia nearly collided with a red-coated figure emerging from the establishment.

“My deepest apologies, miss,”

came a smooth voice that seemed practised in its charm.

The officer bowed, his eyes widening in recognition.

“Why, if it is not Miss Lydia Bennet.

What a fortunate accident.”

Lydia recognised Mr Wickham immediately, the officer who had been introduced to her just a few weeks before.

She offered a curtsy that was correct in form but notably brief.

“Mr Wickham,”

she acknowledged, her tone polite but cool.

“You are well?”

“Exceedingly so, now that fortune has placed the most enchanting young lady in my path,”

he replied, his smile widening to reveal even white teeth.

“Might I escort you on your errand? These village paths can be uneven for a lady’s delicate step.”

Lydia’s gaze flicked to James, who had stopped several paces away.

“That is most unnecessary, sir.

I am quite familiar with the paths of Meryton, having walked them since childhood.”

“Then perhaps you might indulge me with a few moments of conversation?”

he persisted, falling into step beside her uninvited.

“I have thought often of you since our meeting.

You did not attend the card party at the Harrington’s, much to my dismay.”

“How curious that you should have time for such reflections when there are so many officers’ duties to attend to,”

Lydia remarked, her attention seemingly caught by the display in the draper’s window.

“Do excuse me, Mr Wickham.

I must complete my errands and return home.”

As she made to enter the shop, Wickham placed himself before the door.

“Come Miss Lydia, can your errands not wait a moment longer? I have scarcely had the opportunity to make your acquaintance properly.”

“I believe our acquaintance is quite as proper as it needs to be, sir,”

Lydia replied, meeting his gaze directly.

“Come now, Miss Lydia.

I have observed your spirited nature.

Will you not spare a few minutes of conversation for a lonely officer far from home?”

His voice had dropped to a more intimate tone, and he leant closer.

“I find myself quite enchanted by your eyes.

They sparkle with a charm that belies your tender years.”

Lydia regarded him steadily, her patience visibly wearing thin.

“Thirty-two,”

she said abruptly.

Wickham blinked, momentarily thrown off his practised seduction.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Thirty-two—”

Lydia repeated, her voice carrying enough that a passing matron looked up with interest.

“That is what I estimate your age to be, Mr Wickham.

You must be at least twice my own, which I find curious in a gentleman who seems so eager to converse with girls barely finished with their lessons.”

A flush crept up Wickham’s neck as two officers from his regiment walked past, slowing their pace to observe the interaction.

“I swear to it, Miss Lydia, I am not yet thirty,”

he protested, his charm faltering.

“Indeed? Then perhaps the number refers to something else,”

Lydia continued, undeterred.

“Ah, yes—it is the count of my teeth, which I mention as you have been examining me so thoroughly I assumed you wished to inspect them next, as one might a horse at Tattersall’s before purchase.” Her voice remained perfectly pleasant, although her eyes had hardened.

“Or more likely before the horse mysteriously goes missing from its box, as I understand your reputation for acquiring things that do not belong to you is rather well established.”

Wickham’s face had gone from flushed to pale.

“Miss Lydia, I hardly think—”

“That is evident, sir,”

Lydia cut him off.

“A thinking man would realise that his charms, whilst perhaps once considerable, have faded somewhat with the passing years, and would not attempt to practise them on young misses who have no interest in becoming another of his conquests.”

The two officers who had paused nearby exchanged glances, poorly disguising their interest in the discussion.

“You mistake my intentions,”

Wickham managed, his voice strained.

“I think not, Mr Wickham.

I understand your intentions perfectly well.

They are as transparent as they are dishonourable.”

Lydia straightened her already perfect posture.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I have purchases to make and my mother expects me home directly.

I suggest you direct your attentions to ladies who both welcome them and are of an age to receive them.”

With that, Lydia stepped around the stunned Wickham and continued toward the carpenter’s shop, motioning for Tom to follow.

The stable boy hurried after her, giving Wickham a suspicious backward glance.

“Miss Lydia,”

Tom whispered as he caught up, “should I tell Mr Hill about that officer bothering you?”

Lydia’s lips curved in a small, satisfied smile as she adjusted her basket on her arm.

“No need, Tom.

I believe Mr Wickham has received message enough for one day.

Now, let us see if Mr Smith will accept our offer of three shillings per fence post.

Elizabeth believes we can get them for two and six, but I think we shall have to settle for two and nine.”

Elizabeth began to feel the cold invade her bottom from sitting so long on the fallen log.

The scraps of paper in her hands trembled as she shivered.

“Come now,”

she addressed her ledger sternly, “you might show some sympathy to our cause? These fields have waited five years to be properly managed.” The wind whistled through bare branches in response, sending another shiver through her frame.

But the calculations maintained their provoking adherence to reality, no matter how she arranged them.

She stared out over the autumn-brown fields, her grandfather’s voice echoing in her memory: “We must secure every acre we can, Lizzy.

Every piece we add is one more that cannot be taken from us.”

She shifted on the rough bark, wincing as the cold seeped through her woollen skirts.

The bark had long since dampened her petticoats, but she could not bring herself to abandon her calculations and return home.

Not when the solution might lie in just one more attempt at restructuring their resources.

Pulling her threadbare gloves more firmly over her fingers, she wiped her reddened nose and bent again to her task.

The numbers remained stubbornly uncooperative–the wool profits from Lydia’s expanded flocks, the increased yield from the improved drainage in the south field, even the painfully hoarded funds from their spring wheat sale.

All substantial, all testament to their successful management, yet all falling short of what would be needed to secure the remaining Matthews land.

“Would that I could curse!”

she exclaimed, her frozen fingers cramping around her pencil.

The fields below Oakham Mount stretched out before her, Matthews’ western acres visible where they joined the north pasture.

Five years of careful management of sacrifices and strategic decisions, yet still the figures maintained their inexorable opposition to her hopes.

“If you are seeking something stronger,”

Darcy’s voice came from behind her, unexpectedly warm with amusement, “might I suggest ‘blood and thunder,’ or perhaps ‘damnation?’ Although if you truly wish to shock, ‘odds fish’ once scandalised a clergyman in Sheffield.”

She shot him a withering look, although her heart quickened at his unexpected—and entirely disarming — boldness.

“Really, Mr Darcy? ‘Odds fish?’ At this rate, I shall be forced to cry ‘Fie!’ and clutch my shawl in horror.”

“I could progress to ‘snails and oysters’ if you prefer. Or”

he lowered his voice with mock gravity, “‘struth and botheration.’”

“You are not helping,”

she informed him, although her lips twitched of their own accord.

“I shall reserve ‘snails and oysters’ for my next turn at the poultry yard.”

He stepped closer, ostensibly blocking another gust of wind, although rendering her acutely aware of how alone they were on the hillside.

Her heart beat faster as his dark eyes lingered on her face.

“‘Rot his boots?’”

he offered innocently.

“Or shall we venture into territory that would make your mother reach for her smelling salts? I know several phrases involving ‘the devil’s dam’ that would suffice.”

“Mr Darcy!”

But she was laughing now, her ledger forgotten, warmed unwillingly by this unexpected glimpse of playfulness.

“I am inclined to suspect you spent more time in the stables than the drawing room in your youth.”

“I simply believe in being thorough in one’s education,”

he replied with dignity, although his eyes danced.

“Even in matters of profanity.

If you are contemplating an appropriate curse for Lord Matthews…” He paused, and something in his expression sharpened.

“I overheard some interesting rumours in London last month.” His lips twitched.

“I have a particularly good one about gambling losses and public embarrassment, if you would care to employ it.

Or you could try the more restrained ‘May his horses throw him into every mud puddle between here and Bath.’”

Elizabeth could not suppress her startled laugh, although she tried.

“That would be most unchristian of me, sir.

Although I cannot deny the temptation is strong.”

The bitter wind no longer reached her as he moved closer, and Elizabeth caught the subtle scent of leather and horse that clung to his riding coat.

“I have considerable experience in dealing with gentlemen who conveniently forget their financial arrangements.”

His tone was light, but his eyes were keen.

“I understand there may be some question about the status of the north pasture?”

Elizabeth smoothed her skirts and pulled her cloak tighter, fighting a shiver that had nothing to do with cold.

“Not a question, precisely.

We have the deed, properly signed, and witnessed.

But Lord Matthews seems to have developed a selective memory about the transaction, just as the western fields of his estate are rumoured to be coming up for sale.”

“Ah.”

His expression remained neutral.

“And these western fields would be of particular interest because…?”

“They adjoin our current holdings,”

Elizabeth said intensely.

“The soil composition is excellent for wheat, and with the new drainage works…”

“The productivity would be significantly improved,”

he finished.

Something in his intent gaze made her breath catch.

“I see.

And the timing of this sale presents certain… challenges?”

Elizabeth’s laugh held little humour.

“The figures persist in their stubborn refusal to accommodate our hopes, yes.

Although we have some resources set aside for expansion…”

“But not enough to move quickly if the opportunity arises,”

he observed, studying the landscape.

“A difficult situation.” He toyed with his crop, betraying his unease as another gust of wind swirled around them.

“The mathematics show a deplorable lack of sympathy to our wishes,”

Elizabeth agreed wryly.

“Although we shall manage somehow.

We always do.”

His expression grew thoughtful.

“I heard young Eastbridge has been developing a most concerning fondness for hazard.

Remarkable how fortunes can turn on a single evening.”

Elizabeth’s quill paused mid-calculation as she glanced up at him.

“I hardly think wishing ill fortune on our neighbours becomes either of us, sir,”

she said, although she could not keep the amusement from her voice.

“I would not presume to wish anything of the sort.”

The warmth in his voice unsettled her, more than she cared to admit.

“I simply observe that some gentlemen find themselves unexpectedly eager to liquidate their assets after certain… social engagements in town.

Speaking of which, I believe I have some business to attend to.

Although if you require any more enthusiastic maledictions in the meantime–strictly genteel ones, of course–I remain your humble servant.”

Elizabeth brushed a wind-loosened curl from her cheek, startled by the intensity of his gaze as he watched the gesture.

“How very obliging of you.

Although I warn you, if I hear of any mysterious disasters befalling Lord Matthews, I shall know precisely whom to blame.”

“I am wounded by your suspicion, Madam.”

That rare half-smile played at his mouth, making her heart flutter traitorously.

“I plan to engage in some perfectly innocent conversation about the current value of agricultural land.

And perhaps mention that private sales can be so much more… expedient than public ones.”

His eyes lingered on her face.

“Although I know you scale these paths with intrepidity, might I escort you home? Unless”

he added with careful neutrality, “your calculations of the accounts require more time.”

Elizabeth pocketed her papers, conscious that his hand lingered just short of her elbow.

“No, I believe I have stared at these figures long enough for one morning.

I am surprised to find you abroad so early, sir.”

They walked together toward the grove where his horse waited, frost still clinging to the shadows.

Twice he seemed about to speak, only to fall silent again, an unusual hesitation in his bearing that made her pulse quicken.

“I had thought to ride before breakfast,”

he said finally, although something in his tone made her glance up sharply.

The intensity in his dark eyes before he looked away sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold.

“That is… I will return to London within the week, and I wished to see—to ride these paths one last time before departing.”

“London?”

Elizabeth’s heart gave an odd lurch at the news.

“I had not heard you were planning to leave so soon.”

“It was… rather suddenly determined.”

He shifted the crop from hand to hand, as if seeking a steadier grip on his thoughts.

The air felt heavy with what remained unspoken.

“Bingley has long planned to call on his solicitor and there are matters requiring my attention in town.”

His countenance resumed the distant reserve she knew too well, as though regretting even this brief candour.

They walked on in silence until they reached his horse, where their shoulders brushed briefly, sending a jolt of awareness through her.

“Miss Elizabeth,”

he began, then stopped, his expression struggling between reserve and something warmer, more urgent.

But whatever battle played out behind his eyes, propriety won.

He bowed, formal and correct, although his gaze lingered longer than strictly proper.

“I wish you a good morning.”

Elizabeth watched him ride away, her smile faltering the moment his back was turned.

A hollow ache opened behind her ribs—foolish, unwelcome.

She was unable to shake the feeling that she had witnessed something significant, although its meaning eluded her.

The morning seemed colder in his absence as she turned toward home.

A half-collapsed fencepost and a narrow-rutted lane marked the turnoff.

Darcy guided his horse onto the lesser-used track, telling himself it was merely to verify Mr Bennet’s claims about the neighbouring properties.

A perfectly reasonable detour, given his interest in modern estate management.

That Miss Elizabeth had overseen the improvements herself was… of no consequence, of course.

The Lodge came into view through a break in the trees.

Even at this distance, he could see evidence of recent work–new slate on the roof, freshly cleared grounds, orderly kitchen gardens.

His experienced eye noted the careful balance between necessary repairs and prudent economy.

No ostentatious displays, just solid, practical improvements.

Rather like the lady herself, his treacherous mind suggested.

“Enough,”

he muttered, turning his mount toward the London road.

Yet even as he set a brisk pace southward, his thoughts refused to obey their master’s will.

She had been magnificent today, defending her family’s interests with both passion and precision.

The way her eyes had flashed as she wrestled with those stubborn calculations, the elegant sweep of her hand as she produced those meticulous records… Even her frustration had been enchanting, her muttered wishes for stronger language revealing that spark of fire he so admired.

He had not meant to seek her out this morning–or rather, he had not meant to admit to seeking her out.

The sight of her perched on that fallen log, shivering yet determined as she pored over her ledgers, had undone all his careful resolve.

He had come perilously close to offering direct assistance.

The words had pressed against his lips–how simple it would be to handle Matthews, to ensure the western fields passed into more deserving hands.

But he had seen the pride in her bearing, the fierce independence in her eyes.

Any sense of charity would wound her deeply.

That moment when their shoulders had touched–his control had nearly shattered.

The lavender scent of her hair, the becoming flush the wind had brought to her cheeks, the way she had glanced up at him through her lashes as she smiled at his suggestions of curses.

He had almost forgotten himself, almost spilled out everything in his heart.

To be the cause of her merriment gave him the most profound delight.

“Wholly inadvisable,”

he said aloud, as if speaking might banish the thought.

The words echoed hollow in the autumn air.

A gentleman farmer’s granddaughter, with no significant connections or fortune.

How could she be mistress of a great estate like Pemberley? His Aunt Catherine would have an apoplexy at the mere suggestion.

But she had transformed Longbourn through careful study and diligent application.

Those ledgers showed a deep understanding of modern agricultural principles.

And the way she had quoted Coke’s treatise from memory…

“Different scale entirely,”

he argued with himself, guiding his horse around a muddy patch.

“Longbourn cannot compare to Pemberley’s scope.”

Yet she had grasped the implications of his drainage improvements at Pemberley immediately, even suggesting refinements he had not considered.

And her questions about his sheep breeding programme had shown remarkable insight…

“Society would never accept her.”

The words tasted false even as he spoke them.

She moved with natural grace, spoke with intelligence and wit.

Her manner might lack some polish, and her wardrobe certainly did, but there was nothing crude or vulgar in her deportment.

Even her occasional impertinence had a charm to it–the confidence of a keen mind rather than ill-breeding.

She had no dowry to speak of.

Less than none, if one considered her gaggle of unmarried sisters.

A practical consideration, for a certainty.

But Pemberley’s prosperity hardly required additional funds.

Indeed, her proved ability to increase estate revenues through careful management would be worth more than many a fashionable bride’s fortune.

The sound of wheels made him draw aside for a passing carriage.

As it rattled past, he caught a glimpse of an elegant lady within, her elaborate costume and affected manner a sharp contrast to Miss Elizabeth’s simple elegance.

The ton would make her the object of their most cutting derision, he muttered, yet even as he spoke, he could imagine her handling London society with the same quiet competence she showed in estate matters.

He could imagine her now, seated in the drawing room in his London townhouse, arrayed in the most becoming finery, smiling over her teacup as she gently skewered some unfortunate guest’s pretensions with a remark so deftly worded it left even her target laughing — and left him a little breathless with admiration.

“Georgiana needs a sister of rank to bring her out of her shell.”

But had not Miss Elizabeth shown genuine warmth toward her own sisters? That scene in the study–the easy way she had turned to Miss Bennet for confirmation, the natural inclusion of Miss Mary’s expertise…

“This is intolerable,”

he informed his horse, which flicked an ear back sympathetically.

He glared at the beast.

“‘Et tu, Brute?’ he muttered.

Traitor.” I am not forming an attachment to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Yet even as he spoke, his mind conjured her figure moving through Pemberley’s halls, her laugh ringing through formal rooms too long silent…

“Absolutely not,”

he said firmly, straightening his shoulders as the pleasure grounds came into view.

“I shall put her thoroughly out of my mind.”

As he turned toward Netherfield stable, he considered some business at White’s.

Eastbridge would be at his usual tables, ready to be steered toward a more expedient method of selling his land.

He could make an attractive offer.

It would be a prudent investment in a potentially profitable estate.

His role could be hidden by some legal fiction—a holding company.

Elizabeth need never know of his intervention.

It was better this way. Cleaner. Less dangerous. He would protect her interests from afar, as he had protected others in his care. The memory of Elizabeth’s frustrated muttering brought a grim smile to his face. Perhaps he would ensure those gambling losses materialised after all.