Page 25 of The Mercy of Chance

D arcy stood at the window of his chamber at Netherfield, watching as twilight settled over the Hertfordshire landscape.

In his hand, he held a letter from Georgiana, her delicate handwriting covering several pages.

He had read it thrice already, each time finding new evidence of melancholy between the carefully composed lines.

“My dear brother,”

she had written, “The house seems quite empty without your presence, although Mrs Annesley provides all necessary companionship..”

He folded the letter and placed it on the writing desk.

Its arrival had provided him with precisely the pretext he required, although he would not acknowledge, even to himself, that he had been seeking such an excuse.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.

“Enter,”

he called, turning from the window.

Bingley appeared; his expression animated as usual.

“Darcy! There you are.

I have been contemplating the arrangements for the ball, and it occurs to me that perhaps we should engage musicians from London rather than rely on local talent.

What say you? Although Miss Bennet assures me the Meryton assembly finds quite tolerable musicians, and her judgement I trust implicitly, but then Caroline suggests—”

“Bingley,”

Darcy interrupted, “I must return to London.”

His friend stopped mid-sentence, taken aback.

“London? But you have only been a few weeks in Hertfordshire.

Can not whatever business calls you away be handled by correspondence?”

“It is Georgiana,”

Darcy said, indicating the letter.

“She is not herself.

I fear I have left her alone for too long.”

“Ah.”

Bingley’s face softened with understanding.

“Of course, family must take precedence.

When do you depart?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“So soon?”

Bingley’s brow furrowed in disappointment.

“Will you miss the ball?”

“I regret that,”

Darcy said, and was surprised to find he meant it, at least in part.

“But my sister’s wellbeing must take priority.”

“Of course, of course,”

Bingley agreed.

“You might return with her, if you like.

Although I had hoped...

that is, I thought perhaps...”

“Yes?”

Bingley hesitated, then shook his head.

“Nothing of consequence.

Only that I had hoped for your counsel regarding certain matters.”

Darcy knew his friend referred to Miss Bennet and felt a twinge of something like guilt.

“You hardly need my counsel, Bingley.

You know your own mind.”

“Do I?”

Bingley laughed ruefully.

“I am not so certain.”

“Then perhaps you should determine it before acting,”

Darcy suggested, more sharply than he intended.

A brief silence fell between them.

“Will you return?”

Bingley asked finally.

“If circumstances permit,”

Darcy replied, noncommittally.

Bingley nodded, accepting the ambiguous answer.

“I shall inform Caroline and Louisa of your departure.

They will be most distressed.”

“My apologies for any inconvenience,”

Darcy said formally.

After Bingley departed, Darcy returned to the window.

The last light was fading from the sky, leaving the landscape in shadow.

Somewhere to the east lay Longbourn, where Miss Elizabeth Bennet was presumably engaged in whatever evening occupations suited a young lady who managed an estate.

He had not intended to think of her.

Yet his mind returned, again and again, to her direct gaze, her challenging words—the way she had demanded clarity when he offered only oblique hints of regard.

These recollections disrupted his usual composure in a manner most vexing.

“This is precisely why I must depart,”

he murmured to himself.

The Bennet family gathered in the study after dinner, as had become their custom since Collins’s threat.

Jane had brought the account books, Mary settled their grandfather in his favourite chair, and Mrs Bennet carried a tray with their grandfather’s draughts and evening tea.

Kitty and Lydia had returned from their afternoon rounds of the poultry yards, their practical work clothes exchanged for evening dress, although Kitty still brought the faint scent of the herb garden where she had been checking the winter plantings.

“Mr Darcy suggests engaging his family’s London solicitor alongside Uncle Phillips,”

Elizabeth began, watching their reactions with interest.

“Mr Graves apparently has particular experience with entail disputes.”

“And the expense?”

Jane asked quietly, her fingers resting on the leather-bound ledger.

Their grandfather stirred.

“If Mr Darcy recommends him--”

“He has offered to facilitate the arrangement,”

Elizabeth said, the memory of that afternoon’s conversation bringing warmth to her cheeks.

“He believes Mr Graves would find our case… professionally interesting.”

Mrs Bennet set down her teacup with a decisive click.

“We have three days before Mr Collins returns.

Whatever we decide about Mr Graves, we must be prepared.”

She turned to Jane.

“What is our current position?”

“The harvest accounts are impeccable,”

Jane replied.

“I have prepared statements showing our improvement to the estate’s value over the past decade.

The timber sales alone--”

“Our improvements and accounts will not matter if Collins can challenge grandfather’s competency,”

Mary interrupted, her hand protective on their grandfather’s shoulder.

“I have kept detailed records of his health and mental acuity.

Mr Jones has agreed to speak if needed.”

Elizabeth felt a surge of pride in her sisters’ foresight, even as worry gnawed at her.

“As Grandfather says, we must be exceedingly careful in how we proceed.”

“We cannot show our full hand immediately,”

their grandfather said, his voice stronger than it had been in days.

“Collins must be distracted until we are fully prepared.”

“The tenants are asking questions,”

Mrs Bennet added.

“They have reported Collins visiting their farms, intimating his intentions to alter long-standing arrangements.”

“Mr Robinson at the home farm was quite concerned,”

Elizabeth said, recalling her morning rounds.

“He begged to know whether the family would continue to oversee the estate’s management, as he could not bear to think of serving another.”

Jane looked up from her ledger.

“We cannot risk losing their confidence.

Not with planting decisions looming.”

“Then we are agreed?”

Elizabeth looked around at her family’s resolute faces.

“We engage both Uncle Phillips and Mr Graves, as Mr Darcy suggested, maintain our normal operations, and prepare our defence without revealing our strongest evidence?”

The grandfather nodded slowly.

“And we pray three days is sufficient time to set our plans in motion.”

Elizabeth hesitated.

Taking in the determined faces of her sisters and mother, she turned to her grandfather.

“The expense, Grandfather.

I fear the London solicitor will be terribly dear…”

she trailed off.

Mary’s scowl was due to her careful accounting of estate expenses, as well as her strict sense of economy.

“Well, ladies, we have reserves, although not a vast amount,”

Mr Bennet began.

“Would not the funds in the four percents intended for dowries be better used to protect the estate?”

Jane said.

“The four percents?”

Mrs Bennet’s hand fluttered to her throat.

“But Jane, those funds are all that stand between you girls and--” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together.

“Between us and destitution should Collins succeed anyway,”

Mary finished bluntly.

“At least this way we have a chance of preserving both home and legacy.”

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably.

“Mr Darcy was most insistent about facilitating the arrangement.

He spoke of it as an investment in justice, not charity.”

“Did he indeed?”

their grandfather’s eyes twinkled briefly despite the gravity of the situation.

“Most generous of the gentleman.

I find myself curious about his uncommon fascination regarding our affairs, Lizzy.”

“On the contrary,”

Mrs Bennet said, her practical nature asserting itself.

“If Mr Darcy’s interest extends beyond mere neighbourly concern, it would be foolish not to consider how that might strengthen our position.

Did he not offer assistance with the fees?”

“Mamma,”

Jane intervened gently, “we cannot stake our future on speculation about Mr Darcy’s intentions.

The question before us is whether to risk the dowry funds on legal counsel.”

Elizabeth shook her head firmly.

“Mr Darcy, I have heard, owns half of Derbyshire.

There must be a mile-long line of young debutantes angling for his attention.

He has taken a gentlemanly interest in our affairs and nothing more.”

Jane touched Elizabeth’s hand.

Mrs Bennet tutted and was silent.

Kitty, who had been unusually quiet, spoke up.

“Could we not use only part of the funds? Perhaps Mr Graves will accept some arrangement for future payment if we succeed?”

Elizabeth brightened.

“That is clever thinking, Kitty.

It would show our confidence in our case whilst preserving some of our resources.”

“And if we fail,”

Lydia added with uncharacteristic solemnity, “dowries will be the least of our concerns.”

Their grandfather sighed heavily.

“I never meant for you girls to bear such burdens.

Perhaps I should accept Mr Darcy’s offer outright--”

“No,”

Elizabeth said firmly.

“We will find a way to make this work without compromising our independence.

What if we were to propose a mixed arrangement? Some funds now, more upon success, and Mr Darcy’s guarantee as security rather than outright payment?”

Jane was already making calculations in her ledger.

“If we used half the four percents now…”

“And we could manage with a smaller flock,”

Lydia added.

“Mr Goulding is always asking whether we might sell one of our ewes.”

Mrs Bennet surveyed her daughters with shining eyes.

“My clever girls.

Very well.

Elizabeth, you may tell Mr Darcy we accept his offer of introduction to Mr Graves, but we wish to propose our own terms for the arrangement.”

“And Elizabeth,”

her grandfather added with a slight smile, “do convey our appreciation for his… investment in justice.”

Darcy stood by the window of Netherfield’s library, ostensibly examining the view of the park but in truth observing his friend with growing concern.

Bingley had been pacing for the better part of a quarter hour, alternating between animated defences of Miss Bennet and dejected acceptances of his sister’s criticisms.

“Charles,”

Miss Bingley was saying, her voice carrying that particular blend of affectation and condescension she reserved for her brother, “you cannot seriously be considering deepening your acquaintance with the Bennets.

Their connections are insignificant, their fortune non-existent, and their manners—except perhaps the eldest—are decidedly lacking in refinement.”

“Jane Bennet is everything lovely,”

Bingley replied, his expression brightening at the mere mention of her name.

“You admitted yourself she is beautiful and sweet-tempered.”

“Beauty and sweetness will not gain you entrée to the circles you wish to be moving in,”

Miss Bingley countered, adjusting the bracelet at her wrist.

“And if you observed more closely, you would see she shows the same sweet temper to everyone.

I declare there is nothing particular in her regard for you.”

Darcy watched as Bingley’s shoulders slumped, his friend’s characteristic buoyancy deflating.

It took so little to dissuade him, Darcy thought with a frown.

So little to alter his course, like a weathervane spinning in the wind.

“Perhaps you are right,”

Bingley conceded, sinking into a chair.

“I should not be hasty.”

Miss Bingley shot a triumphant glance toward Darcy, expecting his support.

He remained silent, turning back to the window.

“Although she is uncommonly beautiful,”

Bingley wavered, his tone brightening once more.

“And when she smiled at me—I cannot believe there was nothing particular in it.”

“A practised smile, I am sure,”

Miss Bingley said coolly.

“Mrs Bennet’s ambitions for her daughters are transparent.

The entire neighbourhood speaks of nothing but your five thousand a year.”

“Do they indeed?”

Bingley looked momentarily pleased at his own consequence before doubt crept back into his expression.

“But Miss Bennet could not be party to such calculations.

You have not heard her speak.

There is such genuine goodness in her.”

Darcy turned from the window, unable to bear witness to this vacillation any longer.

“Bingley,”

he said, his voice sharper than he intended, “what do you yourself believe?”

Bingley blinked, startled by the direct question.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your opinion of Miss Bennet shifts with every word your sister utters,”

Darcy said, crossing the room to stand before his friend.

“First she is an angel, then she is a fortune-hunter; first her smile is genuine, then it is practised.

Which do you actually believe to be true?”

“I—”

Bingley faltered, glancing between Darcy and his sister.

“Do you form your judgements based on your own observations, or do you merely adopt the opinions of others?”

Darcy pressed, ignoring Miss Bingley’s affronted expression.

“If the latter, then your regard cannot be worth much, to Miss Bennet or anyone else.”

A flush crept up Bingley’s neck.

“That is hardly fair, Darcy.

I value counsel, but I am capable of forming my own conclusions.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow.

“Then what is your decision regarding Miss Bennet, based on your own judgement of her character?”

Bingley opened his mouth, then closed it again, his expression conflicted.

“I find her beautiful and amiable,”

he said at last.

“But perhaps I have not known her long enough to form a settled opinion.”

“A convenient retreat,”

Darcy observed coldly.

“If you cannot trust your own assessment of a woman’s character after multiple meetings and conversations, then perhaps you should not be contemplating any attachment at all.”

Miss Bingley smirked, evidently believing Darcy to be supporting her position.

He met her gaze briefly, his expression giving nothing away.

“If you will excuse me,”

he said with a slight bow, unwilling to continue the conversation in her presence.

Let Bingley consider his words without Miss Bingley’s immediate influence—that would be challenge enough.

With that, Darcy strode from the room, disturbed by the exchange.

He had always known Bingley to be malleable, easily led by those he trusted, but never had the trait seemed so troubling as now.

What good was all of Bingley’s natural goodness and warmth if he lacked the moral fortitude to maintain his own beliefs in the face of opposition?

As he made his way to his chambers, Darcy wondered, not for the first time, whether his friendship with Bingley did either of them credit.

He had always considered himself a positive influence, helping to guide his younger friend through the complexities of society.

But perhaps he was just another voice overwhelming Bingley’s own, just another gust altering his course.

The thought was not comfortable, and Darcy resolved to observe more and advise less in the days to come.

Bingley must find his own moral compass—or confirm that he had none beyond the opinions of those around him.

Meryton had settled into the comfortable rhythm that accompanied the militia’s presence.

The officers had become familiar fixtures at local assemblies and dinner parties, their red coats adding colour to the otherwise unremarkable winter landscape.

Lydia and Jane were returning from visiting tenant homes, their arms laden with empty baskets, when they spotted the distinctive figure of Mr Wickham strolling through the village green.

Beside him walked a slight young woman in a modest brown pelisse.

“Is that Mary King?”

Jane asked, squinting across the lane.

“I had heard she returned from Liverpool last week.”

“Indeed,”

Lydia replied, her sharp eyes taking in the way Wickham bent solicitously over Mary’s gloved hand.

“And ten thousand pounds richer than when she left, if Aunt Phillips’s intelligence is correct.”

“Lydia!”

Jane admonished, although without much force.

“You should not repeat such things.”

“It is hardly a secret.

Her uncle’s will was read publicly, and Mrs Phillips says the inheritance was most unexpected.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed as she observed Wickham’s attentive posture.

“How curious that Mr Wickham, who showed no interest in Miss King before her journey, now finds her company so compelling.”

Jane sighed.

“Must it be so? Are you not becoming cynical?”

“Not cynical, Jane.

Merely observant.”

“In any case, let us offer our condolences to Miss King on her uncle’s passing.”

Jane said and altered their course to intercept the pair.

Wickham’s expression flickered momentarily when he caught sight of them—a brief faltering of his smile of calculated amiability that confirmed Lydia’s suspicions.

“Miss King! What a pleasure to see you returned to Meryton,”

Jane called, approaching with a warm smile for Mary and a coolly polite nod for her companion.

“Our condolences on your uncle’s passing.”

Mary King was a plain, freckled girl of nineteen, with her most remarkable feature being a rather prominent nose.

She blushed at the attention.

“Thank you, Miss Bennet, Miss Lydia.

It was unexpected, but my aunt is comforted that his affairs were in good order.”

“Very good order, I understand,”

Lydia replied meaningfully.

“I see Mr Wickham has been keeping you company during this difficult time?”

“We encountered each other quite by chance,”

Wickham interjected smoothly.

“I could not neglect my duty to offer escort to a lady in distress.”

“How gallant,”

Lydia observed.

“Although I recall you mentioned at our last meeting that your military duties occupied much of your time.

Captain Morris was most informative about the demands placed upon officers.”

Wickham’s smile tightened nearly imperceptibly.

“One must make time for civility, Miss Lydia.”

“Indeed.”

Lydia turned to Mary with an expression of earnest concern.

“And how do you find Meryton after your absence, Miss King? I imagine it must seem quite changed with the regiment’s presence.

So many new faces and...

intentions.”

Mary looked puzzled.

“Intentions?”

“Why, yes.

The officers’ intentions for their futures.”

Lydia’s tone was innocent, but her eyes held Wickham’s.

“Mr Wickham himself has shared with us his fascinating history of abandoned professions—the church, the law.

Such varied ambitions! Tell me, Mr Wickham, have you made any progress towards securing that living you mentioned? Or perhaps advanced in your military career since we last spoke?”

Mary’s brow furrowed as she glanced between them.

“My circumstances remain unchanged,”

Wickham replied stiffly.

“How consistent of you,”

Lydia remarked.

“And what of your plans for the future? Miss King might be interested to hear them, given your evident...

friendship.”

Jane touched Lydia’s arm in gentle warning, but Lydia continued, her voice honey-sweet with underlying steel.

“You know, Miss King, Mr Wickham made the most fascinating observation when we last met.

He suggested that beauty alone was sufficient worth in a woman, requiring no supplement of fortune or accomplishment.”

Lydia smiled brightly at Mary’s plainness.

“A most unusual perspective for a gentleman of limited means, would you not agree?”

Mary’s expression shifted from confusion to dawning comprehension.

“I...

I had not considered...”

“Miss Bennet exaggerates,”

Wickham cut in, his charm visibly strained.

“I merely expressed admiration for the Bennet sisters’ renowned beauty.”

“Oh, but you were quite specific,”

Lydia countered.

“You dismissed practical concerns as ‘mercenary considerations’ unworthy of attention.

I wonder, Miss King, has Mr Wickham learnt of your recent...

change of circumstances?”

Mary’s cheeks flushed, not with pleasure but with embarrassment.

She spoke slowly.

“Mr Wickham has shown quite marked attentiveness since my return.”

“Since your return,”

Lydia repeated deliberately.

“How timely.

And has he spoken of his prospects? His ability to support a wife? Or does he at most offer pretty compliments on your...

personal attributes?”

Understanding finally dawned in Mary’s eyes, followed quickly by hurt and then anger.

She turned to Wickham, whose handsome features had hardened into a mask.

“Mr Wickham,”

Mary said stiffly, “is it true that you have no ambition beyond your commission? No expectations?”

“My dear Miss King,”

he began, reaching for her hand.

She withdrew it sharply.

“You showed no interest in me before my uncle’s bequest.”

“How can you think it? I have long admired you,”

Wickham protested, but his eyes darted about as though seeking escape.

“Miss Lydia harbours some resentment—”

Lydia laughed.

“I fear Mr Wickham is the one with resentment.

He did not appreciate my questioning his prospects and not being taken in by his flattery.”

“You tried the same approach with her,”

Mary finished, her voice growing stronger.

“You are after my fortune, sir, nothing more.”

“Ten thousand pounds is hardly a fortune,”

Wickham snapped, his mask slipping further.

A shocked silence followed his inadvertent admission.

“Perhaps not to a gentleman of unlimited means,”

Lydia observed coolly.

“But quite significant to one who cannot afford to study law, would you not say?”

Mary stepped back; her plain face flushed with indignation.

“I believe I can find my way home with Miss Bennet and Miss Lydia, Mr Wickham.

Please do not call upon me again.”

Wickham’s handsome face twisted with barely suppressed fury.

“You will regret this interference, Miss Lydia,”

he said in a low voice as Mary King disengaged her arm and stepped away.

“Not nearly as much as you will regret underestimating the intelligence of Meryton’s young ladies,”

Lydia replied evenly.

“Good day, Mr Wickham.

I wish you luck in your...

advancement.”

“Do allow us to escort you home, Miss King,”

Jane said.

As they walked away, Jane whispered, “Lydia, that was perhaps too direct.”

“Nonsense,”

Lydia replied, a satisfied smile playing at her lips.

“Miss King deserves better than that charmer.

And Mr Wickham deserves to understand that pretty words cannot mask an empty character.” She adjusted the baskets in her arms.

Jane took Mary King’s arm and asked gentle questions about her family.

Behind them, Wickham stood alone on the green, his charming fa?ade lay in ruins, shattered by truth and scorn.