Page 26 of The Mercy of Chance

L ater that evening, the three eldest Bennet sisters gathered in Elizabeth’s small sitting room, where a cheerful fire kept the autumn chill at bay.

Elizabeth forced a brightness she did not feel as she poked at the fire, willing her heart to obey her reason.

It was absurd to dread the lack of Mr Darcy’s presence already — absurd and humiliating.

His departure ought to matter no more than the shifting of the seasons.

She forced her attention to the matter at hand.

“Well,”

Elizabeth said at last, “I believe we may consider Mr Collins well on the way to being thoroughly routed, at least for the moment.”

“Although not,”

Mary observed without looking up from her notes, “through any great effort on our part.

His own ignorance did most of the work.”

Jane’s gentle laugh floated across the room.

“Poor Mr Collins.

Although I am inclined to believe that a man of such decided opinions might find advantage in this small lesson in humility.”

“Speaking of confidence in opinions.”

Mary’s quill paused mid-stroke.

“Mr Darcy seems remarkably… supportive of our methods.”

Elizabeth turned sharply from the window.

“Mr Darcy was merely being practical.

He recognises competence when he sees it.”

“Oh yes,”

Mary delivered her words with delicate satire.

“I am sure it was your competence he was admiring so intently during Grandfather’s discussion of crop rotation.”

A faint blush coloured Elizabeth’s cheeks. “Mary!”

“She does have a point, Lizzy,”

Jane’s eyes twinkled.

“He seemed impressed by your discourse on the Elkington system.”

“Quite,”

Elizabeth retorted.

“It took three months to implement properly.

I notice how attentively he listened to your summary of the new tenant agreements.”

It was Jane’s turn to blush.

“He was merely polite.

Unlike some gentlemen of our acquaintance who shall remain nameless, Mr Darcy understands the value of careful estate management.”

“And the managers thereof?”

Mary murmured, earning a stern look from Elizabeth.

“If we might return to practical matters,”

Elizabeth said with dignity, “we should discuss the spring planning.

The lower field will need replanting after the channel work…”

“And you wish to change the subject,”

Mary noted, making a small mark in her notebook.

“I think,”

Jane intervened smoothly, “that Mary might take charge of the new fertiliser trials she proposed.

Her understanding of the principles involved far exceeds mine.”

“Excellent suggestion,”

Elizabeth seized the topic gratefully.

“And Jane, what of the new cottage leases on the Fairfax lands? The tenants respond well to your… diplomatic approach.”

“Whilst you handle the inevitable negotiations with Mr Darcy regarding joint improvements to the properties where Longbourn borders Netherfield?”

Mary’s innocent look would not have fooled a child.

Elizabeth snatched up a ledger, wielding it like a shield.

“As the most experienced in such matters, it only makes sense that I--”

“Oh, certainly,”

Jane agreed, her smile angelic.

“Experience is crucial in such… delicate negotiations.”

“I hate you both,”

Elizabeth declared, although her lips twitched.

“Mary, we need you to document the results of your trials precisely.

We may wish to expand the programme if successful.”

“I have already begun,”

Mary held up her notebook.

“Perhaps I might need to consult with Mr Darcy about the results.

I understand he has implemented similar experiments at Pemberley…”

“I shall go to bed,”

Elizabeth announced to the ceiling, the cheer in her voice just a shade too bright.

“Where I shall dream of sensible things like crop yields and drainage channels.”

“Rather than tall, commanding figures on horseback?”

Mary enquired.

“Good night!”

Elizabeth fled, pursued by her sisters’ laughter.

“Ten days,”

Mary said thoughtfully to Jane.

“Until?”

“Until she admits she admires him as much for his mind as his estate.”

Jane considered this.

“A fortnight, at least.

Unless he mentions an extensive library first.”

“Ah.”

Mary made another note.

“That would accelerate matters considerably.”

Their laughter followed Elizabeth up the stairs, warm and teasing, but it could not quite reach the hollow place that had opened in her chest.

She most certainly was not dwelling upon Mr Darcy’s impressive grasp of modern agricultural theory.

Or the way his eyes had sparked with respect when she had defended their methods. Or…

“I heard that giggling!”

she called down.

“Have neither of you work to do?”

“Good night, Lizzy,”

Jane’s voice floated up, rich with amusement.

“Pleasant dreams of… agricultural improvements.”

In the quiet of her room, she leant against the door for a moment, pressing her forehead to the cool wood.

She ought to laugh with them.

It was nothing, after all — only a neighbour returning to his proper sphere, whilst she remained firmly rooted in hers.

Only a passing acquaintance. Only...

She pushed herself upright and crossed to the window, gazing out into the darkness where Netherfield’s lights were already few and fading.

It would be best if she did turn her mind to agriculture.

There was no sense in admiring a man so far beyond her reach.

She allowed herself a moment — just one — to mourn the loss of something unnamed, something never offered.

One last dream of admiration for the handsomest man she had ever had the distinct pleasure of seeing and then she would put him out of her mind.

She turned away from the window, set her jaw, and began, with determined practicality, to ready herself for bed.

The drawing room at Netherfield had grown insufferably warm, although Darcy knew the true source of his discomfort lay in Miss Bingley’s relentless attention.

She had positioned her chair precisely to catch his eye each time he glanced up from his correspondence.

“Mr Darcy, you write with such elegance.

One cannot help but admire the refinement of your hand,”

Miss Bingley simpered, leaning forward to better observe him.

Her shift of position and the cut of her marigold coloured gown caused it to gape.

Darcy averted his eyes from the less-than-thrilling display she had created.

“You are too kind, Madam.”

His words were clipped, his jaw tight.

“I declare, your sister must benefit greatly from such devoted attention to your correspondence.

Although I wonder that you find time to write so frequently when there are such delightful diversions to be had in the country.”

“Georgiana deserves no less than my fullest attention to her concerns.”

Miss Bingley’s lips curved in what she must have perhaps intended to be an enchanting smile.

“How fortunate she is to have such a brother.

Although I venture to say a sister might prove an equally valuable addition to her circle.”

Darcy’s quill paused mid-stroke.

“Miss Bingley, I must speak plainly.

Your interest in my sister’s welfare, whilst no doubt well-intentioned, is excessive.”

“Mr Darcy!”

Her fan fluttered with increased vigour.

“You cannot mean—”

“I do mean, Madam, precisely what I have said.

Now, if you will excuse me, I believe Bingley mentioned wishing to discuss the state of his stables.”

He quit the room with perhaps more haste than strictly polite, although propriety had worn decidedly thin in the face of such persistent pursuit.

The congregation had begun to disperse from Longbourn church, bonnets nodding, and coattails swaying as neighbours exchanged pleasantries under the portico.

Elizabeth lingered near the gate, speaking with the vicar’s wife, when Mr Darcy approached.

He bowed.

“Miss Elizabeth.

A well-delivered sermon, I thought.”

“It was,”

she agreed.

“Although the draught through the north aisle seemed determined to distract me.”

A flicker of a smile passed over Darcy’s mouth.

“The weather appears set upon testing our fortitude.”

Elizabeth turned, eyeing the dispersing crowd.

“You are not remaining to speak with Miss Bingley? I believe she loiters by the font expressly to detain you.”

“I have already been detained this morning,”

he replied, tone dry.

“I do not mean to repeat the experience.”

Her lips curved without intention.

“How ungracious of you.

She only seeks your good opinion.”

“She is welcome to it.

I am more particular with my attention.”

The remark hung between them, heavier than the bells still echoing across the fields.

Elizabeth glanced down at her gloves, then back at him with a measured look.

He inclined his head.

“Do I intrude upon your solitude?”

“You do not, although I wonder that you walked this way.

Do you mean to avoid—”

She paused, good breeding clearly warring with honesty.

“Miss Bingley’s particular brand of entertainment?”

His lips quirked despite himself as he led his horse alongside her.

A flash of surprise crossed her features, followed by barely suppressed mirth.

“I would never presume to characterise your friend’s sister in such a manner, sir.”

“Yet you need not.

I believe I have lately gained a rather thorough understanding of the lady’s… particular qualities.”

“Indeed?”

One elegant brow arched upward.

“I should not have thought her style of conversation would appeal to a man of your discernment.” The observation held a sharp edge beneath its playful surface.

Darcy felt momentarily off balance—uncertain whether he was being teased or found wanting.

He shifted the topic to avoid delving further into unseemly remarks.

“How have you been keeping since Mr Collins lately paid a visit to Longbourn?”

He asked, shifting the subject.

Elizabeth’s expression tightened.

“We are well enough.

He seemed most… concerned about Grandfather’s health and the operation of the estate.”

“I gather his concerns were not welcomed.”

“Mr Collins has quite decided opinions.”

Her chin lifted confidently.

“He found it most irregular that Grandfather permits Jane and me to oversee the tenant contracts and maintain the books.

He attributed it to a decline in my grandfather’s capabilities.”

“And yet Longbourn appears to prosper under such irregular management.”

A quiet pride coloured her voice.

“We continue to improve this past year.”

“I had observed the work during my rides.”

He paused, studying her with renewed interest.

“Did Mr Collins share his intentions?”

“Oh, he had much to say on the subject.”

Her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed amusement.

“He assured us that Lady Catherine de Bourgh would never permit such innovations on her estate, and that we would do better to focus on more feminine pursuits.”

“And how did your grandfather respond to such counsel?”

“Grandfather observed that Mr Collins himself could not but be improved by more attentive study of Lady Catherine’s property accounts, as he demonstrated a notable ignorance of the financial records he claimed to understand.”

She readjusted her bonnet as the wind pulled at it.

“Mr Collins withdrew soon afterward, although not without first pronouncing that such unwomanly concern with business matters would assuredly deter all marriage-minded gentlemen.”

“A dire prediction indeed.”

Darcy schooled his features, though humour threatened to betray him.

“Although perhaps not an entirely accurate one.”

Elizabeth’s eyes met his with startling directness.

“You speak with some authority on the subject, Mr Darcy?”

“I do not share his opinion that ladies need confine their interests to the ornamental.”

“And yet I suspect your own sister does not muddy her gloves or walk the wilder paths of your estate.

I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.”

Darcy felt the familiar surge of attraction rise unbidden—frustratingly at odds with his pride.

“You believe you have taken my measure so completely then, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Oh no, Mr Darcy.

I would not dare to claim such insight into your character.

You guard your thoughts far too well for that.”

The words struck closer to home than he cared to admit.

He studied her face as they walked, searching for some sign that her quick wit and lovely eyes might mask a deeper regard, but found only that same challenging sparkle that had first caught his attention.

The wind again tugged at her bonnet ribbons, and he fought the improper urge to secure them himself, to feel her warmth beneath his fingertips.

“I find I must return to London on the morrow,”

he said abruptly.

“My sister does require my presence.”

“How fortunate that family duty provides such a timely escape from rustic charms.”

She spoke with an air of levity, but the knowing gleam in her eyes left no doubt as to her meaning.

“You think me a coward, Miss Elizabeth?”

“I think you a man who knows his own mind, Mr Darcy.

Whether that mind leads you true…”

She paused to pluck a late-blooming wildflower.

“That is not for me to say.”

He bowed, more deeply than strictly necessary.

“Then I shall bid you good day, Madam.

And a pleasant continuation of your day.”

“Good day, Mr Darcy.

Mind the mud as you mount—I should hate to see such fine riding boots spoiled.”

As he urged his horse back toward Netherfield, perhaps rather more swiftly than dignity required, Darcy could not shake the impression that Miss Elizabeth Bennet had seen too much—and yet not nearly enough—of his true feelings in that exchange.

He was, indeed, a coward—Darcy was left with a most unpleasant realisation: he was running.

Running from a woman who, by all expectation, should have been dazzled by him—and was not.

Running because her wit had unsettled him, because her regard—so clear, so unwavering—held no trace of admiration, no coy deference, no desire to please.

In Town, ladies sought his approval, bent their charms to secure his favour.

Here, in Hertfordshire, he might as well have been a tradesman for all the consequence she afforded him.

It was intolerable.

London, with its polished manners and familiar society, had never felt so welcome—or so necessary.

Darcy was not fond of Sunday afternoons with nothing to do.

Worse still would be being held captive by Miss Bingley whilst idle.

He was constrained from travel on the Sabbath, and there was scare entertainment to be had.

The library at Netherfield offered both warmth and privacy.

Darcy stood before the fire, a book in hand, whilst Bingley paced the Turkish carpet, speaking animatedly of his morning ride.

“You should have accompanied me, Darcy.

The countryside is quite delightful at dawn.”

“I took my exercise at a more civilised hour,”

Darcy replied dryly.

“Although I note your enthusiasm for early rising is a recent development.” Darcy had ridden early during his first days at Netherfield, but after encountering the confounding Elizabeth Bennet on several days, he changed his course and rode south instead.

Bingley paused, a slight flush rising to his cheeks.

“The morning air is invigorating.”

“As is the proximity to Longbourn, I imagine.”

“I happened to pass by the Bennet estate, yes.”

“By design rather than chance, I suspect,”

Darcy said.

“This is the fifth morning this week you have ‘happened’ to ride in that direction.”

“I enjoy the view,”

Bingley defended weakly.

“The view of the landscape, or of Miss Bennet in her garden?”

Bingley had the grace to look abashed.

“I did encounter Miss Bennet this morning.

She was gathering herbs.”

“No doubt another fortunate coincidence.”

“She is the most beautiful woman I have ever beheld, Darcy,”

Bingley said, dropping the pretence.

“And her temperament is as gentle as her features.”

“I cannot deny Miss Bennet appears amiable and conducts herself with propriety, despite her family’s unusual arrangements.”

“I suppose it is rather unconventional,”

Bingley conceded with a slight shrug.

“But Miss Bennet herself is so lovely, Darcy.

Her countenance, her gentle manner—there is such sweetness in her expression.

And her eyes when she smiles…” He trailed off, seemingly lost in recollection.

Darcy considered his friend with a measuring gaze.

“Your admiration for the eldest Miss Bennet seems to extend beyond mere approval of her domestic capabilities.”

“Jane—that is, Miss Bennet—is everything graceful and good,”

Bingley said warmly.

“And your intentions? Have you made them clear to her?”

Bingley’s expression turned uncertain.

“Not precisely.”

“Not precisely,”

Darcy repeated.

“Which means not at all.”

“I have called at Longbourn five times in eight days,”

Bingley protested.

“I am sure that indicates particular attention.”

“Particular attention is not the same as declared intentions,”

Darcy pointed out.

“This whiffling about does credit to neither of you.”

Bingley frowned.

“Whiffling?”

“Vacillating.

Hovering without purpose.”

Darcy faced his friend squarely.

“What exactly are your intentions, Bingley? Do you mean to court Miss Bennet in earnest, or merely to enjoy the diversion of her company?”

“I had thought—that is, I have been considering—”

Bingley broke off, then drew himself up with sudden resolution.

“I admire her greatly.”

“Admiration is not courtship,”

Darcy said bluntly.

“If you intend to pursue Miss Bennet, you must declare yourself plainly.”

“Do you think she would welcome such a declaration?”

Bingley asked, revealing his hesitation.

“That is certainly not for me to say.

Miss Bennet is polite to all,”

Darcy said neutrally.

“I cannot claim to discern any particular partiality on her part.”

“You think she is indifferent to me?”

“I think that your whiffling makes it impossible for anyone to know your mind, including Miss Bennet.

Propriety demands that if you wish to know her feelings, you must first make plain your own.”

“You are right, of course,”

Bingley acknowledged, squaring his shoulders.

“I shall call on her tomorrow and speak directly.”

“You have said as much before,”

Darcy reminded him, sceptically.

“This time I mean it,”

Bingley insisted.

“No more whiffling, as you put it.”

Darcy nodded, although his expression remained doubtful.

“Then I wish you fortune in your suit, if that is indeed your intention.”

“It is,”

Bingley said firmly.

Then, with characteristic candour, he added, “I think.”