Page 27 of The Mercy of Chance

T he morning air carried a hint of autumn’s approach as Jane moved between the herb beds, basket over her arm.

The coolness brushed her cheeks, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil and mint.

She had slipped out early, before breakfast, hoping to gather the last of the summer mint whilst the dew still clung to the leaves.

The rising sun cast long shadows across the kitchen garden, and she worked methodically, her mind occupied with calculations of how much would be needed for drying.

“Miss Bennet!”

The voice startled her, causing her to straighten abruptly.

Mr Bingley stood at the garden gate, his hat in his hands, looking as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

“Mr Bingley,”

she acknowledged with a curtsy, conscious suddenly of her plain morning dress and half loose hair.

“You are abroad early, sir.” And to herself she added, “Again.”

“I—yes,”

he said, colouring.

“I rode out at dawn.

The morning was too fine to waste indoors.”

Jane nodded, uncertain what to say.

This was the third time this week he had appeared at Longbourn on some pretext or another.

“May I join you?”

he asked, gesturing to the garden.

“Or perhaps I am intruding?”

“Not at all,”

Jane said politely, although in truth she had been enjoying the quiet.

“I am only gathering the last of the mint for preserving.”

Bingley opened the gate and stepped inside, looking at once both eager and hesitant, like a schoolboy invited to tea with the headmaster.

“Your herb garden is remarkably well-ordered,”

he observed, walking toward her.

“Thank you.

Kitty and I designed it together—she determines which medicinal plants we require, and I the culinary ones.

We arrange them according to their needs for sun and water.”

“Did you indeed?”

His surprise seemed genuine.

“I had thought perhaps it was your housekeeper’s domain.”

“Our housekeeper has quite enough to manage without adding the garden to her duties,”

Jane replied, resuming her harvesting.

“At Longbourn, we each have our responsibilities.”

“A sensible arrangement,”

Bingley said, watching her hands as she neatly snipped the stems.

“Your family seems remarkably… capable.”

Jane smiled at the evident wonder in his voice.

“Necessity is an excellent teacher, Mr Bingley.”

“Of course.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“I did not mean to imply otherwise.

I find it admirable, truly.

Most young ladies of my acquaintance would consider such work beneath them.”

“Then they are fortunate indeed to have others who will do it for them,”

Jane replied mildly, although her smiled dimmed and her spine stiffened in a movement so slight it passed for stillness.

Bingley must have sensed her withdrawal, for he quickly changed tack.

“What will you do with so much mint?”

he asked, gesturing to her nearly full basket.

“Some will be dried for tea and cooking throughout the winter,”

Jane explained, relaxing somewhat.

“The rest will be delivered to Kitty for distillation into medicinal oils and tinctures.”

“Your sister is an apothecary, then?”

Bingley asked with evident curiosity.

“Kitty has a remarkable gift for healing,”

Jane said, a note of pride in her voice.

“Her knowledge of medicinal herbs and remedies has proved invaluable, most especially for our family’s complaints.”

“You are too modest, Miss Bennet,”

Bingley said warmly.

“I suspect there is little you cannot do when you set your mind to it.”

Jane felt her cheeks warm at the undisguised admiration in his voice.

He skirted the bounds of propriety with his direct compliments yet made no declarations.

“You give me too much credit, sir.”

“I doubt that very much.”

His gaze held hers a moment longer than propriety dictated before he glanced away, his attention seemingly caught by something in the distance.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them as Jane finished her harvesting.

Bingley moved a few steps away, examining the various beds without true interest.

“Your sisters are in charge of the estate affairs, I understand?”

he asked at length.

“Not entirely.

Our grandfather is in charge.

We each have our interests.

Lizzy oversees most of the farming operations, whilst I attend to the household management and accounts.”

“And Miss Lydia has her sheep,”

Bingley added with a smile.

Jane looked up in surprise.

“You know of Lydia’s work with the flocks?”

“Miss Elizabeth mentioned it.

I gather your youngest sister has quite a talent for animal husbandry.”

“She does indeed,”

Jane acknowledged, pride evident in her voice.

“Her breeding programme has improved our wool yield considerably.”

Bingley hesitated, then said, “It is unusual, is it not? For young ladies to be so… involved in such matters?”

Jane straightened, her basket now full and her patience nearly empty.

“Perhaps in some circles,”

she replied.

“But we have found that capability is not determined by one’s sex, Mr Bingley, rather by one’s willingness to learn and apply oneself.”

“A progressive view,”

he said, his expression thoughtful.

“A practical one,”

Jane corrected gently.

“Longbourn is not a large estate, but it is our home and our livelihood.

We do what must be done to preserve it.”

“Without a male heir, you mean.”

“Our grandfather supervises,”

Jane said simply.

Something in her tone must have affected him, for Bingley’s expression softened.

“Forgive me.

I did not mean to speak insensitively.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

They had reached the garden gate, and Bingley hurried to open it for her.

As Jane passed through, her basket brushing against his arm, he spoke again.

“Miss Bennet, I wonder if—that is, I have been thinking—”

He stopped, seeming to gather his thoughts.

“What I mean to say is that I admire your capabilities very much.”

“Thank you, Mr Bingley,”

Jane replied, waiting politely for him to continue.

But he merely smiled, a little uncertainly, and gestured toward the house.

“May I escort you back?”

“Thank you, but I must take these to Kitty in her stillroom directly,”

Jane said.

“She is most particular about harvesting herbs at their peak potency, and I would not wish to disappoint her.”

“Of course, of course.”

He hesitated, then bowed.

“I shall call again tomorrow, perhaps? If that would be agreeable?”

Jane inclined her head, noncommittal.

“We are always pleased to receive visitors at Longbourn, Mr Bingley.”

His face fell at her formal response, but he rallied.

“Until tomorrow, then, Miss Bennet.”

She watched him stride away toward where his horse must be tethered, his shoulders set as if he had come to some decision.

Jane was not quite certain she wished to know what that decision might be.

A sixth call, with such marked attention and no profession of regard had challenged her powers of endurance.

Dawn had barely broken when Darcy descended the grand staircase at Netherfield, his greatcoat buttoned against the morning chill.

He had ordered his travelling carriage prepared at this early hour specifically to avoid protracted farewells.

The household, he had assumed, would still be abed.

He was mistaken.

“Mr Darcy,”

Caroline Bingley’s voice drifted from the morning room.

“You did not think to depart without bidding us a proper farewell, I trust?”

Darcy suppressed a sigh and turned to find Miss Bingley elegantly arranged upon a settee, dressed in a morning gown of tangerine that suggested she had risen at an ungodly hour for the sole purpose of intercepting him.

The tea service before her confirmed his suspicion.

“Miss Bingley,”

he acknowledged with a bow.

“I had not wished to disturb the household at such an early hour.”

“No disturbance whatsoever,”

she assured him, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

“I am always an early riser.

Pray, join me for tea before your journey.

London will still be there an hour hence.” Darcy schooled his expression.

Miss Bingley was rarely seen before noon and never prepared for company until well into the afternoon.

Seeing no polite way to refuse, Darcy reluctantly took the offered seat whilst Miss Bingley poured tea with practised grace.

“Since Charles informed me about your departure, I was quite occupied in thinking of it all night,”

she confided, passing him a cup.

“So sudden, so unexpected.

Poor Charles is quite bereft at losing your companionship.”

“I doubt Bingley will suffer excessively in my absence,”

Darcy replied dryly.

“He seems to find ample diversion in the neighbourhood.”

“Yes, he persists in visiting those Bennets,”

Miss Bingley said with a delicate shudder.

“Such a trial for Louisa and myself, forced to be civil to people of such inferior connections.

Especially that Eliza Bennet, with her decided opinions and country manners.”

Darcy’s hand tightened imperceptibly around the handle of his teacup.

No response would improve this conversation.

“I noticed how she monopolised your attention at dinner last week.

So forward.

But then, what can one expect from a family where the daughters perform the work of servants?”

“I believe managing one’s estate hardly qualifies as servitude,”

Darcy said coolly.

Miss Bingley waved a dismissive hand.

“A mere turn of phrase.

You cannot but acknowledge, there is something unladylike about a woman who concerns herself with crops and livestock.

I cannot imagine what Charles sees in the eldest.

Pretty enough, I suppose, in a provincial way, but hardly suitable for a man of his standing.”

Darcy set down his cup.

“I should not presume to dictate Bingley’s preferences.”

“But as his friend, you must have some concern for his future happiness?”

Miss Bingley pressed, leaning forward.

“A connection with such a family would be most disadvantageous.”

“The hour grows late,”

Darcy said, rising.

“I must take my leave.”

“Oh, but we have not yet settled the matter of your return,”

Miss Bingley exclaimed, standing as well and moving with alarming swiftness to position herself between Darcy and the door.

“The ball, Mr Darcy.

You simply must give me your word that you will return for it.”

“As I told your brother, I cannot make promises.

My sister’s needs must take precedence.”

“Of course, dear Georgiana,”

Miss Bingley agreed with exaggerated sympathy.

“But I am sure a brief visit would not be amiss? I shall reserve the first two dances for you, Mr Darcy.”

“Most kind,”

he replied stiffly, “but unnecessary.

I cannot say when I shall return to Hertfordshire, if at all.”

A flash of genuine alarm crossed Miss Bingley’s face.

“If at all? But Mr Darcy, you cannot mean to abandon us entirely? What of your friendship with Charles? What of—”

She paused, then continued in a lower voice, edging closer to him.

“What of those who value your society above all others?”

The scent of her perfume, applied with rather too liberal a hand, threatened to overwhelm the small space between them.

Darcy took a step back, a sudden bilious feeling rising.

He wondered if the fragrance could be weaponised against Napoleonic invaders.

“Miss Bingley, I assure you, your brother’s friendship remains important to me,”

he said firmly.

“Now, if you will excuse me, my carriage awaits.”

“At least take breakfast before you depart,”

she insisted, laying a hand upon his arm.

“I have instructed the cook to prepare your favourite dishes.

We might dine alone, as the others are still abed.

Such conversations are so much more agreeable without interruption, do you not find?”

Darcy decisively extricated his arm from her grasp.

“I have a basket to break my fast on the road.

The weather promises fair, and I wish to make good time.”

“You must tell me the moment you decide to return.

I shall count every hour until then.”

“Perhaps,”

she continued, her voice dropping to what she seemed to believe was an enticing whisper, “when you return, we might find opportunities for more...

private conversations.

Away from my brother’s constant prattle about horses and shooting.

I have always believed there is a certain...

understanding between us.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Bingley,”

Darcy said, his voice glacial.

Her smile faltered at this, but she pressed on.

“Then you agree? That there exists between us a particular—”

“Miss Bingley,”

Darcy interrupted, his patience finally exhausted.

“I must depart immediately.

My valet awaits with the carriage, and several hours of travel lie ahead.”

“Of course,”

she said, although she made no move to step aside.

“I shall accompany you to the door.”

With no choice but to proceed, Darcy was obliged to walk beside Miss Bingley through the hall, her arm insinuating itself through his despite his obvious reluctance.

At the main entrance, his valet stood waiting, Darcy’s hat and gloves in hand.

“Your carriage is prepared, sir,”

the servant informed him, studiously ignoring Miss Bingley’s clinging posture.

“Thank you, Fletcher,”

Darcy replied, disengaging himself from Miss Bingley to take his belongings.

“We depart immediately.”

“Mr Darcy,”

Miss Bingley said, her voice loud enough to be heard by the footmen attending the door.

“You have not given me your promise to return for the ball.”

Rather than answer directly, Darcy bowed.

“Good day, Miss Bingley.

Please convey my thanks to your brother for his hospitality.”

Without waiting for her response, he strode through the door to where his carriage waited, the horses stamping impatiently in the morning air.

Fletcher followed with his remaining belongings, closing the carriage door behind his master with evident relief.

As they pulled away from Netherfield, Darcy closed his eyes for a moment, letting the breeze cool the frustration from his brow.

The Hertfordshire air, fresh with morning dew, filled his lungs.

Soon he would be in London, surrounded by the familiar comforts of his own home, the predictable routines of city life, and most importantly, far from the disturbing influence of fine eyes and forthright conversation—and equally far from the exhausting attentions of Miss Bingley.