Page 29 of The Mercy of Chance
M r Hill announced their visitors with gravity: “Mr Bingley, Miss Bingley, and Mrs Hurst.”
The elegant lady in carrot-coloured silk swept into the modest parlour with an expression that suggested she had caught a whiff of something disagreeable.
Behind her, Mrs Hurst followed more languidly, her every step steeped in practised indifference.
“Good day, Mrs Bennet,”
Miss Bingley said coolly, inclining her head no more than civility demanded.
“Miss Bennet.
Miss Elizabeth.
Miss Mary.” Her eyes skimmed over each in turn, pausing only on Jane, where they narrowed with the faintest change in expression.
“How … charming to see you again.”
Mrs Hurst offered a faint smile as she lowered herself onto the sofa with the grace of someone who wished to appear accustomed to finer surroundings.
“My sisters,”
Mr Bingley interjected quickly, “have been eager to further our acquaintance with our neighbours.”
“Indeed,”
Miss Bingley murmured, her gaze drifting to a faint crack in the plaster near the ceiling.
She drew back the hem of her gown as if fearing contagion, “There is always something quaint about country manners.”
Elizabeth, standing just behind her mother, exchanged a glance with Jane, whose expression had taken on a quietly resolute set.
It was, Elizabeth reflected, just the sort of reception she had anticipated—frost dressed in silk.
Miss Bingley’s gaze flicked toward the window as though the hedgerows of Hertfordshire personally offended her.
“We had nearly forgotten the pleasures of morning calls, after so many weeks confined to rustic society.”
Elizabeth replied with polite interest, “And yet you have remained in the country some time.
One might nearly think you found diversions here.”
Mrs Hurst gave a brittle laugh.
“We make do.
Although it must be said, the conversation in town runs to a more elevated strain.
One does miss the polish of a proper salon.”
“You are good to bring a little of that refinement to Meryton,”
Jane said with perfect calm, although Elizabeth caught the faintest gleam in her sister’s wide eyes.
Miss Bingley’s smile did not reach her eyes.
“We endeavour to maintain standards, even in such a… provincial setting.”
“Provincial we may be,”
Elizabeth said lightly, “but not without some intellectual pursuits.
The Meryton Scientific Society offers lectures each Thursday.
Last week’s featured a most engaging discourse on crop yields and soil chemistry.”
Miss Bingley blinked.
“Scientific lectures?”
Her lips parted as if to laugh, but she caught herself.
“How… unusual for young ladies to attend such things.”
“We find them enlightening,”
Jane said placidly.
“And most relevant to our work at Longbourn.”
Mrs Hurst adjusted her bracelets.
“I am certain such matters are better left to stewards and land agents.”
“Our estate has no steward,”
Elizabeth replied.
“We manage the land ourselves.”
Miss Bingley gave a tight smile.
“That explains the… practical wardrobe.
One must be dressed for the task at hand, of course.”
Elizabeth met her gaze without flinching.
“Indeed.
Although I have always found a well-cut ditch far more satisfying than a well-cut gown.”
“My sisters and I take great interest in agricultural improvements,”
Jane explained.
“The study of natural philosophy brings material benefits to estate management,”
Mary offered, her voice precise.
“As Lord Bacon observes in his ‘Advancement of Learning,’ knowledge must be grounded in practical application.”
Miss Bingley’s expression suggested she had bitten into something sour.
Mrs Hurst studied her fingernails.
“Agricultural improvements?”
Mrs Hurst exchanged a significant look with her sister.
“I cannot imagine concerning oneself with such matters.”
Jane, still smiling, turned to Mrs Hurst.
“And how do you find Meryton after your months among us?”
Mrs Hurst waved a hand vaguely.
“It is pleasant, for the countryside.
But there is nothing to compare with the pace of London.
One misses the theatre.
And the people.”
“But we have not shared our happy purpose in calling,”
Bingley interrupted.
“We are to host a ball at Netherfield Tuesday next!”
“How delightful,”
Mrs Bennet exclaimed.
“Such an elegant setting for dancing.”
“The Netherfield ballroom is tolerably large,”
Miss Bingley allowed.
“Although nothing to the grand salons of town, naturally.”
“Hardly the size of Pemberley’s ballroom,”
Mrs Hurst added meaningfully.
“Few estates could compare with Pemberley, I imagine,”
Elizabeth replied, keeping her expression neutral.
Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed in a calculating stare.
“You are acquainted with Mr Darcy’s estate, then?”
“By hearsay rather than acquaintance.
Mr Darcy has been most helpful regarding certain estate matters, with his extensive experience at Pemberley,”
Elizabeth replied evenly.
“Mr Darcy has spoken highly of the innovations at Longbourn,”
Bingley offered helpfully.
He shifted in his chair, his gaze flicking to Jane, then downward to the pattern of the carpet.
He opened his mouth as if to speak again, then seemed to think better of it.
A moment later, he cleared his throat and forced a smile, the tension at his jaw betraying more than his words ever could.
“Charles,”
Miss Bingley rose abruptly.
“We really must attend to the guest list.
So many details to arrange.”
“But we have only arrived,”
her brother protested.
“And delivered our invitation,”
Mrs Hurst was already standing.
“We should not impose further.”
Mrs Bennet spoke polite protests, but the Bingley sisters swept toward the door with elegant determination, leaving their bewildered brother to make hasty farewells.
After they had gone, Mrs Bennet shook her head.
“Such fine carnelian silk in Miss Bingley’s gown, although that shade does nothing for her complexion.
And Mrs Hurst’s lace was quite elegant.
It is a great pity their manners do not equal the height of their fashions.
I had not even enough time to offer tea!”
“Perhaps,”
Elizabeth suggested dryly, “they left their better manners in one of those grand London salons they so admire.”
“Lizzy,”
Jane reproached gently.
“You are too kind, Jane.
But even Miss Bingley’s pointed barbs cannot diminish the prospect of a ball at Netherfield.”
“Mr Bingley seemed most pleased to offer the invitation,”
Mrs Bennet observed with satisfaction.
“Although his sisters seemed rather less pleased to deliver it,”
Elizabeth murmured.
“It signifies nothing,”
Mrs Bennet declared.
“A gentleman’s intentions matter far more than his sisters’ approval.”
Mary nodded, adjusting her spectacles, “Fine clothing cannot disguise poverty of mind.
Although in this case, it appears to advertise it.”
“Mary!”
Jane could not quite hide her amusement.
Elizabeth smiled.
“I am convinced our Mary might possess the keenest discernment of character among us.”
“Not at all,”
Mary replied primly.
“I merely apply empirical observation to social phenomena.
Miss Bingley’s behaviour provides an excellent case study in artificial manners.”
The afternoon sun slanted through the trees as Mary Bennet and Mr Fairfield walked the boundary of the Longbourn Estate.
They had spent the previous half hour discussing crop rotation and the relative merits of different fertilising methods, but now a comfortable silence had fallen between them.
“Miss Bennet,”
Mr Fairfield said abruptly, then cleared his throat.
“I have not enquired after your family.
Your sisters are well, I trust?”
Mary glanced at him, surprised by the personal turn in conversation.
“They are in good health, thank you.
Elizabeth is occupied with the autumn planting, Jane manages our household affairs, and Lydia attends to the sheep.”
“Your mother resides with you still?” he asked.
“She does.
She keeps busy with correspondence and care of our grandfather.”
Mr Fairfield nodded, his angular face serious.
“My own mother was similarly occupied when she was living.
She passed when I was seventeen.
My father followed three years later.”
“I am sorry,”
Mary said, meaning it.
“It must have been difficult to be left on your own at such a young age.”
Mr Fairfield’s gaze moved to the distant fields.
“I had hoped to establish my own farm by now.
My position affords knowledge, if not property.”
“Knowledge has its own value,”
Mary observed.
“Perhaps,”
he acknowledged.
“Although land would be preferable.”
“You have ambitions to one day acquire an estate?”
“I have dreams,”
he corrected.
“Ambitions suggests something less concrete.”
Mary nodded, appreciating his precision.
“And you? Have you no family remaining?”
“A brother serves in the navy.
We correspond but rarely.”
Mr Fairfield hesitated, then added, “He did not care for agricultural pursuits.”
Mary nodded.
There was no need to comment on the implied criticism.
They resumed walking, crossing a small stream via stepping stones.
The breeze stirred the fallen leaves at their feet, filling the brief silence.
Mr Fairfield extended his hand to assist her, which Mary accepted after a moment of surprise.
His grip was firm, his palm calloused from physical labour—not the hand of a gentleman who supervised workers, but one who laboured himself.
“You read a great deal, I understand,”
he said as they reached the other side.
“I do.
How did you know?”
A flush crept up his neck.
“I observed you with a book in the drawing room last week.
Whilst others played cards.”
“You noticed that?”
Mary asked, surprised anyone had paid her attention that evening.
“I too was not playing,”
he replied simply.
“What do you read, Mr Fairfield?”
Mary asked.
“Agricultural journals, primarily.
And some history.”
He paused, then admitted, “I attempted a novel once.
I found it improbable.”
Mary suppressed a smile.
“Which novel?”
“I cannot recall the title.
“There was a castle, and a lady with an unfortunate tendency to faint.”
“Ah.
Gothic fiction is not to everyone’s taste.”
“Is it to yours?”
he asked, seeming genuinely curious.
“I prefer moral philosophy,”
Mary answered.
“And texts on agricultural improvement.
I have been studying methods of crop rotation from the continent.”
Mr Fairfield looked at her with new interest.
“You have read Arthur Young’s work?”
“And Mr Coke of Norfolk’s innovations,”
Mary confirmed.
“I found his experiments with marling most applicable to our eastern field.”
“Few ladies take interest in such matters,”
Mr Fairfield observed.
“Few gentlemen are accustomed to expect it,”
Mary countered.
A brief smile crossed his face.
“A fair observation, Miss Bennet.”
They had reached the old oak that marked the eastern boundary of Longbourn.
Normally their discussions of agricultural matters concluded here.
“I have taken too much of your time,”
Mr Fairfield said, looking at the position of the sun.
“But I have found our conversation most illuminating, Miss Bennet.”
“As have I,”
Mary replied truthfully.
“Perhaps we might continue it another day,”
he suggested, his gaze now fixed somewhere over her left shoulder.
“I will call when I consult with Miss Elizabeth about the winter wheat.”
“I should like that,”
Mary said.
Mr Fairfield bowed stiffly.
“Good day, Miss Bennet.”
“Good day, Mr Fairfield.”
He turned and walked away, his tall figure moving with purpose across the field.
Darcy settled into his library at Darcy House with a sense of relief, the familiar surroundings a welcome balm after the disquietude of Hertfordshire.
The fire burned steadily in the grate, dispelling London’s persistent autumn damp, and the leather-bound volumes that lined the walls offered a comforting solidity.
Three days had passed since his return, during which he had immersed himself in business correspondence, visited his club, and spent evenings with Georgiana, whose melancholy proved far less pronounced than her letter had suggested.
His conscience pricked him at the realisation, but he dismissed it.
London was where he belonged.
Hertfordshire, with its provincial society and unsettling encounters, was best forgotten.
Yet his thoughts returned unbidden to certain matters concerning the Bennet estate.
The conversation with Mr Bennet regarding his endeavours to protect their claim to Longbourn, and his promise to see to the provisions Mr Bennet had put in place to protect the Bennet ladies, troubled him more than he cared to admit.
“Fletcher,”
he called, and his valet appeared in the doorway.
“Send a message to Lord Matthews’s town house.
I wish to speak with him regarding a business matter if he would permit me to call.”
“Very good, sir,”
Fletcher replied with a bow.
Whilst waiting for a response, Darcy penned several letters to his steward at Pemberley, finding comfort in the familiar routine of estate management.
Columns of figures and projected yields were dependable, logical—unlike the contradictory emotions that had plagued him of late.
Fletcher returned two hours later, bearing a sealed note.
“A response from his Lordship’s butler, sir.”
Darcy broke the seal and scanned the brief message.
“Lord Matthews is in Bath,”
he said with a frown.
“Taking the waters.”
“Would you like me to arrange for a letter to be sent to him there, sir?”
“No,”
Darcy replied after a moment’s consideration.
“The matter can wait until his return.”
But it seemed the matter would not wait.
The following afternoon, Darcy was interrupted during his fencing practice at Angelo’s salle by the arrival of a visitor.
“Viscount Eastbridge requests a moment of your time, sir,”
the attendant informed him.
“He waits in the foyer.”
Darcy frowned, lowering his foil.
“Lord Matthews’s son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well.
Inform him I shall join him presently.”
After changing from his fencing attire, Darcy entered the foyer to find a tall, fashionably dressed young man examining a display of antique duelling pistols with apparent interest.
“Viscount Eastbridge,”
Darcy said, approaching him with a bow.
“To what do I owe the unexpected honour?”
The Viscount turned, revealing a face that bore a striking resemblance to his father’s, although his expression held a tension that suggested less ease with his position.
“Mr Darcy,”
he acknowledged, returning the bow.
“I apologise for the intrusion.
My father’s butler informed me you had wished to call upon him.”
“Indeed.
A minor matter only.”
The Viscount studied him for a moment.
“Perhaps we might discuss it over a drink? I find Angelo’s somewhat...
public for certain conversations.”
Darcy’s curiosity was piqued.
“By all means.
White’s is but a short walk from here.”
Soon they were ensconced in a private corner of Whites, glasses of brandy before them.
After a few minutes of obligatory social exchange—comments on the weather, mutual acquaintances, the quality of the brandy—the Viscount leant forward.
“You wished to speak with my father about Dunbar Court, I believe.”
Darcy maintained his composure, although he was surprised by the young man’s directness.
“What leads you to that conclusion?”
“A reasonable inference,”
the Viscount replied with a thin smile.
“You are lately returned from Hertfordshire, where Dunbar Court lies in proximity to your friend’s leased estate and an estate managed by the Bennet ladies.
A most unusual circumstance.”
“Your information is impressively current,”
Darcy observed.
“My father maintains an interest in his properties, however distant,”
the Viscount said smoothly.
“And the Bennet situation has provided fodder for local gossip for some years.”
Darcy took a measured sip of his brandy.
“I confess I had hoped to discuss Dunbar Court with Lord Matthews, yes.
I understand it has been rarely occupied for some time.”
“Nearly five years,”
the Viscount confirmed.
“There has been some difficulty in securing a tenant able to meet his obligations.”
“A shame,”
Darcy murmured, detecting the underlying significance.
The maintenance had likely exceeded the return, and Lord Matthews had hoped to let the property rather than work out an arrangement.
“The property appears to have potential.”
“It does,”
the Viscount agreed.
“Although realising that potential would require a significant investment.”
“I imagine so.”
A moment of silence stretched between them, each man taking the measure of the other.
Finally, the Viscount spoke again.
“My father finds his current financial circumstances somewhat...
constrained,”
he said haltingly.
“The townhouse in Bath is undergoing extensive renovations, and his investments in the West Indies have not yielded the expected returns.”
Darcy understood immediately.
Lord Matthews needed funds, and Dunbar Court represented a potential source of capital.
“A not uncommon situation for many landowners in these uncertain times,”
he offered diplomatically.
“Quite.”
The Viscount relaxed, evidently relieved at Darcy’s understanding.
“In fact, my father has contemplated divesting himself of certain properties that contribute little to the family’s overall holdings.”
“I see.”
“Dunbar Court would be among them,”
the Viscount continued.
“A modest property, but perhaps of interest to someone with...
neighbouring concerns.”
Darcy maintained a neutral expression, although his mind was working rapidly.
The opportunity had presented itself more directly than he had anticipated.
“What terms might Lord Matthews consider for such a transaction?”
“I am authorised to negotiate on his behalf,”
the Viscount replied.
“Although any agreement would require a certain...
discretion.”
“Of course.”
The next hour was spent in careful negotiation.
The Viscount named a sum that Darcy deemed excessive; Darcy countered with an offer that recognised the estate’s neglected condition.
They eventually settled on a figure that, whilst generous, reflected the property’s true value and potential.
“There is one additional matter,”
Darcy said, as they prepared to conclude their business.
“My role in this transaction will remain confidential.”
The Viscount raised an eyebrow.
“Entirely confidential?”
“Yes.
I propose establishing a holding company.
The transaction would appear to be a simple land investment by an anonymous London concern.”
“Unusual, but not impossible,”
the Viscount mused.
“May I enquire as to your reasons?”
Darcy hesitated.
“I prefer to avoid speculation regarding my investment decisions.”
It was a weak explanation, and both men knew it, but the Viscount merely nodded.
“Very well.
I believe that can be arranged, provided the funds are transferred promptly.”
“Within the week,”
Darcy assured him.
“My solicitor will draw up the necessary documents.”
They shook hands, the agreement sealed as firmly as if contracts had already been signed.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Darcy,”
the Viscount said.
“I trust Dunbar Court will prove a satisfactory investment.”
“I believe it will,”
Darcy replied, offering no further insight into his intentions.
After the Viscount departed, Darcy remained at White’s, contemplating his brandy and the transaction he had just arranged.
His actions made adequate sense from a business perspective.
The acquisition was sound, the negotiation successful.
Why, then, did he feel such conflicted satisfaction?
He knew the answer, although he was reluctant to acknowledge it.
His interest in Dunbar Court had little to do with land values or agricultural yields and everything to do with Elizabeth Bennet’s fine eyes and the concerned furrow of her brow whilst she was sat, pencil in hand, visibly frustrated as she attempted to make insufficient figures yield a different result.
Without her knowledge, without an expectation of gratitude, without any obligation toward him, he had neatly provided a temporary solution to the Bennets’ need to secure the bordering fields.
His holding company would seek a lessee on favourable terms for the pastures and home farm, as the house would not attract any tenant in its present condition.
It was an elegant solution to the Bennet’s vulnerability, one that maintained their independence whilst removing the threat of an unreliable neighbour.
That his actions might be interpreted as overstepping, as interfering in matters not his concern, he chose not to dwell upon.
That Elizabeth might view his silent intervention as presumptuous; he refused to consider.
He was making a sound business investment.
Nothing more.
With that resolution firmly in mind, Darcy finished his brandy and departed for his solicitor’s office.
The sooner the transaction was complete, the sooner he could put Hertfordshire—and its inhabitants—from his thoughts entirely.
Or so he told himself, as London’s grey afternoon closed around him like a cloak.