Page 30 of The Mercy of Chance

T he air in the barn was thick with dust motes dancing in the slanting morning light.

Mary Bennet stood ramrod straight beside the Longbourn wagon, her plain dress protected by a practical canvas apron that had once been her grandfather’s.

The agricultural journal she had been studying that morning was tucked securely under one arm as she surveyed the half-dozen sacks of seed wheat Mr Cooper had delivered.

“You’ll find it all in order, Miss Mary,”

said Mr Cooper, a portly man whose ruddy complexion had deepened in the heat of the barn.

He patted one of the burlap sacks with a proprietary air.

“Finest seed wheat in three counties.

I’ve held back the best for Longbourn, as your grandfather has been a valued customer these twenty years.”

Mary adjusted her spectacles, her expression betraying neither belief nor disbelief at this pronouncement.

“Indeed? Then you will not object to my examination of the sample.”

Something flickered across Mr Cooper’s face—so briefly Mary might have missed it had she not been watching closely.

“Hardly necessary, Miss.

Your grandfather always trusted my word on such matters.”

My grandfather,”

Mary replied, reaching for the small knife she kept in her apron pocket, “taught us to trust, but verify all claims, regardless of their source.” Her fingers, once soft from hours of practising scales and copying moral extracts, were now calloused from more practical pursuits.

She sliced open the sample bag with practised precision.

Behind them, John Robinson, their most reliable tenant farmer, shifted uneasily from one foot to another.

He had accompanied Mary from Longbourn, driving the small wagon they would use to transport the seed if it proved satisfactory.

Mary noticed how he kept his gaze respectfully averted from the interaction, though his ears were attuned to every word.

Mary plunged her hand into the sack, letting the wheat grains pour through her fingers back into the bag.

The subtle hitch in her movement would have been imperceptible to anyone who did not know her well, but her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles.

“Mr Cooper,”

she said, her voice perfectly measured, “would you be so kind as to open the remaining sacks for inspection?”

The merchant’s smile stiffened.

“Now, that will not be necessary, Miss Mary.

I vouch personally for the quality—”

“I am sorry, but I must insist,”

Mary said, her tone mild but unyielding.

She withdrew her hand from the sample sack and brushed the grains from her palm.

Mr Cooper hesitated, then gestured to his boy to cut open the remaining sacks.

“As you wish, though I must say you—”

“Thank you.”

Mary moved methodically from one sack to the next, sifting the grain through her fingers, occasionally holding a handful up to the light streaming through the barn’s open door.

Her face remained impassive, but her eyes catalogued every detail with scientific precision.

After examining the last sack, she straightened and pulled the agricultural journal from beneath her arm.

She opened it to a page marked with a ribbon and turned it toward Mr Cooper.

“I am sure you are familiar with the Agricultural Society’s standards for seed wheat, Mr Cooper?”

The merchant’s face reddened further.

“I’ve been in this business thirty years, Miss.

I hardly need—”

“The journal specifies,”

Mary continued as if he had not spoken, her finger tracing the printed line, “that first-quality seed wheat should have no more than two percent foreign matter and should show a germination rate of at least ninety-five percent when tested.” She closed the journal with a soft thump.

“The sample you’ve provided contains easily eight percent chaff and broken grains, by my estimation.

And I suspect, were we to test it, the germination rate would prove equally disappointing.”

“Young ladies hardly possess the expertise to judge—”

Mr Cooper began, but Mary cut him off with a shake of her head.

“Furthermore,”

she said, her voice taking on the lecturing tone her sisters knew so well, “these grains show signs of having been stored in damp conditions.” She held out her palm, where several darkened grains lay among the golden ones.

“Note the discoloration—indicative of mould.

Chapter seven of Barton’s ‘Modern Agriculture’ is quite specific about the storage requirements for seed grain.”

Mr Cooper’s face had progressed from red to purple.

“Miss Mary, with all due respect to your reading, practical experience—”

“Would you care to test a sample for germination, Mr Cooper?”

Mary inquired, reaching into her apron pocket and producing a small cloth pouch.

“I’ve brought moist blotting paper, as recommended by the Royal Agricultural Society.

We could dampen it now and check the results in three days’ time.

Or perhaps you would prefer to send a sample to Sir William Lucas for his assessment? He has expressed remarkable enthusiasm for Longbourn’s crop rotation innovations.”

The mention of Sir William caused Mr Cooper to swallow whatever protest he had been about to make.

His gaze darted to John Robinson, who suddenly found great interest in adjusting the horse’s harness, though Mary could see the slight smile he was attempting to conceal.

“Perhaps there has been some mistake,”

Mr Cooper said stiffly.

“These sacks may have been… mislabeled at the mill.”

“A concerning error,”

Mary commented, closing her journal and tucking it back under her arm.

“Particularly as the price quoted was for first-quality seed.”

“I shall personally ensure the correct sacks are delivered by tomorrow morning,”

Mr Cooper said, gesturing for his boy to begin retying the open bags.

“With appropriate adjustment to the invoice, of course.”

“That would be satisfactory,”

Mary agreed.

“We require eight bushels of first-quality seed wheat, as specified in our order.

Our plans depend upon timely planting.”

Cooper bowed stiffly.

“You shall have it, Miss Mary.”

Mary nodded, her expression betraying neither triumph nor lingering irritation.

“Tomorrow, then.

Good day, Mr Cooper.”

As their wagon pulled away, John Robinson approached, no longer bothering to hide his grin.

“That was something to see, Miss Mary.

The old fox has been trying that same trick on half the farms in the county.”

Mary adjusted her spectacles, colour rising in her cheeks at the unusual praise.

“Grandfather always says that knowledge properly applied is the best defence against dishonesty.”

She patted the journal under her arm.

“Chapter twelve specifically addresses common frauds in agricultural commerce.”

“Miss Elizabeth will be pleased,”

John said as he helped Mary into their cart.

“She was concerned Mr Cooper might try something, knowing it was you coming instead of her or your grandfather.”

“Was she?”

Mary asked, settling her skirts around her.

“I shall have to inform her that her concerns, whilst not unfounded, proved unnecessary.” A small, satisfied smile touched her lips.

“Though perhaps I should request that Grandfather allow me to handle the seed orders from now on.

I find I have developed quite an interest in the subject.”

As they rode back toward Longbourn, Mary’s typically serious expression softened into quiet satisfaction.

The journal resting in her lap had been her grandfather’s gift on her sixteenth birthday—a far more practical present than the sheet music her sisters had presented.

At the time, she had been disappointed, having hoped for the latest publication of moral philosophy.

Now, she silently thanked her grandfather for his foresight.

There was, she reflected, a certain satisfaction in practical knowledge that philosophical extracts, for all their moral value, could not provide.

She ran her fingers along the leather-bound agricultural journal, the neat handwriting inside a testament to Aunt Eleanor’s meticulous approach to estate management long before society deemed such knowledge appropriate for women.

“Will you tell Mr Bennet about Mr Cooper’s attempted deception?”

John asked as they turned onto the lane leading to Longbourn.

“Certainly,”

Mary replied.

“Grandfather insists on being informed of all such matters.

Though I believe I shall also mention it to Lydia.

She has been compiling quite a detailed record of which merchants can be trusted and which require… additional scrutiny.”

John chuckled.

“Miss Lydia has a memory like a ledger book when it comes to those who have crossed Longbourn.”

“Rather, those who have attempted to,”

Mary agreed with a slight smile.

“And unlike our moral failings, which deserve Christian forgiveness, commercial dishonesty must be recorded and remembered.

Grandfather taught us that lesson when Jane first began managing the household accounts.”

As Longbourn came into view, Mary straightened her spine and adjusted her spectacles once more, mentally composing her report for her grandfather.

She knew he would be proud—not because she had avoided being cheated, but because she had applied her knowledge practically.

The practical application of learning, he often reminded them, was what separated true education from mere recitation.

Today, Mary had proved the worth of her studies in a way no moral extract could match.

Mr Cooper’s future dealings with the estate showed markedly more respect.

The late autumn sunshine cast long shadows across Hyde Park as Darcy guided his curricle along the fashionable drive, his team of matched greys responding to the slightest touch of the reins.

Beside him, Georgiana sat wrapped in a blue shawl over her pelisse, her gloved hands clasped in her lap, her posture as perfect as any governess could have wished.

“You handle them beautifully, Brother,”

she observed, watching as he navigated around a slower barouche.

“I believe they grow more responsive each time you drive them.”

“They should,”

Darcy replied, pleased by her observation.

“I selected them myself from Lord Jersey’s stables last spring.”

“A wise choice,”

Georgiana said, then fell silent again, her gaze drifting to the golden leaves that scattered across their path.

Darcy studied her profile from the corner of his eye.

At sixteen, she was becoming a young woman rather than a girl, her features settling into the delicate beauty that had characterised their mother.

Yet there remained something guarded in her expression.

“I hope you have enjoyed having me home these past days,”

he ventured.

“Your letter suggested you were feeling rather low-spirited.”

Georgiana’s cheeks coloured.

“I confess I may have...

exaggerated somewhat.

I had sensed that you were quite fixed at Netherfield, and I feared you might remain in Hertfordshire indefinitely.”

“So, you invented a melancholy to draw me back to London?”

Darcy asked, surprised by this uncharacteristic manipulation.

“Not invented,”

she corrected quickly.

“Merely...

emphasised.

I was indeed feeling rather solitary.”

““You have Mrs Annesley for companionship.”

“Mrs Annesley is an excellent chaperone and a kind woman, but she is not family,”

Georgiana replied.

“Besides, I wished to hear about your time in the country.

Your letters told me vexingly little of Netherfield and its society.”

Darcy flicked the reins gently as they rounded a bend in the path.

“There is little to tell.

Bingley’s estate shows promise, although it requires attention.

The local society is much as one would expect in a rural setting.”

“How illuminating,”

Georgiana said with unusual dryness.

“I now feel as if I have visited Hertfordshire myself, your description is so vivid.”

Darcy turned to her in surprise.

“Since when have you developed such a talent for sarcasm?”

“I have had an excellent teacher,”

she replied, a hint of mischief in her smile.

“Come now, Brother.

I am certain there must have been something of interest during your stay? Someone, perhaps, who made an impression?”

Darcy’s hands tightened imperceptibly on the reins.

“Bingley seems quite taken with the eldest daughter of a local family.

A Miss Bennet.”

“And what of Bingley’s friend? Was he equally impressed by anyone?”

“If you refer to me, then no,”

Darcy said firmly.

“I found little to admire in the neighbourhood.”

“How strange,”

Georgiana mused.

“When you spoke last evening of your business with Lord Matthews regarding a property in Hertfordshire, you seemed unusually animated.

I assumed you must have some particular interest in the area.”

Darcy shot her a sharp glance.

“Dunbar Court represents a sound investment, nothing more.”

“Of course,”

she agreed, too readily.

“Although I cannot help but wonder why you have arranged to purchase it through such an elaborate scheme of holding companies, if it is no more than a straightforward investment.”

“You have been eavesdropping on my business affairs,”

Darcy accused, although without real heat.

“I happened to be practising in the music room when your solicitor called yesterday,”

Georgiana explained.

“The connecting door to the study was ajar.”

“And you did not think to close it when you realised the conversation was of a private nature?”

“I intended to,”

she said, “but then I heard mention of Longbourn Estate and became curious.”

Darcy sighed.

His sister had always been observant, despite her quiet nature.

“Longbourn is adjacent to Dunbar Court.

The purchase makes strategic sense.”

“Particularly since Longbourn is managed by a family of unmarried ladies, according to Mr Trowbridge.”

“You heard rather a lot through that open door,”

Darcy observed dryly.

“The acoustics in our townhouse are remarkably favourable,”

Georgiana replied, then she grew more serious.

“Brother, I have never known you to take such an interest in a property without some compelling reason.

What is it at Longbourn that interests you?”

Darcy considered evading the question, but something in his sister’s earnest expression made him reconsider.

“The Bennet ladies have managed their estate admirably since their father’s death,”

he said finally.

“But their situation is precarious.

Their grandfather is quite elderly and Dunbar Court, if mismanaged, could pose a threat to their water supply and grazing rights.

There is an additional threat in the form of our Aunt, Lady Catherine’s, parson.

Curiously, he holds the position of heir presumptive to Longbourn through an entail.

He has been creating difficulties and making threats of legal action to take over management of Longbourn.

It is a concerning set of circumstances.”

“So, you purchased it...

to protect them?”

“I purchased it because it was available at a reasonable price,”

Darcy corrected, although he did not meet her eyes.

“I will keep a careful eye on the area.

Any benefit to the Bennets is incidental.”

Georgiana was silent for a moment, watching a flock of sparrows rise from a nearby oak tree.

“You spoke of water works.

Does one of the sisters manage them?”

“All of them are involved.

But the second eldest, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, is most occupied with those matters.”

“And what is she like, this Miss Elizabeth?”

Darcy hesitated.

“She is...

capable.

Intelligent.

She understands agriculture and land management in a way few women—or men, for that matter—do.”

“Her appearance?”

Georgiana pressed.

“Tolerable,”

Darcy replied, too quickly.

“She has fine eyes.”

“Fine eyes,”

Georgiana repeated, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“High praise indeed from my discerning brother.”

Darcy frowned.

“You are reading far too much into a simple observation.”

“Perhaps,”

she conceded.

“But I have never before heard you comment on any woman’s eyes, except to note that they were fixed upon you with unseemly attention.”

They had reached the Serpentine, its surface rippled by the autumn breeze.

Darcy drew the curricle to a halt at a picturesque vantage point, engaging the brake before turning to face his sister fully.

“Whatever you are implying, Georgiana, I suggest you abandon the notion.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a gentlewoman of little fortune and obscure family connections, managing an estate that may not rightfully belong to her.

My interest in her situation is merely...

neighbourly concern.”

“Of course,”

Georgiana said, her voice gentle.

“Although I wonder, Brother, why you feel the need to assure me so emphatically of your disinterest.”

Darcy had no ready answer to this uncomfortable observation.

“You know,”

she continued after a moment, “since the...

unfortunate events of the summer, I have occupied much of your attention and concern.

Perhaps too much.”

“Nonsense,”

Darcy said firmly.

“You are my sister.

Your wellbeing is my responsibility.”

“My wellbeing, yes.

But not my every thought and feeling,”

Georgiana countered with unexpected conviction.

“I made a grave error in judgement, Brother, but I cannot allow that error to become the defining event of both our lives.”

Darcy stared at her, taken aback by this newfound assertiveness.

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying,”

Georgiana replied patiently, “that perhaps you need not arrange your life solely around protecting me from my own folly.

That perhaps you might consider your own happiness as well as my security.”

“My happiness is irrelevant compared to your welfare,”

Darcy insisted.

“I disagree,”

Georgiana said with surprising firmness.

“Because I cannot be truly happy knowing that you have sacrificed your own contentment for my sake.” She paused, then added more softly, “Especially if that sacrifice includes denying your interest in a lady with fine eyes and a capable mind.”

Darcy looked away, watching a fashionably dressed couple stroll arm in arm along the lake’s edge.

He shifted the reins with unnecessary force, causing the greys to snort in protest.

“You greatly exaggerate my interest in Miss Elizabeth.”

“Do I?”

Georgiana asked.

“Then why does her name cause your expression to alter so? Why did you flee Hertfordshire so abruptly? And why, most tellingly, have you arranged to purchase a neighbouring property whilst concealing your involvement?”

“These are complicated matters, Georgiana,”

Darcy began, but she shook her head.

“No, Brother.

I believe they are quite simple.

Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem, Ockham’s Razor.

You are drawn to this lady, but something—pride, perhaps, or fear—prevents you from acknowledging it, even to yourself.”

Darcy sat in stunned silence, unaccustomed to such directness from his typically reserved sister.

“You have always been honest with me,”

Georgiana continued more gently.

“Even when the truth was painful.

Allow me to offer the same courtesy to you.”

For a long moment, the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the occasional stamp of the horses’ hooves.

Finally, Darcy released a measured breath.

“I begin to regret permitting you to study philosophy.

When did you become so perceptive?”

he asked, caught between admiration and discomfort.

“I have had ample opportunity to observe human nature these past months,”

Georgiana replied with a sad smile.

“Particularly the tendency to conceal one’s true feelings behind a fa?ade of propriety or veil one's true character behind a display of practiced charm.”

Darcy nodded slowly.

“Your observations...

are not entirely without merit,”

he conceded.

“But the situation is more complex than you realise.”

“Most matters of the heart are,”

she agreed.

“Although perhaps not as insurmountably complex as we sometimes imagine them to be.”

Darcy gathered the reins, signalling the end of their conversation.

“We should continue our drive.

The air grows chill.”

“As you wish,”

Georgiana said, settling back against the curricle’s leather seat.

“But Brother?”

“Yes?”

“When you return to Hertfordshire—as I suspect you eventually will—I hope you will approach the matter with courage as you do everything else in life.”

Darcy made no reply, but as they continued their circuit of the park, he considered his sister’s words with grudging respect.

“The greys are indeed exceptional,”

Georgiana commented lightly, changing the subject with tactful grace.

“I should like to learn to drive them myself someday.”

“When you are older,”

Darcy replied automatically, relieved to return to familiar ground.

“Of course,”

she agreed with a smile that suggested she recognised his retreat.

“When I am older.

Although I trust you will not make me wait too long, Brother.

Some opportunities, after all, should not be deferred indefinitely.”

Whether she spoke of driving or matters of the heart, Darcy could not be certain.