Page 31 of The Mercy of Chance

T he Meryton Livestock Fair bustled with activity under the bright May sun.

Farmers from three counties had gathered to trade, sell, and gossip, the air thick with the mingled scents of animals, hay, and humanity.

The bleating of sheep, the cries of hawkers, and the rhythmic bark of auctioneers filled the air.

Lydia Bennet moved through the sheep pens with purpose, her practical walking dress—once her second best but now relegated to farm duties—protected by a canvas apron that bore the stains of previous agricultural endeavours.

“Miss Lydia!”

called Mr Thistlewood, tipping his hat as she approached his pen.

“Come to admire my stock, have you?”

Elizabeth, who had accompanied her younger sister to the fair, noted the barely concealed condescension in the sheep merchant’s tone.

At fifteen, Lydia’s interest in animal husbandry was viewed by many as either a charming eccentricity or an alarming deviation from proper feminine pursuits.

Few took her seriously, despite her growing expertise.

“Good morning, Mr Thistlewood,”

Lydia replied with a bright smile that still held echoes of the flirtatious girl she had been before their father’s death.

But her eyes, as they swept over the sheep in the pen, were sharp and assessing.

“I understand you have breeding ewes for sale.”

“Indeed, Miss.”

He gestured expansively toward his pen.

“the Finest Southdowns in the county.

Your grandfather showed interest in improving his flock last year, as I recall.”

“Yes,”

Elizabeth confirmed, stepping forward.

“We are looking to purchase three breeding ewes to introduce new bloodlines into our flock.”

Mr Thistlewoods nodded approvingly at Elizabeth before turning back to Lydia.

“Well, little miss, see anything that catches your fancy? Perhaps that pretty one with the black face?”

He pointed toward an ewe at the far end of the pen, clearly expecting Lydia’s choice to be guided by appearance rather than breeding potential.

Lydia ignored the suggestion, her gaze methodically scanning the animals.

She pulled a small notebook from her pocket—a habit she had adopted from Mary—and consulted her notes.

“We require ewes with strong mothering instincts and good wool quality,”

she said, flipping pages.

“Grandfather’s records show the Thistlewood flock has historically produced excellent lambing rates.”

“Indeed, we have,”

the merchant replied, visibly surprised by her knowledge.

“My father kept meticulous records, as do I.”

“May I see them?”

Lydia asked innocently, though Elizabeth caught the shrewd gleam in her sister’s eye.

“Well, I have not got them here, of course,”

Mr Hargreaves said, his smile faltering.

“But I can assure you—”

“Then perhaps I should examine the animals myself?”

Lydia did not wait for permission but slipped between the wooden rails of the pen with practised ease, her movements confident among the milling sheep.

A passing matron in a feathered bonnet gasped audibly and clutched her reticule.

Mr Thistlewoods shot an alarmed glance at Elizabeth.

“Miss Bennet, this is hardly—”

“My sister has been managing our breeding programme for the past two years,”

Elizabeth replied calmly.

“Grandfather finds her judgement quite sound.”

In the pen, Lydia moved with gentleness among the animals, her hands checking fleece quality with experienced fingers.

She bent to examine teeth and hooves, murmuring soothingly to each ewe as she worked.

Several farmers passing by slowed to watch, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and disapproval.

“Young ladies usually prefer ribbon shops to sheep pens,”

observed Mrs Fairfax to Mrs Long as they passed, their voices pitched to carry.

“Most unnatural interests for a girl of her age.

One wonders what Mrs Bennet is thinking.”

Elizabeth bit back a sharp reply, knowing it would only fuel further gossip.

Instead, she watched as Lydia approached the black-faced ewe Mr Hargreaves had initially suggested.

Lydia ran her hands along the animal’s sides, then bent close to observe its breathing.

After a moment, she straightened and called out, “Elizabeth, would you join me please?”

The unusual formality in her sister’s tone alerted Elizabeth that something was amiss.

She nodded politely and made her way to the pen’s edge.

“Listen,”

Lydia said quietly when Elizabeth drew near.

She placed her hand on the ewe’s side.

“Do you hear that?”

Elizabeth bent closer.

A subtle wheezing sound accompanied each breath the animal took, barely perceptible amid the fair’s noise.

“Early stages of lung fever,”

Lydia murmured, keeping her voice low.

“See how the nostrils flare slightly with each breath? And the mucus here?” She pointed discreetly to the animal’s nose.

“It is not severe yet, but it will be.

Grandfather’s treatise on sheep ailments describes it precisely.”

Elizabeth nodded, impressed, despite being well aware of her sister’s knowledge.

The old Lydia would have been gossiping with Kitty, oblivious to such details.

This new Lydia noticed everything about the animals in her care.

“Mr Thistlewood,”

Elizabeth called, her tone pleasant but firm.

“Might we have a word?”

The merchant approached; his expression wary as he took in the sisters’ serious faces.

“Found a beauty to your liking, have you?”

“This ewe has the early symptoms of lung fever,”

Lydia stated without preamble, her hand still resting on the animal’s side.

“The breathing is laboured, and there’s nasal discharge beginning.

It is subtle, but unmistakable.”

The sheep merchant’s face flushed.

“Nonsense! The girl cannot know what she is talking about.

A bit of dust from the journey, nothing more.

My sheep doctor saw no illness.”

“Perhaps,”

Elizabeth suggested smoothly, “Certainly we could settle the matter by having Mr Peterson examine her? I believe he is judging the cattle today, and his expertise in livestock ailments is well respected.”

The mention of the county’s most respected veterinary surgeon caused the colour to drain from Mr Hargreaves’s face.

Several nearby farmers had stopped to listen, their interest piqued by the confrontation.

“No need to trouble Mr Peterson,”

he muttered.

“Perhaps the animal is feeling a bit poorly.

Travel can be taxing for them.”

“Indeed,”

Lydia agreed, her voice carrying audibly to the onlookers.

“Though one wonders why you would specifically direct me to an animal showing signs of illness when you have so many healthy ones available.” She gestured to the other ewes in the pen.

“That one there, for instance, shows excellent conformation and fleece quality, with no respiratory distress.”

A murmur rippled through the growing crowd.

Elizabeth caught sight of Sir William Lucas among the onlookers, his expression shifting from surprise to something like admiration as he watched Lydia confidently exit the pen.

“My sister has quite a gift for animal husbandry,”

Elizabeth explained to the assembled farmers, her voice pitched to carry.

“Our grandfather has encouraged her natural talents, just as he did with all his granddaughters.” She turned back to Mr Thistlewood.

“We are still in need of three healthy ewes if you wish to sell—provided we may select them ourselves and have them examined by Mr Peterson before finalising the sale.”

The merchant, trapped by circumstance and witnesses, had little choice but to agree.

“Of course, Miss Bennet.

Miss Lydia’s… concerns are noted.

I would never knowingly sell ailing stock.”

“I’m sure you would not,”

Lydia replied with wide-eyed innocence that did not quite mask the knowing gleam in her eye.

“After all, one’s reputation as a breeder depends upon honest dealings.”

As they moved away to find Mr Peterson, Elizabeth leant close to her sister.

“Grandfather will be extremely pleased.

That animal could have introduced disease into our entire flock.”

Lydia’s cheeks flushed with pleasure “Was that not what Mary would call ‘he practical application of theoretical knowledge.’ Grandfather’s book on sheep ailments has the most detailed description of lung fever symptoms.”

“Nevertheless,”

Elizabeth said, “your observation was exceptional.

I saw nothing amiss.”

“You were not meant to,”

Lydia replied with unexpected wisdom.

“He counted on our being too delicate and feminine to crawl about in the pen examining his animals.

Most ladies would simply take his word about which animals were best.”

Elizabeth smiled, remembering the flighty girl her youngest sister had been before responsibility had shaped her into something altogether different.

“Fortunately for Longbourn, we are not most ladies.”

“No indeed,”

Lydia agreed with a grin that momentarily transformed her into the carefree girl she might have been in another life.

“In truth, I miss dancing more than propriety dictates I should.

But there is a satisfaction in this work that I never expected to find.”

As they located Mr Peterson, Elizabeth watched Lydia straighten her shoulders and prepare to address the respected veterinarian with all the confidence of a seasoned breeder.

The transformation was remarkable—from a girl whose only interest had been gossip and ribbons to a young woman who could identify subtle symptoms of illness in livestock and stand her ground against dishonest merchants.

Mr Peterson, his shaggy hair and beard giving him a resemblance to his larger patients, smiled as he greeted them.

“Well, Miss Lydia Bennet, you are turning the sheep market on its ear today.

What have you found?”

“I am suspicious that there is lung fever in one of the ewes we were considering.”

“Lung Fever is it? How did you come to that idea, miss?”

he asked, his shaggy eyebrows twitching.

Lydia explained her observations whilst Mr Peterson nodded.

“It could very well be so, Miss Lydia? How is it that a young lady like yourself seems more knowledgeable than many of the shepherds I see every day?”

Lydia blushed and demurred, by Mr Peterson expressed his genuine interest.

“I did not always know about sheep, you understand,”

she said.

“It began the spring after my father died, when I was but seven years old.”

The house at Longbourn lay quiet as a tomb.

Three days had passed since they had laid father in the churchyard, and Lydia could not bear the weight of the silence another moment.

She slipped away unseen, across the damp meadow that stretched behind the garden, her feet carrying her toward the stone lambing shed at the edge of the property.

The low structure stood weathered and grey against the morning mist, its roof sagging at one corner.

From within came the soft bleating of newborn lambs.

Lydia hesitated at the rough wooden door, then pushed it open just enough to peer inside.

The shed smelled of straw and lanolin and earthy things.

Dim light filtered through small windows cut high in the stone walls.

In the shadows, ewes, and their lambs rested in straw-filled pens.

The air inside the shed was damp and cold, the chill seeping through the thin black fabric of her mourning dress.

“What be ye doing here, miss?”

The voice startled her.

From a dark corner emerged Old Simmons, the Longbourn shepherd.

His face was brown and creased as a walnut, with deep-set eyes nearly hidden beneath bushy grey brows.

He walked with a pronounced stoop, leaning upon a gnarled hawthorn crook polished smooth by decades of use.

Patched woollen clothes hung from his bent frame, and an ancient wide-brimmed hat sat atop his sparse white hair.

“This no place for a young miss like yerself,”

he grumbled, eyeing her suspiciously.

Lydia drew herself up.

“I am not bothering anything,”

she said, lifting her chin in the manner she had observed in her elder sisters.

“I wanted only to see the lambs.”

In a pen nearby, a tiny creature bleated weakly, struggling in the straw.

Beside it lay an ewe, unnaturally still.

Simmons looked toward the sound and shook his head.

“Lost the mother in birthing,”

he said, his gravelly voice matter of fact.

“That one be all alone now.”

Without waiting for permission, Lydia moved to the pen and knelt beside the lamb, heedless of her black mourning dress.

“May I hold him?”

she asked, her voice small.

Simmons frowned deeply, the wrinkles in his face rearranging themselves into new patterns of disapproval.

After a moment, he gave a single nod.

“Hold the neck steady,”

he instructed.

“Them be fragile when new-birthed.”

Lydia gathered the lamb tenderly into her arms.

It was surprisingly warm, its body trembling against her chest.

Something in the weight of it, the soft vulnerability, made her throat tighten painfully.

“What shall happen to him now?”

she asked, stroking the damp wool.

“Need feeding by hand,”

Simmons replied.

“Every few hours, day, and night both.

Hard work, that.”

“I shall do it,”

Lydia said suddenly.

Simmons made a sound halfway between a snort and a cough.

“Begging yer pardon, miss, but gentle-bred young ladies do not—”

“I am not afraid of work,”

Lydia interrupted, a strange fierceness rising in her that she did not fully understand.

She looked down at the lamb, then back at the shepherd, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“I… perhaps I might… be of some use.”

The old shepherd regarded her for a long moment, something shifting in his weathered face.

“It not just feeding,”

he said slowly.

“There be much to learn about sheep-keeping.”

“Then I shall learn,”

Lydia said.

“I shall come every day.”

“Yer mother would not approve such doings.”

“Mamma scarcely notices what any of us do these days,”

Lydia replied, the truth of childhood cutting through propriety.

She looked up at him, the lamb cradled against her.

“Please, Mr Simmons.”

After what seemed an eternity, the old shepherd nodded once.

“Dawn tomorrow,”

he said gruffly.

“Do not be tardy.

Sheep wait for no one, miss, not even them in mourning.”

Lydia held the lamb more securely.

“What shall I call him?”

“Do not name it,”

Simmons warned, his voice stern.

“That be livestock, not some pet.”

But as Lydia gazed into the lamb’s dark eyes, she whispered words too soft for the shepherd to hear:

“Snowdrop.

Because you were hidden in the snow storm, but I found you.”

When Grandfather learnt of Lydia’s newfound interest, he put a stop to her sisters’ teasing.

“Aunt Eleanor would approve,”

he remarked quietly, observing Lydia’s confident handling of the shepherd’s crook.

“She always said women make the most careful shepherds, being accustomed to watching over those who do not know what’s best for them.”

The last rays of winter sunlight filtered through the leaded glass of the window, casting long shadows across the Aubusson carpet as Mr Darcy stood in contemplation.

The crisp paper of Bingley’s letter rustled between his gloved fingers, its seal broken and its contents still commanding his attention.

His friend’s earnest entreaty to attend the forthcoming ball at Netherfield had disturbed the careful tranquillity he had attempted to cultivate since quitting Hertfordshire.

The sharp rap of boots upon the marble floor announced Colonel Fitzwilliam’s arrival.

The scent of cold winter air still clung to his military coat as he entered the study.

“I see you have taken up brooding as your constant occupation, cousin.”

Mr Darcy turned from his position at the window, the dying sunlight casting his features in shadow.

“I am considering a matter of social obligation,”

he said, placing the letter within his coat pocket with deliberate care.

“Bingley has requested my presence at Netherfield again.”

“Ah, in Hertfordshire.”

The Colonel removed his gloves, warming his hands before the crackling fire.

A slight smile played about his features.

“You have spoken of that county with marked interest, of late.

Did you not mention an unusual family of sisters who manage their father’s estate?”

“The Bennets.”

Mr Darcy’s voice remained measured, although his fingers traced the edge of the letter in his pocket.

“Their situation is most singular.”

“Singular enough to have captured your particular notice, it would seem.”

The Colonel settled into a leather armchair, the wood creaking beneath him.

“You spoke with especial attention of one sister - Miss Elizabeth, was it not?”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,”

Mr Darcy acknowledged, his boots making a measured rhythm upon the carpet as he began to pace.

“She exhibits a keen grasp of overseeing and improving land and holdings, although her situation is rather unconventional for a lady.”

“And this causes you disquiet?”

The Colonel’s shrewd gaze followed his cousin’s movement.

“It ought to discompose any gentleman concerned with proper order,”

Mr Darcy replied.

The fire hissed and popped in the grate as he continued.

“Five unmarried ladies performing duties better suited to a steward, their financial circumstances uncertain despite their evident capability.

Yet they appear wholly unconcerned with securing their futures through advantageous matches.”

“Perhaps they have found satisfaction in their mastery of these responsibilities,”

the Colonel observed.

“Not unlike a certain gentleman of my acquaintance who prefers to oversee Pemberley’s affairs personally rather than entrusting all to stewards.”

Darcy halted his pacing, his reflection barely visible in the darkening window.

“You cannot suggest the situations bear comparison.”

“Can I not? A devotion to one’s duties, a strong sense of responsibility, a preference for direct governance rather than distant supervision.”

The Colonel’s eyes held a knowing glint.

“I begin to comprehend why Miss Elizabeth might have drawn your particular regard.”

“I fear I have not yet reconciled myself to the notion.”

Mr Darcy’s hand moved of its own accord to the pocket containing Bingley’s letter.

The rich aroma of roasted meat wafted through the doorway as Percy, the butler, appeared silently.

“Dinner is served, sir.”

As they made their way toward the dining room, their footsteps measured against the marble floor, Colonel Fitzwilliam murmured, “You must allow, Darcy, that unconventional approaches sometimes lead to the most remarkable outcomes.

The more customary avenues have, after all, proved unavailing in your case.”

The Colonel’s eyes glinted with a familiar mischief.

Darcy’s stride faltered, a barely perceptible hesitation that only one well acquainted with him might notice.

His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides before he clasped them deliberately behind his back.

Fitzwilliam’s words settled upon him, unsettling in their truth.

Yet whether such a notion could breach the fortress of habit and duty he had long upheld remained to be seen.

Bingley’s letter seemed to press against his chest as they entered the dining room, where Miss Darcy awaited them.

After greeting her cousin and brother as the first course was laid before them, Georgiana spoke.

“I hope Mr Bingley’s letter contained no ill news.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyes sparkled over his wine glass.

“Our cousin has been summoned to attend a ball at Netherfield.

In Hertfordshire.”

“Hertfordshire!”

Georgiana’s face brightened with interest.

“Where you encountered those remarkable ladies who manage their estate? Oh, might I not accompany you, brother? I should dearly love to meet them.”

Mr Darcy set down his soup spoon with careful precision.

“You are not yet out in society, dearest.

Moreover, the journey would be most taxing at this time of year.”

“Will Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst be present?”

Georgiana pressed, her enthusiasm dimming visibly at the mention of the ladies.

“They shall indeed attend their brother’s ball,”

Mr Darcy confirmed, noting his sister’s fallen countenance with concern.

“Then perhaps it is for the best,”

Georgiana murmured, turning her attention to her soup with diminished appetite.

The clink of silver on porcelain filled the pause.

Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced between the siblings, understanding passing across his features.

“Come now, Darcy, you cannot mean to deny yourself the pleasure of the ball solely to avoid certain company.

I have rarely seen you so animated as when speaking of your time in Hertfordshire.”

Mr Darcy studied the play of candlelight upon his wine glass, his thoughts in turbulent motion.

The image of Elizabeth Bennet when he first saw her at the drainage pools, her quick mind grasping complex matters of land management, rose unbidden in his mind.

“Perhaps,”

he spoke at length, the words coming slowly, “I have observed in Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her sisters a particular sort of capability that might prove instructive.

And yet…” He paused, imagining his Uncle Matlock’s thunderous expression at the notion of his niece associating with young ladies who tramped about their estate discussing crop rotation and managing livestock.

“Their situation has required them to adopt practices that many would consider quite beyond the bounds of propriety for genteel ladies.”

“Yet you yourself have praised their understanding,”

Georgiana ventured, her fingers twisting her napkin.

“And you cannot deny, brother, there can be no impropriety in learning to manage one’s affairs with intelligence and grace?”

“I expect that Lord and Lady Matlock would disapprove of such connections,”

Darcy replied, with uncertainty.

“They would consider such associations beneath your station, dearest.”

“Your Aunt and uncle,”

Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected dryly, “would also consider it beneath your station to inspect your own fields rather than relying upon stewards, yet you have always conducted yourself on the principle that direct knowledge of one’s responsibilities is essential to diligent management.”

The observation struck home.

Darcy fell silent.

The candlelight caught Georgiana’s hopeful expression, like their mother’s, and for a moment he allowed himself to imagine his sister finding friendship with the Bennet ladies, gaining confidence through their example of capability and independence.

The notion both drew his interest and disturbed his equanimity.

Where so many hours had been spent in convincing himself that he was right, was there not some reason to fear he may be wrong?