Page 33 of The Mercy of Chance

M iss Elizabeth.”

Mr Darcy stood before her, his unexpected appearance causing her heart to leap traitorously.

“If you are not otherwise engaged, might I request your hand for the first set?”

The words seemed to bypass her usual careful consideration.

“You may,”

she heard herself say, even as her mind raced to make sense of his unexpected arrival and even more unexpected request.

He bowed and withdrew immediately into the crowd, leaving Elizabeth to stare after his retreating figure.

Her composure, so recently recovered from the Bingley sisters’ barbs, felt thoroughly overthrown.

“I dare say you will find him very agreeable,”

Charlotte offered, although her expression suggested she understood perfectly well why Elizabeth looked so discomposed.

Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her warm cheeks.

To have him appear so suddenly, when she had convinced herself he would not attend - and now to face a full half hour of conversation whilst endeavouring to disregard the effect of his presence upon her sensibilities.

It was a trial well-nigh beyond endurance.

The first strains of music called the dancers to their places.

Mr Bingley led her sister to the head of the set, whilst Mr Darcy appeared at Elizabeth’s elbow to claim her hand.

His touch, cool from the night air was startlingly sure.

She felt Miss Bingley’s sharp gaze follow them as they took their places, noted the lady’s lips compress into a thin line as she whispered something to Mrs Hurst.

“Have the new drainage works at Longbourn proved effective, Miss Elizabeth?”

Mr Darcy enquired as they moved through the first figure.

Elizabeth felt a bubble of near-hysterical laughter rise in her throat.

“Yes, they have, but—I cannot talk of drainage in a ballroom; my head is always full of something else.”

She caught a glimpse of his startled expression as they turned, and added with more composure, “Although I appreciate your interest in our improvements.”

“There is a person at the party,”

he continued after a pause, his expression softening, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you.

Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during the evening?”

Elizabeth nearly missed a step in her surprise.

“Miss Darcy is here? I should be honoured to make her acquaintance, though…”

She hesitated, then continued with careful frankness, “I find myself surprised that you would wish to expose your sister to ladies whose situation requires such… unusual occupations.”

Mr Darcy’s countenance grew thoughtful as they turned through the figure.

“I have determined,”

he said at length, speaking with evident care, “that appreciation of one’s obligations, and the courage to meet them directly, ought not to be considered improper merely because they depart from common custom.

Indeed, I find myself persuaded that my sister would be well served by the acquaintance of young ladies who demonstrate such admirable capability and independence of mind.”

Their hands met briefly in the dance, and Elizabeth felt the warmth in his next words.

“Georgiana has been too long constrained by notions of what a young lady ought to be, rather than encouraged to become what she might be.”

They turned through another figure before Mr Darcy observed, “I note you and Miss Bennet are the only ones of your sisters dancing this set.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed.

“Our neighbours have grown… particular in their social engagements.”

Something flickered in Mr Darcy’s expression—dismay, Elizabeth thought—though his face remained composed.

He made no immediate reply, but as the dance concluded, he led her back to her sister Jane, then turned to her with evident purpose.

“Miss Elizabeth, Miss Bennet, my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam has accompanied us this evening, along with my sister.

Might I present them to you?”

The Colonel, who had been hovering nearby with ill-concealed amusement at his cousin’s formality, stepped forward and executed a graceful bow.

“Miss Elizabeth, I have heard much of your family’s admirable management of Longbourn.”

Jane turned at the sound of his voice and offered a graceful curtsy.

The Colonel’s bow was as correct as it was attentive, and when his eyes met hers, his expression softened.

Elizabeth, observing with a sister’s intuition, noted the flicker of something quietly appreciative in his glance.

“Miss Bennet,”

he said with courtly warmth, his gaze lingering a moment longer than strict propriety required.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And this,”

Mr Darcy continued, his manner showing uncharacteristic uncertainty as he gestured to a tall, slender, fair-haired girl at his side, “is my sister, Miss Darcy.

Georgiana, Miss Elizabeth has expressed an earnest wish to make your acquaintance.”

Miss Darcy’s curtsy was graceful, if anxious.

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth.

My brother speaks most highly of your family.”

Elizabeth watched as Mr Darcy then moved to speak quietly with Mr Bingley.

Within moments, the pattern of the evening shifted.

Mr Darcy led his sister to the floor.

Mr Bingley approached Kitty with a bow, whilst Colonel Fitzwilliam claimed Mary’s hand for the set.

Her reddened cheeks and wide eyes reflected her shock at being singled out.

Each set brought a fresh partnership.

Mr Darcy danced with Kitty, his grave attention to her conversation causing her usual nervous laugh to settle into something more composed.

Mr Bingley’s evident delight in Jane’s company surprised no one, but his cheerful solicitude to Lydia during their set drew notice from the local gentry.

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s skilled leading made Mary’s precise steps appear more graceful.

Jane, graceful and composed as ever, conversed amiably with all, yet her gaze wandered often—no more than a heartbeat’s glance—toward the Colonel, who was engaged in conversation with Mary.

Something in his bearing—so steady, so unassuming—called to a different part of her nature than Mr Bingley’s ever-ready enthusiasm.

Bingley was charming, certainly, but often seemed to take his cue from those around him. The Colonel, by contrast, gave the impression of a man who moved according to inner principles.

Miss Bingley’s expression grew increasingly sour as she observed this determined campaign, particularly when the Colonel claimed Elizabeth for a set instead of seeking her own company.

She stalked toward her brother to register her displeasure, however he simply encouraged her to “enjoy the evening.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manner was all easy charm, yet his questions held a peculiar precision.

“You enjoy estate management, I collect? And my cousin has been most helpful in discussing improvements?”

“Mr Darcy has shown great understanding of our situation,”

Elizabeth replied.

“Yes, he appears to have developed quite an interest in Hertfordshire’s agricultural methods,”

the Colonel observed with a meaningful look.

“Although perhaps it is not only the agriculture that interests him.”

Elizabeth was unable to make a comfortable reply to this observation, although she could not help but wonder at the Colonel’s evident amusement - and at the searching quality of his gaze whenever it fell upon his cousin.

After dancing with Elizabeth, the Colonel claimed Mrs Bennet’s hand.

“My dear lady, I have yet to see you stand up this evening.

That cannot be borne.

Why, you are as handsome as any of your daughters!”

Elizabeth smiled and her mother’s eyes sparkled like a girl’s.

“Such a distinguished air,”

Mrs Bennet confided when she returned to Elizabeth, fanning herself.

“It puts me in mind of Captain Morris, who was stationed in Meryton when I was but seventeen.

I thought he would be the one for me, but he went off to another assignment with nary a goodbye.

Of course, your father was by far more eligible…”

Elizabeth was struck by how little she knew of her parents’ courtship, and their youth.

Before she could take up the topic, Mr Bingley begged her hand for the next set.

None of the Bennet ladies lacked partners that evening.

The notice taken of them by the Netherfield gentlemen encouraged the local lads to seek out the lovely if unconventional Bennet daughters.

As the evening drew on, Mrs Bennet engaged in animated conversation with a distinguished gentleman she recognised as Mr Freeman, a widower who owned a comfortable estate north of Meryton.

His grey hair was still thick, and although he walked with a slight limp—the result of an old riding accident, it was said—he carried himself with the confident ease of a man accustomed to good society.

At two and fifty, he was perhaps a decade older than Mrs Bennet, but his attentive posture and ready smile spoke of a man not yet resigned to solitude.

“Our mother seems well acquainted with Mr Freeman,”

Jane observed quietly as they gathered their things.

“They were in conversation for nearly half an hour,”

Elizabeth replied.

“I had not realised they were such particular friends.”

Mrs Bennet approached them then, her cheeks flushed pleasantly.

“Girls, Mr Freeman has just informed me that he frequently rides past Longbourn on his way to Meryton.

He serves as a magistrate, you know, and has considerable influence over local affairs.”

“How fortunate,”

Jane remarked with a gentle smile.

“He has promised to accompany our carriage part of the way on our return home,”

Mrs Bennet added, adjusting her shawl with unusual care.

“He mentioned something about ensuring we arrive safely, with the roads being what they are after the recent rains.”

“Such a sensible man,”

Mrs Bennet continued.

“Did you know he has improved the chimneys at Freeman Manor? And he keeps no less than four excellent horses.

He was telling me about the new milliner’s shop opening in Meryton next week—as a magistrate, he approves all such establishments.”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane as their mother continued to enumerate Mr Freeman’s various virtues.

There was a lightness to Mrs Bennet’s manner that Elizabeth had not observed in some time—a spark of something beyond her usual practicality and occasional fretting.

“He is calling on your grandfather tomorrow to discuss some matter of local governance,”

Mrs Bennet added with studied casualness.

“I expect I shall need to receive him, as your grandfather finds calls taxing.”

The pattern of the country dance wove Mary and Mr Fairfield together and apart, their conversation fragmenting and reforming with each figure.

Mr Fairfield’s scholarly demeanour seemed somehow more pronounced in evening dress rather than lessened by it.

“I had hoped - that is, I wondered if you might have considered my observations regarding the gypsum trials?”

His words tumbled out during their first turn, his natural precision giving way to evident discomposure.

“Indeed, I had given them considerable thought,”

Mary replied, her gravity softening at his earnestness.

“Perhaps, however, a ball is not the appropriate venue for such discussions.”

“Oh! Of course.

Most inappropriate.

I should speak of more conventional matters.”

He managed the next figure with more attention to his feet than his partner.

The dance brought them together again.

“Miss Bennet, I find myself quite incapable of maintaining the expected social pleasantries when faced with the opportunity for meaningful discourse.”

“A failing we appear to share, Mr Fairfield.”

Their hands met briefly in the next movement.

“You are remarkably generous to my social insufficiency.”

His genuine smile transformed his features.

“Rarely have I found a companion with such understanding.”

“Understanding seems a more worthy pursuit than mere social grace.”

Mary surprised herself with the admission.

They separated for the figure, his response lost to distance.

When they rejoined, his eyes held an earnest intensity.

“I should like to continue our discussions.

About soil composition, naturally.”

“Naturally,”

Mary agreed, her usual gravity warming.

“And perhaps we might occasionally venture into other topics of mutual interest.”

His step faltered.

“I should like that very much.

If you would permit such academic exploration.”

The expression in his dark eyes was unlike any Mary Bennet had seen before in the face of a gentleman.

It put her in mind of the admiring gazes so often directed at her sister, Jane, yet somehow more….

something.

As the dance drew to a close, Mary blushed under Mr Fairfield’s intense regard.

She cleared her throat and attempted to bring them back to conversation.

“I believe careful study of any worthwhile subject requires dedication.”

His bow was somewhat ungraceful, but his smile illuminated his entire countenance.

“Then I look forward to our future scholarly exchanges, Miss Bennet.”

Mary discovered, to her considerable pleasure, that the prospect of such exchanges made a ball seem rather less frivolous than usual.

“I own, Miss Bennet.”

He offered her a glass of punch.

“I had not expected to continue our discussion of soil chemistry at a ball.

I imagined that you might consider such topics unsuitable for the occasion.”

“For some, it might be, but I am not an enthusiast of frivolity.

While others discuss the weather, we might as well discuss something of substance.

Your theories regarding gypsum application, for instance, require further examination.”

“Do they indeed?”

His green eyes sparkled.

“How fortunate that this evening affords us several minutes for scholarly debate.”

“Although perhaps not long enough for a thorough analysis of your methodology.

I noted several questionable assumptions in your last presentation.”

“Did you?”

He guided her towards a group of chairs near the balcony, his touch perfectly correct yet somehow warming through her glove.

“I find myself increasingly convinced that my assumptions require… challenging.”

Mary replied, her usual gravity slipping.

“It is quite scientific of you to welcome rigorous examination of your preconceptions.”

“I find,”

he murmured as they sat together, “that certain preconceptions become quite impossible to maintain upon closer study.”

“Although such technical discussions might prove tedious to the general company,”

she demurred.

“I say let the general company do as they please.

I find nothing tedious about intellectual discourse with a knowledgeable partner.”

The warmth in his voice made Mary’s cheeks heat traitorously.

“Perhaps you might share your findings regarding soil composition?”

“You wish to discuss soil now, Mr Fairfield?”

“I wish to discuss whatever interests you, Miss Bennet.”

The directness of his gaze made her breath catch.

“Your evident expertise in agricultural chemistry rather enhances the appeal of the topic.” The warmth of his smile indicated an interest in a rather different sort of chemistry.

Mary was quite unable to formulate a suitably serious response.

Mr Blackwood, with a timing that suggested some forethought, reached Kitty just as the set began.

His fair hair was disordered, and his cravat bore the mark of one who had tied it more in haste than confidence, as though he had wrestled it into submission only moments before.

“Miss Bennet,”

he said with a quick bow, “might I claim this set, if you are not otherwise engaged?”

Kitty glanced toward the dance floor, where Lydia was already leading a lively reel with Captain Morris, and Mary sat contentedly near the musicians, conversing with Mr Fairfield.

“You may,”

she said with a small smile, placing her hand in his.

As they joined the line, Mr Blackwood fumbled for a conversational opening.

“I—I much enjoyed the arrangement of winter jasmine in the garlands.

Remarkably aromatic.”

“It is,”

Kitty agreed.

“It is used in soothing infusions, did you know? We’ve a bit of it growing near the old stone wall at Longbourn—Grandfather says the scent is good for sleep, so I dry some with the lavender.”

“Useful knowledge,”

he said seriously.

“I have been reading Culpeper’s Herbal.

It is outdated, but fascinating.

Did you know marjoram was once thought to ease melancholy?”

“I’ve used it in headache tinctures,”

Kitty said, pleasantly surprised.

“And I add a bit to teas when Lydia is fretful, though she never notices.”

They separated briefly in the figure, then rejoined, his eyes alight with curiosity.

“I would like to hear more about your preparations—if you would not find it tiresome.”

“Not at all,”

she said, cheeks warming.

“It is rare anyone asks.”

Later that evening, Mr Blackwood was not the only gentleman to claim Kitty’s hand.

She danced once with Lieutenant Carter, who complimented her clever retort to Miss Prentice’s nonsense about brocade, and once with Mr Turner, the curate’s nephew, who proved unable to distinguish between sarcasm and sincerity, but tried earnestly to keep up.

But it was Mr Blackwood who returned near the end of the evening, shyly asking if she might identify the plant used in the green ribbons along the mantelpiece.

She smiled and leant closer to inspect it.

“Not laurel,”

she murmured.

“Bay.

Slightly different leaf.

Bay soothes the stomach, but I would not hang it too near a fire—it smells bitter when scorched.”

He looked at her as though she had recited poetry.

“Most instructive,”

he said quietly.

“Miss Bennet… might I call one afternoon? I have a question about pennyroyal.”

Kitty tried not to grin.

“If it is for a tisane, you had best ask my grandfather.

But if it is about calming restlessness in dogs or younger sisters, I’ve had some success.”

His answering laugh was warm and genuine—and Kitty felt like something more than someone’s younger sister.