Page 36 of The Mercy of Chance

M r Collins paced the narrow confines of his study at Hunsford, each turn marked by the rustle of increasingly desperate correspondence from Lady Catherine.

His latest attempt to document mismanagement at Longbourn had met with polite scepticism from Mr Cole, his most reliable parishioner, who served as steward on the area’s most prosperous estate, a fact never mentioned to Lady Catherine..

“But you must see, Mr Cole, such methods of directing water must prove ruinous to the fields?”

“On the contrary, sir,”

Cole had replied with the patience of one explaining basic principles to a child, “These methods you describe are well established.

Some date back to the Romans.

Most large holdings require careful construction of connected culverts or the like to ensure that rain does not destroy plantings and that run off is not wasted when it might be used for irrigation.

The new channels on this plan would appear to have improved drainage considerably.

Even the lower meadow, which look to tend to flood each spring, would remain workable through the worst rains.”

“But women have set these out—mere girls, who have no more sense than nature bestows upon a songbird, yet they chirp most confidently upon subjects beyond their understanding.

How could this possibly be acceptable?”

Mr Cole shook his head.

“My dear Mr Collins, the fairer sex possesses, in nine cases of ten, a quickness of understanding which some gentlemen find most alarming.

One suspects the insistence upon female intellectual inferiority stems from a recognition of this very superiority.”

“Superiority? Are you bereft of your senses? The natural order established by Divine Providence has decreed that woman should be subservient to man, as Eve was formed from Adam's rib, not as his equal but as his helpmeet.

A woman's delicate constitution and nervous sensibility render her wholly unsuited to matters beyond domestic concerns.

To suggest that the weaker vessel might possess superior understanding or capacity for governance is not merely folly but borders upon blasphemy!”

Mr Collins could not maintain his sermon giving posture but stormed about the room with.

all the grace and delicacy of an enraged bull loosed among the finest porcelain at Wedgwood's establishment.

Mr Cole stood and bowed minimally.

“I shall take my leave forthwith.

I entreat you, do not relate these views to Mrs Cole.

Our domestic tranquility could scarcely withstand such a revelation.”

The fire in the Netherfield library burned low, casting long shadows across the book-lined walls.

Darcy stood before it, a glass of brandy in one hand, his other clenched behind his back as he stared into the embers.

Colonel Fitzwilliam lounged nearby with apparent indolence, though his eyes tracked every movement of his cousin with quiet scrutiny.

The door creaked open, and Georgiana entered.

Her expression was composed, but there was a tension in her bearing that drew both men to immediate attention.

“Brother, Fitzwilliam,”

she said, “may I speak with you? With both of you?”

Darcy turned at once.

“Of course.

I trust it does not herald some distressing matter?”

She hesitated only a moment, then stepped forward with resolution.

“No.

However, it concerns Mr Wickham.”

Darcy’s brows shot up.

“Wickham?”

His tone sharpened.

“What of him?”

“He is in Meryton,”

Georgiana said quietly.

“I saw him this morning.”

“You—what?”

The glass in Darcy’s hand was set down; the heavy crystal thudding dully against the sideboard, mirroring the thud of his heart “You saw him? He is here?”

Fitzwilliam straightened, suddenly alert.

“Good God. When?”

“Lydia Bennet and I were walking with Kitty,”

Georgiana explained.

“We had just turned into the main street when he appeared from a shop.

He had not yet seen us.

I… I reacted poorly at first.”

“Georgiana,”

Darcy said, already crossing the room to her.

“You ought never have been exposed to him again, not without warning—how did I not know—how dare he be in Hertfordshire without my knowledge.”

“He avoided the ball,”

Georgiana interjected.

“Lydia believes he stayed away knowing you were there.”

“Clearly he was not deterred enough!”

Darcy burst out, then immediately checked himself.

“Forgive me.

Are you harmed? Did he approach you?”

“I am well.”

Georgiana drew a breath.

“Lydia intervened.

She placed herself between us.

He tried to approach, but she…” Her lips curved faintly.

“She managed the affair with perfect composure.”

“Managed it?”

Fitzwilliam echoed, half a smile rising.

“What precisely did Miss Lydia do?”

“She stepped forward and announced, in her usual bright voice, that Mr Wickham had been ‘deeper in debt than the ocean is deep’ following last night’s card game at the tavern, and that he was likely to sink.

Then she informed him that you, cousin, are ‘ferocious in your protection’ of me and had once challenged a man to a duel for looking at me improperly.”

Fitzwilliam barked a laugh.

“I have done no such thing.”

“She did say it was mediaeval,”

Georgiana added, “but understandable in ancient families like ours.” Her eyes sparkled despite herself.

“Then she remarked that you have ‘the stare of a hawk and the memory of an elephant.’”

Fitzwilliam looked delighted.

“I must make Miss Lydia’s better acquaintance.”

But Darcy had gone still.

“And Wickham?”

“He attempted to sneer, but Lydia did not give him the chance.

She said Miss Darcy’s circle is ‘rather selective,’ and that he had been ‘weighed, measured, and found remarkably lightweight.’”

Fitzwilliam gave a low whistle.

“Savage.

And in public, too, I hope?”

“Very much so,”

Georgiana confirmed.

“Mr Carter and Captain Morris both witnessed it.

I believe Lieutenant Denny even tipped his hat in approval.”

Darcy, however, did not share in their amusement.

His face was pale, his expression stark.

“I brought you here,”

he said, “to offer you a respite from Town.

I thought Hertfordshire would be safe.

I never imagined he would come here—not after…” He trailed off, voice thickening.

“Brother,”

Georgiana said, stepping forward.

“You could not have known.”

“But I should have,”

Darcy insisted.

“It was my duty to see you safe.

I ought to have inquired more thoroughly.

To have noticed—”

“He did not touch me.

He barely addressed me,”

she said firmly.

“And I was not alone.”

Darcy’s eyes lifted to hers, haunted.

“Still.

To think you were made to face him, without warning—”

“And I faced him,”

Georgiana replied gently, “with friends beside me.

Lydia did not falter.

I did not faint.

You gave me that strength.

And perhaps… so did she.”

Fitzwilliam cleared his throat.

“It seems Miss Lydia has appointed herself your sister’s champion.

With remarkable effectiveness.”

Darcy turned toward the fire again, his voice low.

“I once thought her frivolous.

But she has proved more discerning than half the officers in Wickham’s regiment.”

“More than all of them,”

Georgiana said, with a rare flash of steel.

At last, Fitzwilliam leant back in his chair and folded his hands.

“Well, cousin.

What do you intend?”

Darcy looked between them.

“He will not remain in Meryton.

I will see to that.”

“Let us hope,”

said Georgiana, “that he will think twice before crossing the Bennet ladies again—he can never hope to charm them, after all.”

“It has been sold?”

Elizabeth’s voice cracked despite her efforts at composure.

The study seemed suddenly airless, the leather chairs too confining.

“But we had no official word it was even being considered!”

“A private transaction.”

Uncle Phillips explained, shuffling his papers with practised precision.

“The purchaser, a concern from London, arranged everything through it’s solicitor with remarkable speed.”

Mr Bennet’s voice remained steady.

“The house would have made an excellent situation for the ladies,”

he said, watching his granddaughter from beneath hooded eyes.

“More comfortable than the Lodge, certainly.

After considerable repair.”

“The Lodge will serve,”

Elizabeth said firmly, although her fingers twisted in her lap.

“We have already begun moving the more valuable pieces there - Mamma’s favourite chairs, Mary’s pianoforte, the paintings that are not entailed…”

“And the account books?”

Mr Phillips asked delicately.

“Secured, along with all documentation of our improvements and purchases for the past five years.”

Elizabeth’s chin lifted.

“Mr Collins may inherit Longbourn, but he will not find himself equal to our current prosperity.”

“Very wise,”

Mr Phillips nodded.

“And the deeds and plans?”

“Copies are secured at the Lodge.

The originals will remain at Longbourn–they are too integral to the estate’s operation to remove without raising suspicion.”

Elizabeth’s voice held barely contained frustration.

“Although I still think if we had managed to secure the Dunbar Court properties…”

“All is not lost, my dear,”

her grandfather said softly.

His eyes held a glimmer of their old sparkle, although Elizabeth was too absorbed in her disappointment to notice.

“We have weathered worse storms than this.

The Lodge will serve for now, and who knows what the future might bring?”

He did not mention the letter locked in his desk, the one bearing Darcy’s distinctive seal, explaining his purchase by his holding company.

Some things, they had decided, were better left to work themselves out naturally.

Although watching his beloved granddaughter struggle with her disappointment tested his resolve to keep Darcy’s secret.

“Notwithstanding these considerations, Mr Collins’s threatened lawsuit about your competency is unlikely to succeed,”

Mr Phillips offered.

“Sir William’s testimonial to your sound management these past years, combined with Mr Darcy’s rather forceful assistance…”

“Mr Darcy has been… surprisingly helpful,”

Elizabeth admitted, her expression softening before she caught herself.

“Although we cannot rely on gentleman’s assistance forever.

We must secure our own position.”

“And so, we shall,”

her grandfather assured her, patting her hand.

The late autumn sun slanted through the windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Elizabeth stared out at the garden below, unaware that the very man she was trying so hard not to think about had just secured her family’s future comfort.

Her grandfather watched her with fond understanding, reminded of his own youth and the sometimes-circuitous path love took to find its way.

Rumours of Mr Wickham’s sudden and complete departure spread through the town with the enthusiasm usually reserved for harvest feasts and scandalous sermons.

Miss Henrietta Thorpe was reportedly “in a decline,”

having been convinced for three weeks that an offer was imminent.

Several tradesmen were seen celebrating with ale after receiving unexpected payments clearing Wickham’s substantial debts—payments whispered to have been arranged discreetly by “that tall gentleman from London.”

No one needed to speculate about what had passed that morning on the high street—Captain Morris and Lieutenant Denny had witnessed the entire exchange, and by midday, the details were making the rounds of Meryton with the efficiency of a market bell.

That Mr Wickham had been “utterly vanquished”

was beyond dispute.

What raised more than a few eyebrows—though not in disapproval—was the cold efficiency with which Miss Lydia Bennet had delivered the blow.

Long known for her shrewdness in livestock matters and her singular success in breeding Southdowns and Merinos that fetched record prices at the spring fair, Miss Lydia was spoken of as a young woman whose judgement extended beyond sheep to scoundrels.

“It is the same eye for flaws,”

remarked Mr Bentham, the ageing wool merchant.

“She sees right through poor structure—whether on four legs or two.”

“She has always had good instincts,”

Mrs Long declared over her tea, “but now it is clear she knows how to use them.”

Even Miss Prentice, the dressmaker’s daughter with a fondness for red coats and romantic fiction, was heard to say, “If I had her wits last year, I might have spared myself a world of disappointment.”

Mr Wickham, for his part, left Meryton within two days.

The militia, when pressed, confirmed only that he had received “a sudden posting elsewhere.”

No one mourned the loss.

And as for Miss Lydia Bennet—it was as if Meryton had finally taken the full measure of her—and determined her destined for more than they had yet imagined.

Lady Catherine sat rigid in her morning chair at Rosings, each tap of her fan punctuating Collins’s increasingly desperate attempts to document mismanagement at Longbourn.

“You mean to tell me,”

she pronounced with dangerous refinement, “that these new drainage methods have actually improved the lower fields?”

“Most inexplicably, your Ladyship.”

Collins shifted beneath her arctic gaze.

“Mr Cole was most unhelpful in confirming our expectations of failure.

He went as far as to suggest that the spring planting might proceed earlier than usual, owing to the improved drainage.”

“Earlier planting.”

Her fan executed a decisive flourish.

“And I suppose these agricultural innovations continue to attract my nephew’s attention?”

“Most unfortunately, your Ladyship.

Mr Darcy was observed just recently examining the new channels with…”

Collins hedged delicately, “with rather marked approval.”

The fan’s rhythm faltered precisely two beats.

“We require more concrete evidence of mismanagement, Mr Collins.

The court will not be moved by theoretical objections to female capability.”

“Perhaps…”

Collins licked his lips nervously, “perhaps if certain failures were to become more… apparent?”

“Apparent?”

Lady Catherine’s gaze sharpened with sudden interest.

“One hears of accidents occurring over the winter,”

Collins ventured, warming to his theme.

“Natural deterioration of drainage works, particularly during the thaw…”

“One does indeed hear of such things.”

Her fan stilled completely.

“Although arranging such… natural occurrences might prove costly.”

Collins fingered the purse at his waist, heavy with her latest advancement.

“Your Ladyship’s generosity has been most…”

“Must not be squandered on mere speculation,”

she cut in.

“If certain demonstrations of incompetence were to occur, they must appear entirely… organic.”

“I believe I could locate certain individuals who understand such delicate matters,”

Collins offered, his usual pomposity somewhat tempered by the magnitude of what he was proposing.

Lady Catherine’s fan resumed its steady rhythm.

“I neither need nor wish to know the particulars, Mr Collins.

I merely observe that evidence of mismanagement would prove most useful to our cause.

How such evidence manifests itself is entirely your concern.”

“Of course, your Ladyship.

Although if neighbouring properties were to suffer some slight inconvenience in the process…”

“Incidental misfortune," she pronounced with aristocratic precision, "must occasionally be countenanced in the restoration of rightful order.”