Page 37 of The Mercy of Chance

T he morning of departure dawned grey and damp, a fine mist softening the outlines of the Netherfield grounds.

Trunks were strapped to carriages, final instructions relayed to servants, and the drawing room bore the unmistakable hush of farewells.

Miss Bingley surveyed the preparations with a pinched expression.

“How unfortunate that you must rush off just as the company begins to settle.

Perhaps you might linger until the weather is more promising?”

she asked, her smile tight.

“One might think you were fleeing Hertfordshire.”

Darcy’s nod was courteous.

“We are not troubled by the rain.”

Georgiana thanked Miss Bingley with perfect civility but said no more.

She had grown quieter these past days—but not from shyness.

Her silences had taken on the quality of observation, and as she watched her brother glance toward the window—where the path toward Longbourn disappeared into the mist—her eyes softened.

“You are not quite as you were,”

she said as he settled across from him in the carriage.

“It suits you.”

Darcy looked at her, faintly amused.

“No longer insufferable, then?”

A trace of a smile touched her lips.

“I should not presume to say.

Only that… something in you feels easier.”

Georgiana settled onto the squabs, smoothing her gloves.

“You listen more closely.

And speak with less certainty.

You no longer seem so sure the world must arrange itself around you.”

He raised a brow.

“A stinging compliment.”

She smiled.

“Not at all.

Only that your pride once made it difficult for others to reach you.

That seems… less true now.”

Darcy had no reply, but the faint crease between his brows softened as he took his seat beside her.

Colonel Fitzwilliam joined them a moment later, shaking the damp from his coat before settling in across from them.

“You are unusually quiet this morning,”

Darcy said.

“I am attempting,”

the Colonel said mildly, brushing a spot of lint from his cuff, “to turn my thoughts to London business.

And not dwell on certain countryside impressions that have no practical end.”

Darcy glanced at him but said nothing.

Georgiana looked between them, her tone thoughtful.

“Some impressions leave more of a mark than one expects.”

Fitzwilliam gave a brief smile.

“And some are best left unpursued.”

She hesitated.

“Miss Bennet spoke with real interest about your remarks on supply and logistics.”

He gave a small shrug.

“She is gracious to everyone.

Bingley’s interest was plain enough, even without words.

He arrived first—and with a fortune.”

“A heavy advantage,”

Darcy murmured.

“One I do not hold,”

Fitzwilliam replied.

“Nor would I ask a lady to weigh sentiment against stability.

That is no kindness.”

Darcy watched the countryside slip past, hedgerows blurred by speed and early rain.

So much could be lost through hesitation—waiting until certainty replaced doubt, until circumstance aligned perfectly.

The black-clad figure of Mr Collins was visible through the library window, preening as he walked beside the court official up the drive.

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on the curtain.

“He looks remarkably pleased with himself,”

she observed quietly to Jane.

“Lizzy,”

Jane touched her sister’s arm.

“We must remain calm, for Grandfather’s sake.”

“I am perfectly calm,”

Elizabeth replied, although her voice held an edge.

“I simply wish to observe the man who believes our grandfather incompetent for the grievous sin of allowing his granddaughters an education.”

From his chair by the fire, Grandfather looked up from his book, his rheumy eyes still sharp despite his advanced years.

“I reckon you have brought Jones to speak to my competence?”

“He arrived early, Grandfather,”

Elizabeth confirmed, releasing the curtain.

“He is prepared to testify about your sound judgement these past years.”

“Sound judgement?”

Her grandfather’s voice crackled with dry humour.

“Is that what we are calling my decision to let a passel of girls manage my estate? According to our esteemed cousin, that alone proves my mental decay.”

“Please, Grandfather,”

Jane urged.

“The court official will be here any moment.”

“And I suppose I must prove I have not lost my wits?”

Old Mr Bennet shifted in his chair, his joints creaking.

“Although I dare say if I had any sense at all, I would have packed Collins off to the colonies years ago.”

“Grandfather.”

Elizabeth’s reproving address was countered by her smile.

The old man’s expression softened as he looked at his granddaughters.

“My dears, that pompous little man can examine me all he likes.

Let him try to prove there is anything wrong with my mind beyond the common complaints of age.

I still remember every book in this library, every field on this estate, and every reason you are better suited to manage it than that puffed-up parson could ever be.”

Hill appeared at the door.

“Mr Collins and Mr Broadmoor from the Court of Chancery, and Mr Stevenson, sir.

Mr Jones is here as well.”

“Very well.”

Grandfather marked his place in his book.

“Let us see what sport the afternoon brings.”

The sombrely attired court official introduced himself with ponderous dignity.

“Mr Bennet, I am Mr Broadmoor of the Court of Chancery.

The Lord Chancellor has commissioned me to evaluate the present state of your faculties and determine your competence in matters of judgment.

If you are amenable, I shall commence the formal inquiry, as mandated by the petition submitted.”

“I am prepared,”

Mr Bennet said, adjusting his position with deliberate care.

“Though I suspect no one has anticipated this examination more eagerly than my cousin Collins.

He has long cherished the notion that disagreeing with him is proof of lunacy.”

Mr.

Collins swelled with indignation like a bantam cock confronted by a larger rival.

“My dear sir, I act only out of deepest concern--”

“Yes, yes, your concern for my immortal soul and worldly goods is quite touching.”

Mr Bennet waved a gnarled hand.

“Do proceed with your examination, Mr Broadmoor.

I find myself curious to learn exactly how addled I have become.”

Mr Jones cleared his throat.

“If I might speak to Mr Bennet’s physical condition first?”

“By all means,”

Mr Broadmoor nodded.

“Although I understand Mr Bennet is in his seventy-fourth year?”

“Indeed,”

the subject of the discussion interjected.

“Although I am told I appear scarcely a day over seventy-three.

The secret is regular application of good books and avoiding tiresome company when possible.” Mr Bennet cast a sidelong look at Mr Collins.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, trying not to smile as Mr Collins spluttered.

“And your overall health, sir?”

Mr Broadmoor pressed on.

“Oh, the usual complaints of age,”

Grandfather said cheerfully.

“My joints protest the weather, my eyes and ears are not what they were, and my patience for foolishness has grown remarkably thin.

Although that last may be less a symptom of age than of present company.”

Mr Broadmoor turned to Mr Jones.

“And your opinion sir? What have you noted and how long have you attended him?”

“Mr Bennet and I have been acquainted since I established my apothecary nearly thirty years ago.

I attended the late Mrs Elizabeth Bennet, and the late Eleanor Bennet, as well as all the young ladies of the household through their childhood illnesses.

Of course, I attended the late Thomas Bennet as well, in the tragic illness which claimed his life.”

“Mr Jones, we are speaking of the present Mr James Bennet, not his numerous family members,”

Mr Broadmoor interrupted.

“My apologies, sir.

I was reciting my contact with Mr Bennet over these many years.

He has rarely required my care until quite recently.

His state of health has been remarkable for a man of seventy-odd years.

As he mentioned, his eyesight has suffered a not unexpected decline over the years, as has his hearing.

He does experience some pain in his joints as is common for a man who has been active throughout his life.

Of late, he has had a lingering chest complaint, a cough, and some ague. As for his mental capacity, Mr Bennet has retained his faculties in full. I have noted no confusion, no significant changes in his demeanour and no deficits in his memory beyond an occasional neglect to honour my suggestions about reducing his duties. He is as cogent as a man of forty,”

“Mr Jones,”

Collins began pompously, rising as if to preach,” You must acknowledge that allowing young ladies to manage estate matters is highly irregular--”

“Irregular?”

Mr Bennet’s eyes glinted.

“Like your rather irregular interpretation of the fifth commandment, perhaps? Tell me, sir, how does attempting to have me declared incompetent honour thy father’s father?”

“Mr Bennet, Mr Collins”

interjected, his tone judicial.

“If I might proceed uninterrupted.”

Mr Collins made a sharp inhalation of annoyance and took his seat.

Mr Bennet smiled and said, “By all means, sir.”

“Mr Bennet,”

Broadmoor asked.

“Please tell me today’s date?”

“December the twelfth, 1811.

Thursday, if you require further precision.

Rather chilly for the season, although not as cold as that remarkable winter of ‘62 when the creek froze early.”

His eyes twinkled.

“Would you care to know the phase of the moon as well? Waning Crescent.”

“That will not be necessary.

Now, sir, who is the current monarch?”

“George III, God help him.

Although I dare say he is having a worse time of it than I am at present.

At least I recognise my own granddaughters, which is more than can be said for his recognition of Princess Charlotte.”

Collins shifted uncomfortably.

“Sir, these diversions from the questions--”

“Are perfectly relevant observations demonstrating both temporal awareness and current events,”

Mr Broadmoor said.

He fixed a glare on Mr Collins.

“Please proceed with your inquiry, Mr Broadmoor.

I confess myself rather curious to discover how one measures my supposed deterioration.”

Grandfather’s expression could only be described as impudent.

“Yes, well.”

Broadmoor consulted his papers.

“Can you count backward from one hundred by sevens?”

“Shall I proceed in English, Latin, or French? Or would Greek be considered excessive?”

Mr Bennet sighed.

“Ninety-three, eighty-six, seventy-nine, seventy-two, sixty -five, fifty-eight, fifty-one, forty-four, thirty-seven, thirty, twenty-three, sixteen, nine, two, negative five—is that far enough? Nonaginta tres, octoginta sex, septuaginta novem, shall I continue, or have I sufficiently demonstrated my ability to perform calculations that my granddaughters whilst in the nursery managed daily without having their sanity questioned?”

Elizabeth caught Jane hiding a smile behind her handkerchief.

“Perhaps we might discuss your daily activities,”

Broadmoor tried again.

“Ah yes, my notorious routine of reading agricultural treatises, reviewing estate accounts, and making the apparently scandalous decision to recognise competence regardless of gender.

Tell me, Mr Broadmoor, at what precise age does employing all of one’s available resources become a sign of mental infirmity?”

Mr Broadmoor cleared his throat.

“Now then, Mr Bennet,”

he laid out several coins on the small table beside the chair.

“Would you be so good as to determine the aggregate of these coins?”

Mr Bennet peered at the coins.

“Two guineas, three shillings, sixpence.

Although if you are offering to contribute to our drainage fund, I am afraid you will need to add considerably more. Unless”

his eyes glinted, “you are suggesting my failure to recognise that particular sum as inadequate for major land improvements is proof of my mental decay?”

“Not at all, sir.

Now, regarding your livestock—how many calves might one expect from a cow in a year?”

“One, generally speaking, unless one is Mr Williams of Meryton, who claims his prize heifer dropped twins last spring.

Although I suspect it says more about his counting abilities than the cow’s prolific nature.”

Grandfather shifted in his chair.

“But of course, Mr Broadmoor, you have not come all this way to quiz me on basic animal husbandry?”

“And sheep, sir? How many lambs--”

“One or two per ewe, depending on breed and conditions.

We have had excellent results with twins since Lydia implemented that new feeding regimen.

The ledgers show a fifteen percent increase in successful births, should you wish to examine them? Unless, of course, meticulous record-keeping has come to signify a deranged mind?”

Collins shook his head ruefully.

“My dear sir, I assure you no one intend—’

“No? Then perhaps you might explain why we are discussing matters that any shepherd boy could answer, whilst my granddaughter’s quite remarkable improvements to this estate are considered evidence of my mental infirmity?”

Mr Broadmoor concealed a smile behind his papers.

“Mr Jones,”

Broadmoor turned to the apothecary.

His stern expression suggested mere formality, “You mentioned a lingering cough Mr Bennet has suffered these past years.

What remedies have you provided to him?”

“Indeed, sir.

He has required remarkably little attention beyond the usual complaints of age.

I made up an elixir for his lungs.

conserve of red roses, balsam of sulphur, oil of vitriol, and syrup of coltsfoot.

Nothing requiring laudanum if that is what you are implying.

Miss Catherine Bennet has expertise in the still room.

She makes up lozenges with a paste of sugar, herbal oils, and powders, and rose water which her grandfather enjoys. He may not have the vigour he once had, but his mind remains as sharp as ever, as you have no doubt observed.”

“Quite.”

Broadmoor gathered his papers, not bothering to continue his questioning.

“Mr Bennet, I thank you for your patience with these proceedings.

I believe I have everything I need.”

“A pleasure, sir,”

Grandfather said.

“Do feel free to return if you require further proof of my ability to count sheep.

Although perhaps next time we might engage in more challenging arithmetic.”

Through the library window, Elizabeth watched Collins hurrying after Broadmoor down the drive, his face flushed with agitation.

“But sir, you must see—”

Collins’s voice carried on the winter air.

“What I see, Mr Collins,”

Mr Broadmoor’s response cut like ice, “is that you have wasted the court’s time with frivolous accusations against a perfectly competent gentleman.

Your concern for the estate’s management appears to stem more from wounded pride than any legitimate grievance.”

“But these foolish methods—allowing young ladies to--”

“Have yielded demonstrable and well-documented improvements to the estate’s prosperity.

Good day, Mr Collins.”

Elizabeth turned from the window to find her grandfather watching her, his eyes twinkling.

“Well, my dear,”

he said quietly, “shall we return to those ledgers that so offend our cousin’s sensibilities?”