Page 38 of The Mercy of Chance

D arcy stood at the window of his London townhouse, watching the steady fall of December rain whilst Bingley paced behind him.

The fire hissed in the grate, punctuating his friend’s restless steps.

“I said I meant only to attend to the shipping contracts,”

Bingley burst out.

“A week’s business at most.

But Caroline—she insisted the house must be closed; the servants dismissed.

She claimed remaining at Netherfield after such… entanglements would invite speculation, and now—” He ran a hand through his hair.

Darcy turned from the window.

“And now you find yourself in London, questioning your own judgement.”

“Yes! No.

I do not know.”

Bingley collapsed into a chair and gave a strained laugh.

“Miss Bennet—Jane—is everything a gentleman could desire.

Her understanding of estate matters, her kindness to the tenants, her—”

“Beauty,”

Darcy said dryly.

“Yes,”

Bingley admitted, his smile fleeting.

“But Caroline insists no man of consequence would align himself with a family so...

unconventional.

She calls them ‘female farmers playing at being gentry,’ as if managing land were some grotesque novelty.

A pastoral fantasy, she says—'a gentleman ensnared by provincial beauty and vulgar ambition.’”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

If vulgar ambition were the true offence, then Miss Bingley might well have been indicting herself.

“It sounds absurd when spoken aloud, I know it does.

And yet… Caroline has always known how to read society’s currents.

Perhaps she sees more accurately than I.”

“Do you allow your sister’s prejudices to outweigh your own observations?”

Bingley flinched.

“I had the ring in my pocket at the ball.

But Caroline’s reaction… Perhaps she is right.

Perhaps I lack the strength of character to endure society’s censure.

To watch my wife snubbed, my children perhaps—though the neighbourhood accepts them now,”

he added hastily, as if to convince himself.

“Lady Lucas says they are invited everywhere, even if some still whisper about their...

unorthodox stewardship.”

Darcy grimaced.

“How convenient that their acceptance coincided with Fitzwilliam, you, and me calling regularly at Longbourn.

Lady Lucas was notably cooler before our approbation.”

Bingley winced.

“Am I too easily persuaded? But if I defy Caroline, the breach would be lasting.

She says we would be objects of ridicule.

And whilst Jane is all grace and goodness…”

He trailed off.

Darcy remained silent.

A deep and private disquiet stirred.

He had come to London to clear his mind, yet here was Bingley giving voice to every justification he himself had once rehearsed.

Was he also dismissing what was real and admirable, for the sake of ease and acceptance?

“We are discussing your happiness,”

Darcy said at last, “not your sister’s convenience.”

“She believes she is acting for my good.

One cannot fault her loyalty, though her manner is at times...”

“Despotic?”

Darcy offered.

“Strong-minded,”

Bingley replied, though without conviction.

“She says if I marry Miss Bennet, the world will sneer.”

“The world—or your sister?”

“It is difficult to distinguish, at times.

Caroline knows everyone, understands what is expected… Am I not to consider my family’s feelings?”

His voice dropped.

“To weigh all factors?”

“You must weigh them, but not all deserve equal weight.

You would live with your wife.

Your sister, one hopes, will marry and live elsewhere.”

Bingley leant forward.

“Are we not truly asking whether a gentleman may find happiness with a lady who defies convention? Whether affection may outweigh the approval of society?”

The room fell silent save for the rain against the window.

“Your sister closed Netherfield without consulting you,”

Darcy said finally.

“She made decisions about your life because she believes she knows better.

She decries the notion of ladies managing estates, yet she governs your affairs with impunity.

At least the Bennets’ authority is born of competence and legal right.”

Bingley sat back, startled.

“I… had not considered it that way.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Darcy turned again to the window.

“And perhaps Miss Bennet’s capabilities are precisely what you require in a wife—someone to help you stand firm in your own convictions, rather than bend to others.”

“But how does one choose without reference to the world at large? Without regard for the place one hopes to hold in it?”

Darcy remained still, his hands clasped with unusual force.

“Then ask yourself whether your life is better governed by your sister’s fears—or by your own judgement.”

Bingley nodded slowly.

“Caroline would be most displeased to find herself returning to Netherfield.”

“I imagine she would survive the disappointment,”

Darcy said.

“The question is—will you survive your own, if you allow her to choose for you?”

Bingley said nothing.

Darcy remained still a moment longer, then turned away from the window, his expression unreadable.

If Bingley would yield to ease and disapproval, he could not be trusted to defend what truly mattered.

But then, neither could Darcy—not yet.

Lady Catherine sat rigid in her morning chair; Mr Collins arranged before her like a despatch from a singularly inept field commander.

His latest letter lay open upon the side table, and its contents had provoked her fan into increasingly martial manoeuvres.

“The Register found cause for levity?”

Lady Catherine enquired, each syllable clipped with disdain.

Mr Collins shifted in his boots, his habitual obsequiousness somewhat dampened.

“Most unseemly, your Ladyship.

Although perhaps the gentleman failed to comprehend the gravity of the situation at Longbourn.

I myself observed the most extraordinary mismanagement.

They appear to be constantly relocating their crops.”

Lady Catherine’s fan paused mid-stroke.

“Relocating?”

“Indeed! They speak of ‘rotation’—removing perfectly sound wheat from its ordained ground and turning it about rather than allowing it to prosper where Providence has placed it.

And the sheep, your Ladyship! They assert these animals require shearing but once per annum, when it is plain that weekly shearing would yield at least sevenfold the wool.”

The fan faltered.

Her Ladyship seemed to weigh the indignity of the report against the necessity of maintaining her own composure.

“Perhaps we might speak of more tangible matters.

You mentioned irregularities in their accounts?”

“Most irregular!”

Mr Collins leant forward, nearly upsetting his teacup.

“They record expenditures for ‘amendments to soil,’ as though the Lord’s creation required improvement.

There are also peculiar notations regarding ‘winter feed’—ought not the beasts of the field seek their own sustenance, as nature intended?”

Lady Catherine’s expression suggested the summoning of considerable reserves of forbearance.

“Whilst your observations are no doubt sincerely offered; might we turn our attention to more substantive evidence of mismanagement? Do not their ledgers reveal some failing worth the court’s scrutiny?”

“The young ladies maintain separate books for each field!”

Collins declared, eyes alight.

“Such multiplication of records must indicate impropriety.

And Miss Elizabeth has devised a series of charts detailing rainfall—as though Heaven’s bounty were subject to calculation rather than received in due humility.”

The fan resumed its pace, its speed unprecedented in any drawing room of Lady Catherine’s acquaintance.

“Mr Collins,”

she said at length, her tone even, “perhaps it would be wise to engage someone with more particular expertise in the management of agricultural accounts.”

“But there is no question,”

Collins pressed, “that no gentleman of prudent understanding would place his confidence in accounts kept by young ladies.

The female mind, though suited to certain domestic arrangements, cannot possibly be expected to manage sums and soil.

Their ledgers must be riddled with error.

They have even recorded the milk yield of individual cows—rather than accepting, with grateful hearts, what Providence elects to provide.”

Lady Catherine’s expression altered, a flicker of comprehension in her narrowed eyes.

Her fan ceased.

She folded it with quiet precision and placed it beside her teacup.

Lady Catherine’s expression suggested a dawning comprehension of the Register’s reported amusement.

Yet her determination to prevent any alliance between her nephew and these distressingly capable young ladies remained undiminished.

“We must consider a new approach,”

she said.

“The methods themselves are evidently well organised.

Our objection must be grounded not in their execution, but in their very premise.

It is not natural for ladies to involve themselves so deeply in the governance of land.

Such conduct cannot be judged suitable by any right-thinking person.”

Mr Collins bowed his head in fervent agreement.

A small parcel arrived at Longbourn two days after the Bennet household received news of Mr Darcy’s safe return to London.

It was of moderate size, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with a narrow green ribbon, bearing the seal of Darcy House.

Hill presented it to Mr Bennet, along with a stiff envelope addressed in a hand Elizabeth recognised at once.

Her grandfather slit the seal with a paperknife and adjusted his spectacles.

He read aloud:

Darcy House

Upper Grosvenor Street, London

Sir,

Permit me the liberty of expressing my gratitude, through you, to Miss Lydia Bennet for a service rendered, which cannot be easily forgotten by my family.

I refer to her conduct during an unfortunate encounter in Meryton, the particulars of which you may be aware.

That she acted with both resolution and delicacy in a moment of considerable difficulty has been related to me by my sister with both admiration and affection.

I am sensible of the proprieties that govern our correspondence and therefore beg you will receive, on her behalf, the token enclosed.

It is my hope that Miss Lydia may find it of some utility in her continued interest in the care of animals and the management of stock.

With sincere esteem,

I remain,

Your most obedient servant,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Grandfather gave a low whistle.

“Well, that is the most carefully worded thank-you I have received in some time.”

He raised a brow toward Lydia.

“It appears you have earned the gratitude of Pemberley.”

Lydia, who had at first been attempting to appear uninterested, now leant forward with barely concealed curiosity as the parcel was unwrapped.

Within lay a neatly fitted case of polished walnut, hinged with brass and lined in green baize.

Inside were tools intended for veterinary or animal husbandry use: a compact fleam, several fine-pointed lancets, a small, engraved horn cup, and a handwritten list of their uses—all in a second hand, presumably Darcy’s steward or physician.

Elizabeth, peering over her grandfather’s shoulder, murmured, “That is no trinket.

Such tools are costly.”

Lydia touched the fleam reverently.

“It is precisely the size for lambs.”

“More than that,”

said Grandfather, tapping the horn cup, “this is field-quality gear.

Exceedingly well made.”

Mary coughed lightly.

“A generous acknowledgement.”

Lydia, unusually subdued, closed the case with care.

“He need not have sent anything.”

“Perhaps,”

Elizabeth said mildly, “but he did.

And I suspect he meant every word.”

“…It is too handsome a case for my needs,”

Lydia said at last, closing the latch with care.

“And far too dear.”

“Shall I write my thanks by way of Georgiana?”

Lydia said, with calculated nonchalance.

“She wrote last week.

She asked about Snowdrop’s lambing season and whether the salve we made with thyme and horehound held up in storage.”

Elizabeth stilled.

“Did she?”

Lydia nodded, folding her hands atop the case.

“She wishes to attempt a similar preparation at Pemberley.

Their still room is less often used, but she says she means to reclaim it.”

Elizabeth said nothing, her expression unreadable.

She reached once more for her needlework, but her gaze lingered—not on her stitching, but on the fire, where the faint scent of lavender and bitter almond still hung in the air.

“Oh?”

Mary inquired, barely glancing from her book.

“Does she speak of her studies?”

“Somewhat,”

Lydia replied.

“She writes she has begun to copy out her brother’s estate accounts as a form of practice—though she says the figures are less interesting than our sheep trials.” She gave a satisfied sniff.

Elizabeth set her work aside.

“Does she mention anything else?”

she asked, as evenly as she could manage.

Lydia’s eyes twinkled.

“Only that London is very grey, the streets muddy, and that she misses the sound of the wind over the fields.

She asked if I might send her a receipt of that balm we use for colds—what was it, the one we made up with thyme and horehound?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“We can dry some horehound leaves and send it with the next post.”

Lydia refolded the letter and tucked it neatly away.

“She signs herself simply Georgiana, now.

I think that speaks more than all her lovely compliments.”

Elizabeth did not reply.

She simply bent her head once more over her mending, though her needle did not move for quite some time.