Page 39 of The Mercy of Chance

M r.

Collins tugged at his ill-fitting brown coat, a garment borrowed from his gardener that did nothing to disguise his distinctive lumbering and arrogant manner of moving through the world.

The streets of Meryton had proved unexpectedly hostile to his attempts at anonymous inquiry —each shopkeeper and tradesman seemed to recognise him instantly, their faces closing like well-defended doors against his practised casual questions about Longbourn’s management.

“Begging your pardon, Mr Collins,”

the draper had said with barely concealed irony, “but I believe you will find most here take a sincere interest in Longbourn’s continued prosperity.

The estate’s accounts are maintained with admirable precision.”

“Have they bewitched you with their so-called accomplishments? Accounts maintained by mere females cannot be reliable.

They lack the capacity for rigorous calculation!”

The draper looked at him queerly.

“I do not appreciate your insults to the good ladies of Longbourn.

Their good works and steady patronage are a boon to Meryton.

And as for mathematics, my account is paid in full with no delay.”

The butcher had been more subtle.

“Strange days, sir, when a clergyman walks about in borrowed garments, enquiring into the private affairs of his betters.”

By late afternoon, his frustration had driven him beyond Meryton’s respectable bounds to the rougher quarter where labourers gathered after their day’s work.

The Bull and Crown’s weathered sign creaked ominously in the spring wind, and Collins hesitated before its door, aware that he stood at some moral crossroads.

But Lady Catherine’s words echoed in his memory: “Evidence of mismanagement would prove most useful to our cause.”

The purse at his waist seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment of indecision.

The tavern’s interior assaulted his senses - a miasma of stale beer and cheaper tobacco, punctuated by coarse laughter that bore no resemblance to the modulated environs of Rosings.

The muggy air reeked of old ale and damp wool, clinging to Collins’s borrowed coat like a reproach.

Picking his way across the sticky floor, he approached a group of workmen nursing their tankards.

Here, at last, he found men whose understanding of property rights matched their rough appearance, and whose interest in his purse overcame any scruples about his obvious displacement from his natural sphere.

In the failing light of a tavern considerably beneath his normal standards, Collins attempted conversation.

“Drainage, you say?”

The larger of the two, who had introduced himself only as Smith, took a long pull of ale.

“Funny thing about drainage works.

Delicate, like.

One small change upstream can cause all manner of trouble below.”

His companion, a weasel-faced individual called Carroll, nodded sagely.

“Course, such accidents do happen natural-like.

Especially in spring, with the thaw and all.”

Collins leant forward, his usual pomposity somewhat dimmed by desperate calculation.

“And such… natural accidents… might they prove costly to arrange?”

“Depends,”

Smith replied, studying Collins with the practised eye of one who recognised desperation when he saw it.

“On how natural you want it to appear.

And how extensive the… accident might need to be.”

“Extensive enough to prove certain parties unfit for their responsibilities,”

Collins murmured, thinking of Lady Catherine’s increasingly pointed suggestions about demonstrating the Bennets’ incompetence.

“Although of course, one would need absolute discretion…”

“Discretion,”

Carroll echoed, exchanging glances with his companion, “comes dear these days.

What with times being hard and honest work so difficult to find.”

Collins fingered the purse containing Lady Catherine’s latest advancement.

The sum that had seemed so generous in her morning room now felt altogether inadequate to purchase both the desired outcome and his conspirators’ silence.

“Perhaps,”

he ventured, sweat beading despite the tavern’s chill, “we might discuss terms more specifically?”

Smith’s smile suggested he had taken the measure of both Collins’s desperation and his remaining funds with devastating accuracy.

“Happy to oblige, sir.

Though such delicate undertakings, liable to disturb several properties… that requires particular skill.

And that sort of skill does not come cheap.”

As Collins emptied his purse onto the sticky table, he tried not to think about the magnitude of what he was setting in motion.

Lady Catherine had demanded results, after all.

And if certain neighbouring properties suffered collateral damage in the process of proving the Bennets’ unfitness… well, surely that was a small price to pay for restoring proper order to their corner of creation.

He did not notice how Smith and Carroll exchanged knowing looks over his bowed head, nor how their careful manipulation of his fears and pride had led him exactly where they had intended.

Smith’s smile widened—an expression Collins, in another world, might have recognised as the tavern equivalent of a wolf sighting an unattended flock.

In the dim and rancid air of the Bull and Crown, Mr Collins’s final bid for consequence slipped away as quietly as his coin, though he would not grasp it until the damage was done.

A steady rain soaked the fields around Longbourn, but the usual flow of the water through the channels rushed at an alarming rate.

By noon, the pastureland was saturated, with enormous puddles where water ought to have taken the path through the channel.

By evening, the lower fields were transformed into a muddy lake, with water now encroaching upon both Netherfield and Dunbar Court.

The downpour kept the workmen usually employed by Longbourn from making any headway against the rising water.

The following morning, Elizabeth stood with Jane at the window of the drawing room, watching as Mr Freeman’s distinctive figure approached on horseback.

“I cannot understand how the water channels could have failed so completely,”

Jane murmured.

“You and grandfather designed them so effectively.”

“I do not think it was failure,”

Elizabeth replied, her voice tight with controlled anger.

“It looks to me like deliberate sabotage.

The stones blocking the main channel did not place themselves there.”

Their mother hurried into the room, her hand flying to her hair.

“Mr Freeman is coming up the drive.

Jane, ring for tea.

Elizabeth, do move those muddy boots from beside the fireplace.”

She paused, taking a steadying breath.

“He comes in his official capacity as magistrate, of course.

Mr Bingley sent for him regarding the flood damage to Netherfield.”

Elizabeth noted with interest that her mother had taken particular care with her appearance despite the crisis.

The cap covering her hair was her best lace, and she wore the becoming blue morning dress that brightened her eyes.

Mr Freeman was announced moments later, his bow particularly deep to Mrs Bennet before he greeted her daughters.

“I regret the circumstances that bring me to Longbourn today.”

“We are devastated by the damage to our neighbours’ properties,”

Mrs Bennet said with genuine distress.

“To think that water from Longbourn should cause such destruction!”

“It is precisely that connection I must investigate,”

Mr Freeman replied, his official manner softened by the sympathetic glance he directed at Mrs Bennet.

“The situation is most unusual.”

“Perhaps we might show you the plans,”

Elizabeth suggested.

“My grandfather and I can explain how it was designed to prevent precisely this sort of flooding.”

Mr Freeman followed Elizabeth to the study, where Mr Bennet slumped in his chair, the strain of recent events evident in the new lines around his eyes.

He greeted Mr Freeman with the weary dignity of a man forced to defend his family’s honour.

“These are the original plans,”

Elizabeth said, unrolling the detailed drawings on the table.

“And these modifications were made last autumn.”

Mr Freeman bent over the plans, “Most impressive,”

he murmured.

“Far more sophisticated than anything on my own property.”

“The water ought to have been directed away from both Netherfield and Dunbar Court,”

Mr Bennet explained, his finger tracing the ingeniously designed channels” Mr Bennet explained, his finger tracing the ingeniously designed channels.

“Instead, it seems to have been deliberately channelled toward them.”

Elizabeth produced a second set of papers, marked with the water flow they had observed in the storm.

“These show evidence of alterations, made without our knowledge or consent in the past few weeks.”

Mr Freeman’s expression darkened as he compared the documents.

“And you believe someone interfered with the works?”

Mr Bennet nodded firmly.

“There is no other explanation.”

“Is there anything to be done?”

Mrs Bennet asked.

Mr Freeman covered her hand with his own in a brief, reassuring gesture—a familiarity not lost on Elizabeth.

“Deliberate sabotage causing damage to neighbouring properties is a serious matter.”

He turned to address them all, although his gaze lingered on Mrs Bennet.

“As magistrate, I recommend documenting everything meticulously.

I shall collect statements from workers who may have seen any activity near the area of the water channels.”

“Will that be sufficient?”

Elizabeth asked.

“Perhaps not on its own,”

Mr Freeman admitted.

“But I believe we might find more once we begin to look.”

“We would welcome your counsel,”

Mrs Bennet replied warmly.

As he prepared to take his leave, Mr Freeman spoke quietly to Mrs Bennet near the doorway.

“This situation troubles me greatly.

Not merely as a magistrate, but as…a friend who holds your family’s welfare in high regard.”

Mrs Bennet’s cheeks coloured delicately.

“Your concern means a great deal to us, Mr Freeman.”

“To you particularly, I hope,”

he replied in a low voice that nevertheless carried to where Elizabeth stood.

After he departed, Mrs Bennet remained at the window watching his retreating figure longer than strictly necessary.

When she turned back to her daughters, there was a determined set to her jaw that Elizabeth had rarely seen.

“Well,”

Mrs Bennet said briskly, “we will prepare for Mr Freeman’s investigation.

Elizabeth, I believe Mr Bingley is expected to review our evidence soon.

What of Dunbar Court? Has a steward remained who might be of use?”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, both recognising that their mother’s newfound resolve might have as much to do with impressing Mr Freeman as with saving Longbourn—but they welcomed it, nonetheless.

The warm scent of hay and lanolin filled the lambing shed as Lydia checked the water buckets.

The soft breathing of the lambs filled the shed, blending with the creak of old timber and the distant patter of rain on the thatch.

Snowdrop stood calmly in her stall; her twin lambs nestled at her side.

Their fleece, even at a week old, showed the dense crimp her grandfather prized—tight curls like mist against the skin, a sure sign of a good coat.

She had scarcely set down the bucket when the barn door creaked open behind her.

“Miss Lydia!”

a voice called.

Mr Kettering stepped in, hat in hand, boots still crusted from his morning rounds.

“Pardon the intrusion.

I would not barge in if it were not urgent.”

Lydia turned, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Good morning, Mr Kettering.

You are out early.”

“I had to come,”

he said, moving closer.

“It is my flock.

I lost six ewes this week.

My best line—all swept off in the flooding.

The pasture near the old stone marker flooded sudden like—worse than it has in years.

I was at market and my boy could not move them in time.”

Lydia’s brow furrowed.

She had heard of the losses at Dunbar Court but not of damage to tenant holdings nearby.

Kettering farmed a modest parcel on the edge of the Cheddleton lands, leased these last dozen years.

They had spoken before at the spring fairs, comparing feed regimens and hoof treatments, and last winter they had discussed her trial of the barley mash blend.

“I am very sorry,”

she said quietly.

Kettering nodded once, tight-lipped.

“Word is Snowdrop’s lambs have come through strong.”

Lydia said nothing at first, her hand resting on the ewe’s warm flank.

The lambs jostled at her side, one bleating faintly.

“I will pay above fair price,”

Kettering added.

“An ewe lamb, if you would part with one.

I have a shepherd lad, eager but green.

We are starting over.

That lamb might help us keep a line alive.”

Lydia studied him.

Not proud, not pleading—just plainly asking, with the weariness of a man shouldering too much loss.

She looked at the lamb.

Already sturdy on her legs, fleece bright in the slanting light.

The sort of animal they would have marked for show stock.

And in truth, she had planned to keep her.

But what was the purpose of breeding sound lines if not to strengthen the flock beyond her own fences?

“She is not yet weaned,”

Lydia said at last.

“And I would not part with her lightly.”

“I understand.”

She hesitated, weighing not just the animal’s value but her own sense of what was owed.

Kettering had asked about her methods before most would speak to her without condescension.

He had written, even, in a hand rough with ink, to ask her thoughts on rotation feed.

And he had lost nearly everything.

“You shall have her,”

she said slowly.

“But only on the condition that you breed her with care, keep full records, and share your findings with me next spring.”

Kettering’s face broke into a relieved smile.

“Done and done.

You have my word, Miss Lydia.”

She nodded, returning her hand to Snowdrop’s fleece.

“Then let us see if she proves herself in your fields as she has in mine.”