Page 4 of The Mercy of Chance

T

he bell above Mr Brown’s shop door jangled as Elizabeth and Jane entered the cobbler’s establishment. The familiar smell of leather and polish greeted them, along with the rhythmic tap-tap of Mr Brown’s hammer from the back workroom. It was their regular quarterly visit to settle the Longbourn accounts—a task that had once been Grandfather’s responsibility, but that the sisters now managed themselves.

“Mr Brown?” Elizabeth called, placing her reticule on the counter. Jane moved to examine a display of shoe buckles, her fingers lightly tracing the silver designs.

The tapping ceased abruptly. A moment later, the cobbler emerged, wiping his hands on his leather apron. His expression shifted subtly when he saw them—the polite smile not quite reaching his eyes. Elizabeth noted how different this reception was from the effusive welcome he had once given their grandfather.

“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth,” he acknowledged with a short nod. “I was wondering when someone from Longbourn might appear.”

“We have come to settle our quarterly account as we always do on quarter day. Midsummer day is Tuesday next,” Elizabeth said, her brow furrowed at the tradesman’s cheek. She reached into her reticule for the household ledger. “I believe the amount was seven shillings and sixpence for the work these past three months.”

Mr Brown drew himself up, not meeting her eyes as he reached beneath his counter for his own record book. The leather-bound volume showed wear at the corners, stained with the marks of his trade.

“That was the amount,” he said slowly, turning pages with a deliberate motion. “However, there are now additional considerations.”

Elizabeth’s fingers stilled on her own book. “Additional considerations, Mr Brown? I have the detailed accounting here of all services rendered—Grandfather’s boots resoled, new half-soles for my sisters and mother, and the repair to Cook’s walking shoes.”

“Yes, well,” the cobbler said, adjusting his spectacles, “leather prices have risen considerably. And the work on your grandfather’s boots required special attention.”

Jane moved closer to the counter, her expression mild but her eyes sharp. “My sister and I examined the boots ourselves, Mr Brown. They required standard resoling, which was quoted at five shillings.”

“With all due respect, Miss Bennet,” Mr Brown said, his look suggesting he felt very little was due, “a lady’s understanding of leatherwork is necessarily limited. The quality of work required for a gentleman’s riding boots—”

“Is precisely what we specified, and have always specified,” Elizabeth interjected, her voice cool but steady. She noted the slight reddening of the man’s neck, the way his fingers tightened on his ledger. “The same quality of work you have provided Longbourn for the past fifteen years, at the established rates.”

“Times change, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr Brown replied, his voice taking on a patronising tone that set Elizabeth’s teeth on edge. “And with Mr Bennet so rarely seen about, and your father gone these five years, certain… adjustments must be made for the risk involved.”

“Risk, Mr Brown?” Jane asked, her voice gentle but her eyes suddenly sharp.

The cobbler shifted uncomfortably. “Well, with no gentleman overseeing the accounts—”

“I see,” Elizabeth said, closing her ledger with a decisive snap. The action drew Mr Brown’s startled gaze. “You fear we may not honour Longbourn’s debts because no male hand guides our pen. Is that your meaning, sir?”

Mr Brown’s face flushed more deeply. “I simply meant that without proper—”

“Longbourn has settled our accounts in full, promptly each quarter for five years since my father’s death and a century before that,” Elizabeth continued, her voice level despite the indignation burning in her chest. “Not once has Longbourn failed to honour its commitments to Meryton’s tradesmen. Yet you now suggest an additional…what was it? Consideration?”

“Three shillings,” he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

“Three shillings above the usual price,” Elizabeth repeated, letting the unreasonableness of the amount hang in the air. “Nearly half again the cost.”

Jane leant forward; her voice was soft but carrying clearly in the small shop. “Mr Brown, my sister manages Longbourn’s accounts with the same precision our father and grandfather always employed. Any… irregularities would be noted not only in our books but in the quarterly review our grandfather and our Uncle Phillips conduct of the estate’s finances. Sir William approves their work.”

The mention of Sir William—a customer whose social standing far exceeded Longbourn’s—caused the cobbler’s expression to falter.

“Perhaps,” Jane continued with a smile that somehow managed to be both kind and unyielding, “you might consult your previous records? I believe you will find the rate has been consistent for three years.”

Elizabeth opened her reticule again and withdrew a slip of paper. “I have here your own invoice from last quarter, in your hand, Mr Brown. The one you presented to me personally. The rate is identical to what we expected to pay today.”

She placed it on the counter between them, the cobbler’s scrawled figures facing him accusingly. Outside the window, Mrs Long slowed her pace, her curious gaze drawn to the scene within the shop.

Mr Brown’s eyes darted to the window, then back to the Bennet sisters. Something in their steady gaze—Jane’s gentle but unwavering, Elizabeth’s sharp and direct—seemed to make him reconsider.

“There may have been … a misunderstanding,” he said finally, turning back several pages in his book. “Yes, I see the standard rate here. A confusion with another account, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed, making it clear she believed no such thing.

Mr Brown stiffened his posture. “Seven shillings and sixpence will be quite correct.”

Elizabeth counted out the coins carefully, placing them on the counter one by one, the soft clink of metal on wood punctuating the uncomfortable silence. When she finished, she pushed them forward.

“Our receipt, if you please,” she said, waiting as Mr Brown reluctantly wrote out the documentation with a scratching quill.

As he handed the paper over, a slight tremor shook his weathered fingers. “The boots will be ready next Tuesday for Longbourn,” he added, now more deferential.

“Excellent. Miss Catherine will collect them,” Elizabeth replied. “And Mr Brown, we value your craftsmanship and Longbourn’s long association with your shop. May I expect our future dealings will remain as straightforward as they have been these past five years?”

The cobbler nodded stiffly, unable to meet her steady gaze.

As the sisters stepped back into Meryton’s High Street, the autumn sun warming their faces, Jane released a small sigh. “That was … uncomfortable.”

“But necessary,” Elizabeth replied, tucking the receipt into her reticule. “If we allowed his ‘considerations’ to pass unchallenged, soon every merchant in Meryton would attempt the same.”

“Still,” Jane murmured, nodding politely to Mrs Long as they passed her, “I dislike confrontation.”

“As do I,” Elizabeth admitted, adjusting her bonnet against the breeze. “But Grandfather was right about one thing—respect in business must be earned continually. Even when one’s hands lack the assumed authority of a gentleman’s signet ring.”

She flexed her right hand consciously. Her father had always worn the Bennet family ring when conducting estate business. He used it to seal agreements and correspondence. When he passed, Grandfather put the ring away, unwilling to take it back. For Elizabeth, the gravity of that responsibility now rested on her shoulders instead, invisible but no less real. The Bennet ring was stored with Mamma’s jewellery, never to be worn again.

“We still need to stop at the milliner’s for Lydia’s ribbon,” Jane reminded her, eager to move past the unpleasantness.

“Indeed. And I expect no ‘additional considerations’ there,” Elizabeth replied with a small smile. “Mrs Hilliard has five daughters of her own to support. She understands our position better than most.”

As they continued down the High Street, Mr Brown appeared at his shop door, watching them with a thoughtful expression. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly before turning away. Small victories, she reminded herself, were still victories. And in their current circumstances, even maintaining the status quo required constant vigilance.

They were, after all, gentlewomen who had taken on the direction of an estate–a task that the neighbourhood, and society at large, believed rightly belonged to a man, preferably one who had been to university and knew how to shoot game birds. That they did so under the supervision of an elderly grandfather now rarely seen, even at church services, only added to the general sense of impropriety. Elizabeth recalled with particular displeasure how certain ladies would pause in their conversation as the Bennet sisters passed, only to resume their whispered observations once they believed themselves out of earshot. It was as though their responsibilities meant they had somehow shed their status as a gentleman’s daughters, becoming instead a curious amalgamation that the good people of Meryton knew not quite how to place. Even Mrs Long, who had been among their mother’s particular friends, now regarded them with a mixture of pity and uncertainty that Elizabeth found far more galling than outright censure.

Not all the citizens of Meryton were so critical. Sir William Lucas, in his role as the village’s most prominent citizen, did his best to smooth their path, but even his hearty endorsements carried a measure of concern that vexed Elizabeth considerably. “Capital!” he would exclaim, upon hearing of their latest agricultural improvements. “Capital indeed! I am amazed that you ladies manage so well without … well, it is capital indeed.”

The Bennet sisters might be anomalies in the eyes of society, but in the practical matters of Longbourn’s survival, they were proving their worth a dozen times over.

Elizabeth had overheard Mrs Harrington tutting to Mrs Long over tea, “not quite the thing.” The phrase, delivered with such delicate emphasis, seemed to capture perfectly their uncomfortable position: neither genteel young ladies waiting decorously for marriage, nor tenant farmers who knew their place in the social order. They existed in a liminal space that the neighbourhood had not yet learnt to navigate. Was it possible that Mr Bingley’s arrival might provide some improvement to their uncertain status?

Should he choose to acknowledge them as equals, to call again at Longbourn and receive them at Netherfield, it would serve as a powerful signal to the neighbourhood. Should he instead treat them with the same uncertain distance that characterised their current social interactions, it would only confirm what many already whispered–that the Bennet sisters were an unfortunate anomaly, to be pitied and tolerated until such time as “proper order” could be restored to Longbourn.

Elizabeth found her grandfather already at his desk, the morning light falling across the leather-bound ledgers. His hand trembled as he turned a page, but his eyes remained sharp behind his spectacles.

“I have received another letter from our dear cousin, Mr Collins,” he said without preamble.

“From Mr Collins! And what can he have to say?” Elizabeth took her accustomed chair at his right hand. The position had been her father’s once, she remembered. Before him, he had told her often, her Aunt Eleanor had sat there, helping to manage the estate.

“Full of unctuous concern for my health.” His tone was dry. “And sage advice about the necessity of male guidance for the estate.”

“He again suggests engaging a steward.”

“He does indeed.” Grandfather closed the ledger before him. “He has just the man in mind. This steward would report to him on all our decisions. Keep him informed of our methods and allow him to meddle before his time. Perhaps he would like to bear the expense himself rather than deplete the coffers of the estate to pay for his spy.”

“I believe, sir, he fears his inheritance may slip through our incompetent feminine fingers without a masculine hand to guide us. Might the steward he recommends be, by happy coincidence, his particular friend?”

Grandfather’s lips twitched. “Your father’s wit and Eleanor’s sense. A formidable combination.” He opened another ledger. “I wonder that our cousin does not consider how a competent steward might cost. Although perhaps he believes it a worthwhile investment to halve our income to keep us from ruining his future prosperity altogether.”

“His last letter to Mamma suggested we might prove more agreeable to his advice if we properly understood our feminine limitations.” Elizabeth spoke lightly, but her grandfather’s expression darkened.

“Did it indeed? And what limitations might those be? The same ones your Aunt Eleanor suffered when she revolutionised our crop rotation? Or perhaps those your grandmother demonstrated whilst managing the farms during war years?” He shook his head. “Collins sees what he expects to see. Like his father before him, he cannot comprehend that a woman’s understanding might extend beyond ribbons and lace. The fool was insistent we sell that parcel near Oakham Mount, which is not even part of the estate in entail. And his words about our crop rotation--” Grandfather traced the column of figures. “The same land my father worked. The same methods my sister Eleanor helped refine, before…” He paused. “She had a unique gift for making even fools think themselves wise whilst guiding them to sensible action. Collins would have gone on unknowingly following her advice whilst believing it was his own idea.”

Elizabeth had heard many such references to her aunt over the years. Each one revealed a little more of the woman who had helped shape Longbourn’s prosperity.

“You know, Lizzy,” her grandfather continued after a moment, “when your grandmother died, I thought the heart had gone out of this place. Your Aunt Eleanor proved me wrong. She breathed life into these chambers once more. Then when we lost her…” He shook his head. “I feared your father would never recover his spirits. Yet he found your mother, and laughter returned to Longbourn once more. Your mother’s happiness became his greatest object.” His hand still rested on the ledger. “Now you and your sisters keep its heart beating. Collins cannot understand that. He sees only what he wishes to.”

“His February letter was most illuminating on that point,” Elizabeth said. “Particularly his horror at learning Jane had negotiated the new lease for the Lodge.”

“Ah yes. He felt certain we had been cheated.” Grandfather selected another ledger from the neat row before him. “Show me the Lodge figures, my dear. I believe they will prove entertaining.”

Elizabeth opened the book to a page marked with her own neat hand. “Jane secured terms a full ten percent above what Mr Morris initially offered.”

“Just as your Aunt Eleanor would have done. She taught me early that a sweet smile and a sharp mind need not be enemies.” Her grandfather adjusted his spectacles. “When your father was young, Eleanor insisted he learn every aspect of estate management. ‘A man may have stewards,’ she would say, ‘but he must understand the work himself.’ I have attempted to instil the same principle in you girls.”

“Although I doubt Aunt Eleanor imagined her lessons would be put to such use by her great-nieces.”

“Perhaps not. But she would have approved.” He gestured to the page. “Now, speaking of lessons, explain to me how you calculated the projected yields for next year. Collins’s last letter contained several suggestions about crop choices that display his comprehensive ignorance of both agriculture and arithmetic.”

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. “He did seem particularly concerned about our decision to expand the sheep fold. We ‘ought not interfere in nature’s plan for expansion of the herds.’”

“As he was about the new drainage scheme last year, and the hop fields the year before,” her grandfather said drily. “Each time predicting disaster, each time proved wrong by the results.” He patted the ledger. “Facts and figures, my dear. They speak louder than any gentleman’s assumptions.”

“I believe his latest objection stems from learning that Mary oversaw the hop fields.” Elizabeth turned to the relevant pages. “He seems to feel it an unfeminine pursuit for a young lady of eighteen.”

“Ah yes. It is far better she spend her time on fancy work and fashion plates.” Grandfather’s eyes gleamed with remembered mischief. “Although he was notably silent after receiving our accounts showing the profits from last year’s harvest. Mary has quite a head for such calculations, does she not?”

“As you knew she would when you set her to studying agricultural reports at thirteen.”

“I provided the opportunity. The interest was her own.” He smiled. “Just as Kitty’s eye for design revealed itself in garden planning, and Lydia’s enthusiasm found its proper channel in animal husbandry. Given room to grow, young minds will seek their natural direction.”

“Although I doubt Mr Collins would approve of Lydia’s expertise with the breeding lines of our sheep.”

“Collins would have us all behaving according to his narrow understanding of propriety. I have seen too many capable women dismissed by foolish men,” he said quietly. “Your grandmother. Your aunt. Even your mother, whom some called merely a pretty face with a ready laugh. All of them proved their worth, given the chance. I mean to ensure you, and your sisters have that same chance, whatever Collins may write in his letters. Thank Heaven your father had the sense to marry a woman of practical intelligence, whatever the gossips might have said about her youth and high spirits. She rose to every challenge with Thomas’s affection and support. Your mother’s management these past years has proved her worth a dozen times over.”

Beside them half listening as she checked calculations, Kitty bent over the estate ledgers beside Grandfather’s chair, her formerly ink-stained fingers now protected by the cunning half-gloves Mamma had devised. “For a gentlewoman must maintain her appearance even whilst maintaining her estate,” as she so often declared. The afternoon sun caught the practical yet elegant fabric, one of many small ways their mother had helped them meet their responsibilities and maintain their social position.

“Mamma would be mortified if we sent out last year’s yield calculations without fully accounting for the new drainage work,” Kitty said, looking up from her figures with a grin. “She would tell me I was throwing away our bargaining position with the grain merchants.”

“Indeed, I would!” came their mother’s voice from the doorway, where she had paused in her morning rounds. “And do not forget how well the vegetable yields have done since you implemented your new methods. I want him to fully appreciate that my daughters are not playing at estate management.”

Grandfather’s expression held both pride and amusement as he regarded his daughter-in-law. Her support had proved invaluable in navigating Meryton society. Where once she had chattered about officers and wealthy bachelors for her daughters, Mrs Bennet now proudly introduced them as “my Jane, who has such a way with the tenant farmers” or “my Kitty, who has doubled our kitchen gardens.”

“Your mother,” he said, adjusting his spectacles, “has developed quite a talent for estate matters herself. I believe she drives a harder bargain with the merchants than any of you.”

Elizabeth could not help but smile at the truth of this observation. Their mother’s expertise in household management had expanded to encompass the larger concerns of the estate. Her circle of acquaintance now served to keep them informed of market prices and neighbouring estates’ innovations, whilst her talent for social manoeuvring helped smooth the way for her daughters’ unconventional roles.

“Now, speaking of business,” Grandfather tapped the page Kitty had been studying, “What did you say about tracking weather patterns against our previous harvests?”

Kitty launched into her explanation with quiet confidence, supported by both her grandfather’s wisdom and her mother’s fierce pride. How far they had all come from the days after they lost Papa. Mamma barely left her bed, so distraught she could not manage to order a meal. Grandfather insisted that they would manage the estate together, and they had found purpose in the work.

He closed the ledger. “Now then. Show me the arrangements for the south field. And you might tell me what you think of young Robinson’s suggestions about the water course. I find I value your opinion on such matters quite as much as I once valued Eleanor’s.”

From Elizabeth’s perspective, no higher praise could be given.