Page 40 of The Mercy of Chance

D arcy stood at his study window in London, turning Bingley’s urgent letter over in his hands.

The familiar weight of duty pressed against his chest, although this time tangled with something far more dangerous to his peace of mind.

He had sworn to keep his distance from Hertfordshire—from her—yet here was the very excuse his heart had been searching for, wrapped in the legitimate concerns of estate management.

Bingley’s characteristic scrawl wandered across the page, several words crossed out and others squeezed between lines:

“My dear Darcy,

Most distressing business at Longbourn Netherfield[several ink blots] requires your excellent judgement.

Collins (that odious parson who is heir) has petitioned magistrate for estate audit — claims mismanag’mt and improper drainage work by ladies.

[word crossed out] Insists his own man must conduct inspection!

Cannot avoid involvement as flow affects Netherfield south fields.

[hastily inserted above: ‘drainage patterns] All Wrong he says Have rec’ed notice requiring testimony as neighbour.

Must return to meet Magistrate.

Am quite beyond my depth in these affairs.

You understand these things better than any man of my acquaintance.

[scratched out word] Would consider it great personal favour if you could spare few days to advise.

Please, I beg your indulgence.

I proceed to Netherfield on the morrow.

Your friend in dire need,

C. Bingley

[squeezed in at bottom]

P.S.

Netherfield’s housekeeper says kitchen gardens flooded twice this month.

Must investigate claims about water flow.”

Darcy closed his eyes, seeing again Elizabeth Bennet with her measuring rod and calculations, her keen eyes assessing the land.

The idea that Collins would dare question her competence…

His man Fletcher spoke from the doorway.

“Your sister asks if you will be joining her for tea, sir.”

“No, rather only briefly,”

Darcy said, then caught himself.

“That is, I must go to Hertfordshire tomorrow.

Estate business at Netherfield.”

“Very good, sir.

Shall I begin packing?”

Darcy nodded, already composing his response to Bingley.

It was purely business—a favour to a friend, nothing more.

He would maintain strict propriety in his dealings with Miss Elizabeth.

He would not permit himself to forget their different stations in life.

But even as he made these stern resolutions, his mind betrayed him with memories: the flash of her eyes when defending her opinions, the grace with which she managed both estate and family obligations, the quiet competence that were well on their way to cause his long-held notions of rank and privilege to feel hollow.

The purchase of Dunbar Court, the Matthews estate, sat heavy in his conscience.

She would never forgive him if she knew, yet he could not regret securing that security for her family.

He began to write:

Bingley,

Your letter gives me cause for concern.

An improper audit could set a dangerous precedent for all neighbouring estates.

I will arrive tomorrow to assess the situation.

Please make no commitments until we have discussed the matter thoroughly.

Yours, etc.

FD

Short.

Professional.

Nothing to suggest the rapid beating of his heart or the way his hands had shaken when he read Bingley’s news.

He moved to the window, watching his breath fog the glass in the evening chill.

Tomorrow at Netherfield he would discuss drainage patterns and soil composition, whilst trying not to remember how the morning sun had caught in her hair as she had knelt to examine the water table markers.

He would focus on being useful, on protecting her family’s interests from a suitable distance.

On being, in short, precisely the kind of gentleman his position demanded.

Darcy touched the cold windowpane, then turned abruptly to ring for Fletcher.

Best to begin preparations now, if they were to make an early start.

The winter sun above Netherfield cast cold light across the frost-touched grounds as Darcy’s carriage approached through the biting air.

Bingley stood waiting on the steps, his usual easy charm warring with an undercurrent of nervous agitation that manifested in the subtle shift of his weight from foot to foot.

“Darcy!”

Bingley’s voice carried notes of relief and something deeper–friendship, yes, but also a desperate need for guidance.

Their hands met in greeting.

“Thank God.

You have no idea what a coil we are in.

Was the journey terribly difficult?”

“The roads conspired against comfort,”

Darcy replied, handing his heavy driving coat to the footman, whilst scanning the grounds out of habit.

The south lawn stretched before him like a treacherous mirror, sheets of ice gleaming where water had gathered and frozen–a beautiful danger that spoke volumes about the troubles beneath.

“I see what you mean about the drainage.”

“Oh Lord, yes.

Come into the library—I have all the papers there.

In truth, I make little sense of them.”

Bingley led the way, talking over his shoulder.

“Collins sent another letter just this morning.

Full of dire predictions about flood damage and mismanagement.

The man writes like he is composing a Gothic novel.”

Bingley paced the room as Darcy took a seat at the table.

“I am to give testimony in a deposition about the water patterns Friday next,”

Bingley continued, running agitated fingers through his hair until it stood in disarray that spoke eloquently of many such gestures.

“Collins’s cousin Morton claims he is conducting the audit.

Lord, Darcy, I feel as though I am navigating a ship without a compass.”

“Have you the original surveys?”

Darcy asked, glancing over the disordered papers scattered across the table.

“Here–although they are rather worse for wear.”

Bingley’s hands moved through the papers with increasing anxiety.

“Miss Elizabeth brought these herself last week.

She appeared quite concerned about the elevation calculations, although I confess such figures might as well be Persian poetry to me.”

Darcy bent over the maps, grateful for the excuse to hide his face as warmth bloomed across his cheeks at this casual mention of her name.

Her measurements were precise, elegant in their efficiency–like everything about her.

“These water table readings are remarkably thorough--”

He cut himself off, aware of how his voice had softened traitorously.

“The kitchen gardens are solid ice now,”

Bingley said, oblivious to his friend’s inner turmoil.

“Miss Jane Bennet—” his voice caught on her name, “states they have been implementing improvements for three years.

But Collins insists they have destroyed some ancestral arrangement dating back generations.”

“Traditional arrangement?”

Darcy straightened, frowning thoughtfully.

“Is there any record--”

A knock interrupted his question, and Mrs Nicholls entered with the particular apologetic air of a housekeeper bearing unwelcome social obligations.

“Miss Bingley asks if you will join her for luncheon, sir.”

Bingley’s glance at Darcy carried volumes of unspoken understanding.

“We will take trays here, Mrs Nicholls.

The matter requires our full attention.”

It was not until the door closed that Darcy realised he had been holding Elizabeth’s map upside down, lost in thoughts of the hand that had marked it.

He turned it quickly, hoping the heat in his face might be attributed to the fire’s warmth rather than the betraying flush of his own heart’s indiscretion.

As the winter afternoon light faded, Darcy compared two sets of calculations that did not align.

He pushed one map aside, frowning.

“Bingley, look at these elevation marks from November.

They are markedly different from the current measurements.”

“Different how?”

Bingley leant over, squinting at the figures.

“Here—and here.”

Darcy’s finger traced the path.

“Someone has altered the grading.

Recently, and rather clumsily.” He straightened, jaw tightening.

“These are not natural changes.

Someone’s deliberately sabotaged the drainage works.”

“Good God.”

Bingley collapsed into a chair.

“You mean Collins--”

“We need to speak with the Bennets.

Today, if possible.”

An hour later, they entered Longbourn’s study.

Darcy forced his attention away from how Elizabeth stood protectively at her grandfather’s shoulder, her hand resting on his chair where he sat hunched near the fire.

The late sun caught her face, its weak winter light revealing a flash of worry before she schooled her features into professional calm.

“Mr Darcy.

Mr Bingley.”

Her voice held that coolness Darcy had come to both admire and dread.

“Have you heard the tale of the examination of my mental powers and their sufficiency for the management of our affairs.?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

Darcy quirked a brow.

Mr Bennet’s eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and impatience.

Miss Elizabeth’s lips tightened with annoyance.

“Well, suffice it to say that Lord Chancellor will receive a report saying I am impertinent, irascible and, unfortunately for Mr Collins, still in possession of my senses.”

Bingley looked around, questioningly.

“What of the Lord Chancellor?”

Elizabeth spoke up.

“Mr Collins petitioned the court to have Grandfather examined for lunacy.

He was assessed by a court official to ascertain whether his understanding remains sound and competent.”

Darcy shook his head.

“They can take such an action? Can the unsupported word of an interested party be considered adequate evidence in so grave a matter?”

Bingley asked.

“Only adequate to commence the inquiry.

Mr Collins did not prevail in that endeavor.

But you did not come to Longbourn to discuss my fitness of mind.

By the look of you, you have found something in the surveys?”

“You are correct, Mr Bennet.”

He kept his eyes firmly on the papers, unwilling to risk meeting Miss Elizabeth’s gaze.

“We believe someone has been tampering with the drainage works.”

Grandfather Bennet’s harsh cough drew their attention.

Jane stepped forward with a cordial, and as she withdrew, Bingley’s eyes followed her.

She glanced away from his obvious admiration, her cheeks colouring, but not, to Darcy’s eye, with pleasure.

“Show us,”

Elizabeth said, moving to the desk.

Darcy laid out the maps, acutely aware of her closeness and the sweet fragrance she wore–as she bent to study them.

Her quick, precise questions demonstrated the sharp intelligence he had admired these past months.

“Here,”

she said, her finger landing on a notation.

“These markers differ from when I checked them in November.

But look at the pattern of the alteration—It is designed to direct water specifically toward Netherfield’s kitchen gardens.”

“The question is whether we can trace who did this?”

Jane’s gentle voice interrupted Darcy’s rising concern.

“Hill mentioned unfamiliar men on the estate before the first thaw.

She thought they were drainage workers.”

“In late November?”

Bingley leant toward Jane, practically hanging on her words.

“That would align with when our groundskeeper first noticed disturbed soil near the south field borders.”

“The work would have been done at night,”

Elizabeth said, drawing attention back to the maps.

“But in this weather--” She broke off, eyes widening.

Grandfather met her gaze.

“I reckon the frozen ground might show tool marks—some unnatural alterations in the soil.”

“I should be pleased to escort Miss Elizabeth to examine the site.”

The words left Darcy’s mouth before he could stop them.

“With proper chaperonage, of course.” He deliberately avoided looking at either Bingley or Jane, knowing his friend would read too much into his offer.

Her eyes met his, startled.

For a moment, something flashed in their depths that made his chest tighten, before she quickly looked away.

“That would be…”

She paused, her voice measured.

“Most helpful, Mr Darcy.

Thank you.”

Grandfather leant forward, his keen eyes belying his frail appearance.

“Take the eastern approach, Lizzy.

The old sheep track.

The drainage pattern always showed clearest there in winter.”

He coughed but continued with remarkable determination.

“Take detailed notes and document any tool marks.

The depth will tell you whether they were made before or after the frost.”

They arranged to meet at first light.

The carriage would take them as far as possible, then they would walk the line she had marked on Darcy’s copy of the survey map.

“Until tomorrow then,”

she said, her voice maintaining that professional distance that both relieved and disappointed him.

Bingley offered their farewells as Darcy folded the annotated map into his coat pocket.

The ride back to Netherfield was silent, each man occupied with his own thoughts.

When they arrived, Netherfield was nearly deserted.

Miss Bingley and the Hursts had not deigned to travel to Meryton, and Bingley had secured only the minimal staff.

The two gentlemen sat down to a cold repast.

“What a labyrinth of intrigue we find ourselves within! Mr.

Collins endeavours to have Mr.

Bennet declared of unsound mind, while some malefactor deliberately sabotages the irrigation works.

One cannot conceive how a mere country parson, with the modest stipend afforded by his living, could orchestrate such elaborate machinations.

The resources required for such enterprises surely exceed those at the disposal of a simple clergyman.

Might there be some greater interest directing his actions from behind?”

Bingley asked.

Darcy deliberated upon the entirety of the matter with grave consideration.

He had harboured suspicions these many weeks that his aunt's hand guided Mr Collins's every manoeuvre, but as Bingley related the full extent of these machinations, he could no longer avoid the disagreeable conclusion that Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself had designed this mischief for purposes known only to her own understanding.

That a lady of her consequence should stoop to such devices against the Bennet family suggested a degree of malice he had heretofore been unwilling to attribute to his relation.

He ought not to let it stand.

Elizabeth Bennet paused outside the kitchen door, her hand halting mid-air as she heard her mother’s voice from within.

“Cook, are those apple tarts ready?”

Mrs Bennet called, her voice carrying that particular note of urgency Elizabeth had come to recognise these past weeks.

“Mr Freeman mentioned he might call this afternoon, regarding the boundary line.”

Peering around the doorframe, Elizabeth watched as her mother patted at her hair and adjusted her cap before the polished copper pot that hung near the hearth.

“Yes, ma’am.

Fresh out of the oven not half an hour ago,”

Cook replied, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she arranged the tarts on Mrs Bennet’s best plate—the one with painted flowers that rarely made an appearance save for distinguished guests.

“Spying, Lizzy?”

came Lydia’s whisper from behind, making Elizabeth start.

“Observing,”

Elizabeth corrected with a small smile, stepping back to allow her youngest sister a view of the scene.

Together they watched as their mother inspected the tarts, rearranging one before nodding in satisfaction.

“Mamma,”

Lydia called out as she entered the kitchen, Elizabeth following behind, “I believe Mr Freeman’s interest in our boundary line has been thoroughly satisfied these three visits past.”

Mrs Bennet coloured, her hands flying to her cheeks.

“Nonsense.

These matters are complex.

The man simply wishes to be certain all is in order.”

“Indeed,”

Elizabeth agreed, her eyes meeting Lydia’s with suppressed mirth.

“As evidenced by his remarkable attention to our apple orchard.

One might think he was more interested in the fruit than the property line.”

“Girls! Such impertinence,”

Mrs Bennet scolded, although Elizabeth noted the pleased flutter of her mother’s hands and the way she checked her reflection once more in the copper pot.

“Mr Freeman is just being neighbourly.”

“Neighbourly enough to ride five miles to confer on fence posts,”

Lydia murmured to Elizabeth.

Before Mrs Bennet could respond, Hill appeared at the door.

“Mr Freeman has arrived, ma’am.”

“Oh!”

Mrs Bennet’s hand flew to her throat, and Elizabeth observed with interest how her mother’s cheeks grew pink.

“Show him to the drawing room.

And tell him I shall be along directly.”

As their mother hurried from the kitchen, Elizabeth turned to Lydia.

“I believe Mr Freeman will find all our fence posts in remarkably good condition today.”

“Undoubtedly,”

Lydia agreed with a laugh.

“Although I expect he’ll need to inspect them again before the week is out.”

Elizabeth lingered in the corridor just long enough to hear her mother’s unusually melodious greeting and Mr Freeman’s deeper voice responding with evident pleasure.

There was something heartening in the sound, she thought as she slipped away—something that brought a smile to her face and a lightness to her step.

Dawn revealed a world glazed in ice.

Darcy’s carriage brought them to the edge of the affected fields, where the old sheep track met the property line.

The frozen ground crunched under their boots as they disembarked.

Jane had insisted on accompanying them, and Bingley had naturally offered his escort.

Elizabeth tied her warmest bonnet on and wrapped an extra shawl around her shoulders.

When she stepped out, the wind managed to find its way under the skirt, and she was grateful for Mary’s enthusiasm for knitting woollen stockings.

Elizabeth pulled out the survey map, its corners crisp in the bitter air. “Here,”

she pointed to her markings from yesterday.

“The elevation changes begin at these points.” Elizabeth flexed her stiffening fingers, the raw cold biting through even thick wool.

“The ice will have settled in the lowest areas,”

Darcy observed, scanning the field.

“We should be able to trace the altered water flow.”

They began their inspection at the first marker.

Elizabeth knelt to examine a suspicious groove in the frozen earth, her breath visible in the cold air.

“This cut is too regular to be natural erosion.”

She pulled off her gloves to handle the instruments with precision despite the numbing cold.

Darcy stepped closer, blocking the worst of the wind.

“Note the soil displacement pattern,”

Darcy said, pointing to a ridge of frozen earth.

“Someone used a grading tool here—you may see where they have cut a channel to redirect the natural flow.” He produced a measuring stick and notebook, efficiently recording the dimensions as Elizabeth dictated them.

The evidence mounted as they worked their way across the field.

Someone had systematically altered the careful grading Elizabeth had implemented over the past three years.

Each tampered section directed water flow toward Netherfield’s kitchen gardens, where it now lay frozen in sheets.

“These marks in the soil,”

he said, returning to their task as if the interlude had been the most natural thing in the world, “they are weathered.

The tampering must have occurred before the hard frost- or during the thaw.

The ground was still workable when this was done.”

Elizabeth traced the pattern of alterations on their crude map.

“They knew exactly what they were doing—see how each channel feeds into the next? This was no random matter.”

The inspection itself proved gruelling.

The frozen ground had preserved clear evidence of tampering, but documenting it required careful measurement and notation.

Elizabeth’s fingers grew stiff with cold despite her gloves.

By midday, they had compiled substantial evidence of deliberate sabotage.

“The evidence is quite conclusive,”

Darcy said, studying his notebook with great concentration.

“The drainage work was clearly undermined by someone with rudimentary technical knowledge but poor execution.

Your original design was sound.”

Darcy checked his timepiece.

“We should return before the weather worsens.”

He paused.

“Unless you think we have missed anything?”

Elizabeth reviewed their documentation.

“No, this is comprehensive.

Although I would like to examine these measurements against the original drainage plans.”

“At Netherfield,”

Darcy said.

“The library will be warmer for the comparison.”

Jane and Bingley, who had been at a discreet distance examining the route the water took to the kitchen gardens, joined them for the walk back to the carriage.

Elizabeth flexed her bandaged finger, the morning’s work having proved her grandfather’s theory about tool marks in frozen ground.

They had their evidence.

What they would do with it was another matter entirely.