Page 45 of The Mercy of Chance
T he Court of Chancery hummed with ancient ceremony, its vaulted ceilings echoing the murmur of gathered barristers and the rustle of parchment.
The traditional call rang out, a declaration of order steeped in centuries of practice:
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All manner of persons having anything to do before the Right Honourable the Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain in His Majesty’s High Court of Chancery, draw near and give your attendance!”
A hush fell, interrupted only by the scratch of quills and the soft shuffle of clerks moving among the oak benches.
Upon the Lord Chancellor’s bench, the great mace of office lay before him, its presence a symbol of authority as he took his seat, his robes faced with miniver marking the winter session.
Before him, a Master in Chancery, his expression impassive, sorted through a sheaf of reports—lengthy accounts prepared for His Lordship’s deliberation.
The Commissioners of Oaths, seated in their designated area, remained poised to verify any sworn statements brought before the court.
The mountain of documents upon the bench—bills, crossbills, answers, rejoinders, affidavits—all tied in red tape, bespoke the notorious burden of Chancery litigation.
Barristers in their horsehair wigs and black silk gowns adjusted their notes, whilst solicitors conferred in low voices with their clients.
Mr Graves’s shifted his black silk gown, the mark of having “taken silk”
setting him apart from the more junior barristers in their stuff gowns.
The court officer’s staff struck the flagstone, and the Master in Chancery began his formal recitation of the case.
“In the matter of Collins versus Bennet, praying for relief concerning the entailment of Longbourn…”
The ancient formulae of the court rolled on, each ceremony marking another inexorable step toward Mr Collins’s undoing.
The barristers conferred.
The court noted that a member of the nobility was present as a witness and instructed that his testimony be taken immediately.
Lord Matthews advanced with measured step, the clicking of his boots against the stone floor the only sound in the hush.
He ascended to the witness box, took his appointed place.
Lord Matthews met the courtroom’s gaze with unshaken poise, adjusting his gloves as though this were a matter of mild inconvenience, rather than a case that might decide the future of an estate.
Mr Collins tugged at his neckcloth.
Beads of sweat had formed at his sparse hairline and were beginning to slide down his face.
Hemmed in between his counsel, he shrank beneath the solemnity of these proceedings.
His eyes darted between Lord Matthews’s aristocratic figure and the impassive visage of the Lord Chancellor seated above.
A murmur rippled through the chamber as the presence of a noble witness was noted.
Lord Matthews, his posture as precise as his tailored frock coat, stepped forward.
The clerk of the court held out the bible, and Matthews, with a measured nod, placed his hand upon it.
“You shall true answer make to all such questions as shall be demanded of you, touching the matters in this cause, and by Almighty God to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“So help me God.”
The Lord Chancellor’s gaze settled upon him; his words deliberate.
“Lord Matthews, you have given written deposition in this matter.
You shall now answer further to the court’s satisfaction.
Pray, state for the record the nature of your dealings with one Mr Collins.”
Mr Collins exhaled sharply.
The weight of the Lord Chancellor’s quill poised over parchment signalled that each word spoken here would be preserved in the annals of the court.
“My Lord, I was initially approached by a gentleman of that name who sought to discuss matters of estate improvement.
Specifically, he proposed certain alterations to drainage works which he claimed would be to my benefit.”
“At the time of this encounter, were you the owner of the estate entitled Dunbar Court?
“Yes, at that time I was,”
“Do you currently hold title to that property?
“I do not,”
Lord Matthews grimaced at the admission.
Mr Collins leant toward his solicitor, whispering with visible urgency.
A sharp bang of the court officer’s staff echoed in the vast chamber, making Collins start like a guilty man.
“And to whom did you sell this estate?”
Lord Matthews hesitated a fraction of a second.
“To a holding company, recently formed—Pemberley Holdings.”
Darcy’s composure remained unchanged, though Jane glanced sharply at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth’s brows drew together.
The name struck an immediate chord.
“Pemberley Holdings,”
repeated the Lord Chancellor, noting the name.
“And is it known who stands behind this company?”
“It is not generally known,”
Matthews replied.
“However, I believe this court may wish to inquire directly of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, who acted through his solicitor.”
A stunned silence settled over Elizabeth.
She turned slowly toward Darcy, who sat composed and silent, offering no denial.
The Lord Chancellor looked toward Darcy.
“Mr Darcy, do you acknowledge this transaction?”
Darcy rose, bowing.
“I do, my Lord.”
“And what was your purpose in acquiring this estate?”
“An investment in a property with excellent potential.”
The Lord Chancellor narrowed his gaze.
“Prudent, perhaps.
But I find it unusual that a gentleman with no title, lease, or familial claim to Longbourn should take such an active interest in its preservation.
You will explain yourself, sir.”
Darcy straightened, his voice calm but deliberate.
“I have offered counsel to Mr James Bennet and his granddaughters, regarding improvements to the estate’s drainage and agricultural efficiency.
My intent was to secure the sound management of lands adjoining those.
Elizabeth’s cheeks coloured, though she betrayed no outward alarm.
The explanation was careful, measured—yet to her ears, it rang with the disquieting resonance of a truth half-disguised.
The Lord Chancellor regarded Darcy a moment longer, then returned his gaze to the documents before him.
“So noted.
We shall now proceed with the substance of Mr Collins’s claims.”
Elizabeth sat motionless; her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Her thoughts tumbled—anger, confusion, something softer and more complex—all vying for precedence.
Jane reached for her hand, but Elizabeth could not yet look at her.
“Lord Matthews, did Mr Collins mention any financial interest in this matter?”
“Indeed.
His scheme was twofold—first, to offer certain ‘improvements’ to lands within my charge, and second, to negotiate the future sale of portions of Longbourn, an estate he expects to inherit.
He was, to my judgement, in some financial distress and eager to secure immediate funds.”
“My Lord, did Mr Collins at any time make reference to the recent acts of sabotage upon the estate water works in question?”
asked the barrister for the plaintiff,
“Not directly.
However, he betrayed an undue eagerness to position himself advantageously, as though anticipating certain difficulties might arise—difficulties which, I now understand, were of his own design.”
“And did you, at any point, indicate willingness to enter into such an arrangement?”
“I did not.
I merely expressed interest in hearing his full proposal.
It was my intention to ascertain the depth of his intentions and whether they might be relevant to the present allegations.”
“To your knowledge, does Mr Collins understand the full extent of his entanglement in this matter?”
Lord Matthews paused briefly, then replied evenly.
“He does not.
He remains under the impression that his actions remain undiscovered and that he might still extricate himself—if he can secure an advantageous agreement.
According to his later correspondence, he planned to force the transfer of Longbourn to his hands through court action.”
“And you retained these letters, my Lord?”
the judge enquired.
““Yes, your honour.
Including Mr Collins’s specific proposals regarding the disposal of Longbourn’s east fields.”
Lord Matthews’s accent remained perfectly aristocratic, making Collins’s schemes sound all the more tawdry.
“You will submit all correspondence pertaining to this matter to the court.”
“As Your Lordship commands.”
Lord Matthews recited the Viscount’s precise account of their meetings leaving no room for reinterpretation.
The Court of Chancery remained silent as Lord Matthews’s testimony concluded, the weight of his words pressing upon the assembled company.
His measured, aristocratic cadence had delivered a damning account of Collins’s eager scheming, but the process was not yet complete.
At the conclusion of the Lord Chancellor’s questioning, he intoned:”
Let the record reflect that the witness’s statement was delivered under oath and without contradiction.
Your witness, Plaintiff.”
Collins’s barrister, Mr Forsythe, a man of middling talent and little courtroom presence, rose from his bench, adjusting the sleeves of his stuff gown as though the act might lend him gravitas.
His thin lips pursed, his fingers smoothing the pages before him as he attempted to formulate a strategy of defence.
He bowed to the bench.
“With Your Lordship’s leave, I shall now put certain questions to the witness.”
The Lord Chancellor inclined his head.
“Proceed.”
Forsythe cleared his throat.
“Lord Matthews, I put it to you that my client—Mr Collins—approached you with a simple proposal of mutual benefit, one that any reasonable landowner might entertain.”
Lord Matthews arched a brow, glancing toward the Master in Chancery, who dutifully recorded each word.
“If by ‘mutual benefit,’ you mean a scheme to first manipulate estate drainage in his favour, and then to dispose of lands which were not yet lawfully his, then I suppose that is one way to frame it.”
A few muffled chuckles stirred among the barristers.
Forsythe straightened his shoulders.
“It is not unusual for gentlemen to seek improvements to their holdings.
Is it not true, my Lord, that you yourself have engaged in such discussions?”
A slight smile ghosted across Lord Matthews’s lips, a confident expression of effortless superiority.
“I have indeed discussed estate improvements, sir, but I daresay I have never resorted to sabotage, nor have I sought to sell that which I did not own.”
Mr Collins shrank in his seat.
Forsythe flipped through his papers, pressing on.
“You state that my client’s financial position was strained.
How did you arrive at such a conclusion?”
Lord Matthews straightened, his voice even, patrician.
“He confessed it.
Mr Collins spoke at great length about the pressing need to secure funds, lamenting the delay of his inheritance.
He suggested that a sale of certain portions of Longbourn—which he assured me he would soon possess—could be arranged immediately.”
Forsythe frowned, fumbling for an alternative line of questioning.
“And yet, you did not immediately report this alleged scheme to the Magistrate?”
Matthews tilted his head, a picture of effortless condescension.
“I did not.
I am not in the habit of running to the courts over a man’s desperate boasts.
But as Mr Collins’s actions grew more brazen, I saw fit to retain his letters.”
Forsythe seized upon this.
“Letters! But did my client ever explicitly confess to wrongdoing?”
The Bennet’s barrister did not object—he knew well that Forsythe was digging his own grave.
Lord Matthews steepled his fingers, his delivery unhurried, each syllable precise.
“I believe the phrase used in one of his letters was: ‘It will take but a little pressure upon the court for the lands to be made mine, and then my hands shall be free to act.’”
A ripple of scandalized murmurs spread through the gallery.
Forsythe visibly paled.
He pressed forward with the air of a man running out of road.
“My Lord, you claim Mr Collins had knowledge of the—ah—unfortunate damage to your drainage works.
But do you have evidence that he ordered it?”
Matthews’s expression remained composed.
“The court has already heard from Mr Tobias Carter, whose sworn deposition states that Mr Collins directly sought his services for the purpose of interfering with the works.”
The Commissioners of Oaths murmured among themselves as the clerk of the court lifted a sheaf of parchment—the official deposition already entered into evidence.
Mr Collins shifted in his seat, his neckcloth visibly tight.
Mr Forsythe, now plainly desperate, waved a hand with forced nonchalance.
“But my Lord, one might argue that a simple conversation is hardly an admission of intent.”
Lord Matthews’s smile was glacial.
“Oh, I quite agree.
But when a gentleman follows such a conversation with written instructions, a signed agreement, and evidence of bank payments recorded in his own name—one is rather compelled to draw conclusions.”
The court erupted in a stir, the spectators murmuring not even attempting to conceal their opinions.
Forsythe, defeated, vaguely gestured to the bench.
“No further questions, my Lord.”
He sat down heavily, his wig listing to one side.
The Lord Chancellor laid aside his quill, surveying the chamber with the solemn weight of centuries of legal authority behind him.
He adjusted his spectacles with deliberate precision, then raised one hand.
At his signal, the court officer stepped forward and struck the floor with the ceremonial staff, its sharp report echoing through the vaulted hall.
“This court will hear from the remaining witnesses after a brief recess.
We shall reconvene at two o’clock.”
The corridors of the Inns of Court were thick with murmured speculation, as figures in dark robes passed with brisk purpose, their expressions ranging from impassive to gravely engrossed in hushed conferences.
Elizabeth, Jane, and Mr Philips lingered in the antechamber, uncertain whether they ought to remain standing or seek some more tolerable respite.
The court recess was lengthy, and whilst none of them wished to stray far, the prospect of loitering in such a cold and impersonal space was equally unappealing.
Darcy, ever decisive in moments of uncertainty, took command of the situation.
With a few quiet words to a passing clerk, and a discreet sum pressed into a waiting hand, he secured a private parlour in one of the adjacent chambers.
The room was modest, yet well-appointed—furnished with a sturdy oak table and a low-burning fire in the hearth, its warmth a welcome contrast to the damp chill of the corridors.
At his direction, a tray of tea and a light repast was arranged, the refreshment as much a gesture of care as of necessity.
Elizabeth seated herself near the fire, absently tracing the rim of her teacup, her thoughts too preoccupied to take more than a sip.
Across from her, Darcy stood stiffly near the window, his gaze fixed upon the rain-slicked cobbles outside.
His usual composure remained intact, yet Elizabeth—now keenly attuned to his moods—observed the tension in the set of his shoulders, the subtle flex and curl of his fingers, as though he resisted the urge to pace.
She knew the source of his disquiet.
The revelation of his purchase, so publicly spoken in court, still rang through her thoughts.
She ought to have felt deceived—he had kept it from her, had let it emerge under oath like a fact of no consequence.
Yet, what unsettled her more deeply was not his silence, that it had been so unexpected, done so swiftly, nearly recklessly, at least by his own meticulous standards.
She had always mistrusted such boldness from men of fortune, too often cloaked in self-importance.
But Darcy had risked something rarer—his privacy, his principles, his pride.
He had wagered them not for admiration, but to offer security to those not his own.
Mr Darcy, with his quiet authority and unshakeable composure, had once seemed the embodiment of that danger—too certain that his station conferred both wisdom and the right to act for others. That he had acted with her family’s interests in mind was beyond question, but what troubled her was the implication beneath it. He was tying himself to Hertfordshire, to the land that bordered Longbourn.
To her.
Darcy turned then, as if sensing her scrutiny.
His dark eyes met hers, searching, wary.
“I hope,”
he said at last, voice low and measured, “that you do not find my recent decision… objectionable.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, considering him.
“That depends.
Am I to assume you consulted no one before making them?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, although his tension did not wholly abate.
“That would be an accurate assumption.”
She let out a breath, shaking her head with something that was not quite exasperation.
“You do not make things easy for yourself, Mr Darcy.”
she said.
“You act as if certainty alone were its own justification.
And yet…” Her voice faltered, the protest yielding to something more fragile.
“And yet, you have given us every reason to be glad you did.
You cannot know how such certainty unsettles those who have never had the luxury of it.”
“I have never sought ease,”
he admitted.
“Only what I believe to be right.”
The simplicity of the statement struck her.
There was no arrogance in it, no expectation of gratitude.
He had not acted to impress her or to force her regard; he had done what he thought necessary, with little concern for how it might be perceived.
How many men of his station would have troubled themselves with such considerations? How many would have risked censure rather than allow those they cared for to suffer uncertainty?
“And yet, for all your certainty, you seem rather concerned about my reaction.”
He hesitated.
“Your good opinion…”
He exhaled, as though frustrated with himself.
“It matters to me.”
Her heart gave a peculiar, traitorous lurch.
Rather than alarm her, it came upon her gently, that realisation—unexpected, yet wholly welcome.
How easy it had become to look to him in times of uncertainty.
How natural it felt to trust his judgement, to find steadiness in his presence.
She knew now, with a certainty that settled deep in her chest, that he was steady, capable, and unshakeable in his convictions.
He understood her—perhaps better than she had thought possible.
And more than that, he was precisely the man whom, in disposition and talents, she now realised she could most admire.
The thought settled in her heart, unexpected yet wholly welcome.
Darcy cleared his throat, his posture subtly shifting as though he had read something in her expression.
“The recess should not last much longer.”
“No,”
she agreed.
“But long enough, I think, for a cup of tea.”
Before she could speak, Jane’s voice—quiet and distant—drew their attention away.
She had sat largely in silence since they had entered the room, staring down into her untouched cup of tea.
“It is unlike Mr Bingley to be so absent,”
she murmured at last, her voice intentionally neutral.
Elizabeth’s chest tightened at the subdued note in her sister’s expression.
When last they had seen Mr Bingley, he had offered warm expressions of regard and spoken in general terms of his hope that the matter might soon be resolved.
But he had not been at court that day, nor had he sent word.
The contrast to Mr Darcy’s unwavering presence could not have been more marked.
Darcy shifted, his brows drawing together.
“I do not believe he intends any neglect.”
Jane gave a small, polite nod but said nothing further.
Elizabeth studied her sister with quiet concern.
Jane, who always sought the best in people, who so rarely allowed disappointment to show, had reached the limits of even her generous patience.
A silence stretched between them all, filled only by the distant sound of voices beyond the door.
Elizabeth turned back to Darcy, finding his gaze still upon her.
She reached for the teapot, pouring for them.
And though no more was spoken, something unspoken passed between them—a quiet understanding, an accord that had not been there before.
The summons to return to court echoed through the corridors with chilling clarity.
A clerk's voice, formal and dispassionate, called the assembly to order.
Figures in black robes flowed back into the courtroom like shadows returning to their appointed posts.
The great doors of the Chancery swung closed with solemn finality.
Once again, the Lord Chancellor took his place beneath the carved canopy of justice, and the gavel struck.
The ironmonger Stevens followed.
Long regarded in Meryton as a man whose ledgers were neater than most parsons’ sermons, his reluctance to take sides in village disputes was matched only by his devotion to exactitude.
He presented his meticulous records of tools purchased—entries precisely notated in his ledgers, detailing the spades, crowbars, and iron bars procured on Collins’s behalf.
When asked whether such purchases were typical for a clergyman, Stevens hesitated, glancing at the assembled company before shaking his head with a scoff.
No, such requests were most unusual.
He had assumed, at the time, that they were intended for some necessary repair upon the Longbourn Estate.
But with all that had now come to light, he could not help but reconsider.
Then came Tobias Carter’s deposition, entered into the record with solemn gravity.
The clerk of the court read aloud from the document, his voice steady, betraying none of the weight of what was spoken.
Carter’s account was damning in its clarity—he recounted, without embellishment, how Collins had sought him out, suggested a minor adjustment to the drainage of a neighbouring estate, and, when Carter hesitated, knowing the Bennets were still in residence, had sweetened the offer with the promise of further employment.
A murmur swept through the courtroom, subdued at first, but rising in intensity as if the very walls bore witness to his perfidy.
The murmur swelled into audible disapproval.
A lady gasped; an older gentleman muttered with rancour beneath his breath.
Even the Lord Chancellor, seated beneath the heavy canopy of the bench, allowed his quill to still upon the parchment before him.
Elizabeth, seated between Jane and their uncle Phillips, maintained perfect composure throughout.
Her hands, folded in her lap, remained utterly still.
Only Darcy, seated apart in the public gallery, just visible beyond the carved partition, noticed the minute tremor in her grasp upon her reticule.
His gaze did not stray from her.
Mr Collins rose to offer his testimony, his usual pomposity withering under the judge’s stern gaze.
The usher stepped forward, holding out the worn leather-bound bible.
“Place your right hand upon the Holy Scripture and repeat after me.”
Mr Collins hesitated, his fingers twitching at his sides.
He cast a glance about the court, as though searching for a sympathetic gaze, before drawing himself up with an air of wounded dignity.
“My Lord Chancellor,”
he began, “as a clergyman of the Church of England, my word is my bond.
To swear an oath is, in my case, unnecessary, as I am ever bound by the truth before God.”
A silence followed, thick and expectant.
Then, with a rustle of silk robes and a measured dip of his quill into ink, the Lord Chancellor lifted his gaze.
His voice, although unraised, carried the weight of centuries of legal authority.
“Mr Collins, this court shall not make exception on the grounds of personal sentiment.
Whatever oaths you may take in your own conscience, here you are bound by the law as any other man.
You shall be sworn.”
The slight creak of the Lord Chancellor’s chair as he leant forward made Collins start.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and finally lifted a shaking hand to the bible.
“Repeat after me,”
the usher intoned, and Mr Collins, with evident reluctance, obeyed.
His voice quavered as he swore to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
When he finished, he lowered his hand as though the act had physically wearied him.
The Lord Chancellor regarded him with the cool detachment of a man unimpressed.
“Now, Mr Collins, you shall answer to this court.
You have presented yourself here on numerous occasions, first concerning the competency of Mr Bennet, then regarding the entailment of Longbourn.
And yet, we now hear testimony that contradicts the very arguments you have put forth.
Pray tell, how do you explain this?”
Collins licked his lips.
His gaze flickered toward his barrister, who was already fumbling through papers, and then toward the assembled court, where the rows of barristers, clerks, and spectators sat in rapt attention.
His clothing suddenly seemed too tight, his voice too small for the grandeur of the room.
“I merely sought to protect—”
he began, the words spilling forth in desperation.
Collins cleared his throat, his usual confidence faltering.
“I have always maintained that my actions were in the best interest of the estate,” he declared.
“Mr Bennet’s mental decline has been evident for years—his eccentricity well known.
It was my solemn duty to ensure that Longbourn remained in capable hands.”
The Lord Chancellor raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”
He lifted a paper from the stack before him.
“As you sought to protect the estate when you filed your petition regarding Mr Bennet’s competency?”
Collins nodded fervently.
“Precisely so, my Lord.
It was a most distressing circumstance.
I could not in good conscience stand idle whilst the estate fell into mismanagement.”
The Lord Chancellor tapped the paper lightly against the desk.
“The same Mr Bennet who, my records show, had that week completed a detailed survey of drainage requirements with his granddaughter? The petition which my learnt colleague dismissed as wholly without merit?”
Collins twitched, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“With respect, my Lord, such tasks are hardly proof of sound mind.
A gentleman of advanced age may still go through familiar motions whilst lacking true understanding.”
The Lord Chancellor exchanged a glance with the Master in Chancery before selecting another document.
“Mr Broadmore’s examination of Mr Bennet was most thorough.
You are surely aware of its findings- ah, I see in his summary that you were present.
Do you dispute the accuracy of Mr Broadmore’s affidavit?”
Collins stiffened.
“I—of course not, my Lord.
But eccentricity—”
“Eccentricity is not incompetence.”
The Lord Chancellor’s voice cooled.
“Would you like to revisit the examination? The one in which Mr Bennet not only demonstrated impeccable memory, but also corrected the examiner’s arithmetic? The same Mr Bennet who, when asked to identify the reigning monarch, provided not only his name and title but also an assessment of the legal implications of his declining faculties? The man who, when questioned on his own daily affairs, detailed a meticulous accounting of estate improvements, challenged the bias against female competence, and offered insights into animal husbandry that left the examiner himself at a loss for further inquiry?”
Mr Collins opened his mouth, but the Lord Chancellor continued, his voice cutting.
“Or perhaps we should recall Mr Bennet’s response when asked to total a sum of coins laid before him—when he not only provided the answer instantly but remarked that it would be wholly insufficient for the drainage repairs you claim he is incapable of understanding? Or the apothecary’s testimony, which confirmed that his mind is as sharp as ever, requiring only mild tonics for age’s minor discomforts?”
A few chuckles rippled through the gallery.
Mr Collins flushed.
“And yet, despite all evidence to the contrary, you maintain that Mr Bennet was unfit?”
Mr Collins grasped at his dignity.
“It—it was a concern shared by many, my Lord.”
“Many?”
The Lord Chancellor raised an eyebrow.
“Or just you, Mr Collins?”
Mr Collins floundered.
“I merely sought to protect—”
The Lord Chancellor’s tone could have frosted glass.
“Protect whom, Mr Collins? For it does not appear it was Mr Bennet.”
He lifted a paper.
“Mr Collins.”
The Lord Chancellor’s measured words fell into the silence of the court.
“You have presented yourself before this court on multiple occasions.
Now I must ask you directly - did you approach Lord Matthews regarding the disposal of portions of Longbourn?”
A faint flush crept up Collins’s neck.
He tugged at his too-tight cravat, his mouth working before words emerged.
“My Lord, I merely sought to explore possible arrangements—”
“That is not what I asked.”
The Lord Chancellor’s voice remained steady, but the weight behind it pressed down like a stone.
“Did you, or did you not, propose to sell specific portions of Longbourn to his Lordship?”
“I… that is to say… certain discussions were had…”
“Answer the question, sir.”
Collins swallowed hard.
“Yes, my Lord.”
His voice had dwindled to barely more than a whisper.
The Lord Chancellor inclined his head.
“And this was after you had petitioned this court regarding Mr Bennet’s management of the estate?”
“The circumstances—My Lord, I merely sought to—”
“A simple yes or no, sir.”
Collins’s hands twisted around the crown of his hat, his throat bobbing as though he might yet swallow his own words.
“I—that is—”
“Yes or no will suffice.”
A beat of silence.
“Yes, my Lord.”
Collins expelled a lengthy sigh, his shoulders sagging.
The Lord Chancellor consulted another document before him.
“In your petition regarding Mr Bennet’s competency, you expressed particular concern about, I quote, ‘the preservation of Longbourn’s lands intact for future generations.’”
He lowered the paper and fixed Collins with an unwavering gaze.
“How do you reconcile this with your attempts to dispose of portions of those same lands?”
Collins opened his mouth, but no words came.
“Further,”
the Lord Chancellor continued, “you claim deep concern for proper estate management.
Yet we have before us evidence that you arranged the sabotage of drainage works and flooding on neighbouring property.”
A murmur rippled through the gallery.
“My Lord, I had no direct involvement—”
Collins protested weakly.
“Then perhaps you might explain these letters to the labourers, written in your own hand?”
The Lord Chancellor lifted another document.
“Or the records of payment from your account book?”
Collins paled.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as the court’s collective gaze bore down on him.
His fingers fumbled for a handkerchief, dabbing at the perspiration beading on his forehead.
“There were… circumstances—”
“Yes,”
the Lord Chancellor interrupted, his voice sharpening.
“Circumstances which seem to form a pattern.
First, an attempt to wrest control of the estate through claims of incompetence.
Then, deliberate interference with neighbouring lands.
And finally, private arrangements to dispose of property you do not yet—and may never—possess.”
He set down his papers with finality.
“Did you imagine the court would not take notice of such actions?”
The inked words before him, so damning in their clarity, might as well have been a noose tightening around Collins’s throat.
The rest of the afternoon proceeded with the inexorability of a well-laid trap.
Every piece of evidence, every witness’s testimony, formed another bar in the cage around Collins.
His own letters to Lord Matthews proved entirely damning when read aloud.
Elizabeth, seated between Jane and their uncle Phillips, maintained perfect composure throughout.
Only Darcy, seated apart in the public gallery, just visible beyond the carved partition, noticed the minute tremor in her grasp upon her reticule.
The Lord Chancellor’s quill scratched against parchment as he made his final notes.
The silence in the court grew heavier with each stroke.
Jane’s calm, so often unshakeable, had frayed at the edges; a faint line had appeared between her brows, her fingers clutching Elizabeth’s hand tighter than usual beneath the folds of her shawl.
The Lord Chancellor’s quill scratched against parchment as he made his final notes.
The silence in the court grew heavier with each stroke.
“Mr Collins.”
The Lord Chancellor’s voice carried the history of centuries of law.
“You have presented yourself to this court on multiple occasions.
First, with accusations regarding the competency of Mr Bennet.
Then, with grave concerns about the stewardship of an estate you expect to inherit.”
He lifted a paper, studying it through his spectacles.
“Yet now we find evidence that you have not only attempted to dispose of portions of this same estate—portions you do not yet possess—but have actively participated in damaging neighbouring properties.”
Collins’s counsel rose.
“My Lord, if I might—”
“You have had ample opportunity to present your client’s position,”
the Lord Chancellor said in an icy voice.
“I find myself particularly troubled by the pattern these actions reveal.
They suggest not simply poor judgement, but a fundamental disregard for the very principles of estate preservation that entailment exists to protect.”
He set down his quill.
“The evidence of sabotage to Longbourn’s drainage channels and resultant harm to surrounding estates is conclusive.
The testimony regarding your attempt to sell future interests is unimpeachable.
Your own letters to Lord Matthews make your intentions quite clear.”
Collins seemed to shrink with each pronouncement.
“This court cannot allow such actions to stand without consequence.
The entailment of Longbourn was created to preserve the estate intact for future generations.
Your demonstrated willingness to divide and dispose of its lands, combined with active hostility toward neighbouring properties, strikes at the very purpose of such protection.”
The Lord Chancellor reached for another document, the rustle of parchment loud in the strained silence.
“This court,”
the Lord Chancellor pronounced, gathering his papers, “will take these matters under advisement.
I shall deliver my findings when the court reconvenes at two o’clock tomorrow.” He rose, and the assembled company rose with him.
As the crowd began to disperse, Elizabeth felt the full weight of the morning’s proceedings settle upon her.
Her spine remained straight, but her vision blurred for a moment.
Jane’s hand found hers again, and they clung together in silence, twin anchors amid the shifting sea of onlookers.
From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth glimpsed Darcy standing in the gallery’s shadows, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on her.