Page 46 of The Mercy of Chance

M iss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth.”

Mr Darcy approached their small party as they gathered their belongings.

The formality of the court proceedings had left them all drained, and Elizabeth could not help but notice the pallor that had settled upon her uncle’s usually ruddy complexion.

“My house is but a short distance.

Might I offer you and your uncle some refreshment before you return to Gracechurch Street?”

Mr Phillips, looking rather worn from the court’s formality, accepted for them with evident relief.

The clerk of the court bowed as they departed, the echoes of legal argument still seeming to linger in the surrounding air.

Outside, the winter sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones.

Darcy’s carriage was brought round first, its polished panels gleaming.

Elizabeth approached Mr Darcy’s grand carriage, holding fast to her sister’s hand.

The tension of the day had left her more unsettled than she cared to admit, although she maintained her composure with determination.

Mr Phillips had already settled in the forward-facing seat, nodding his thanks.

The footman handed Jane in first, then, when Elizabeth approached the step, Mr Darcy stepped forward to assist her.

“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?”

he asked softly.

She glanced up at him, momentarily startled by his proximity and the genuine concern in his eyes.

“As well as can be expected, sir,”

she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

“It cannot be denied that the day has been rather more taxing than anticipated.”

His hand closed gently around hers as he assisted her into the carriage, the brief contact sending an unexpected warmth through her gloved fingers.

“You bore yourself with remarkable composure,”

he said quietly, his tone pitched for her ears alone.

As she settled herself on the bench, his eyes lingered on her, until he closed the door and joined the rest of the party in the second carriage.

The grand fa?ade of Darcy House loomed before them, its elegant proportions and tasteful ornamentation speaking of generations of wealth and refinement.

Elizabeth hesitated on the carriage step, suddenly overwhelmed by the disparity between this London mansion and her beloved but modest Longbourn.

How could Mr Darcy possibly understand the life she had chosen? A gentleman of his standing, with such extensive properties and connections, could not truly comprehend what it meant for women to maintain an estate without male protection in a society that valued women only by their connections.

His words suggested… but no, she must not allow herself to misinterpret common courtesy as particular regard.

“Miss Elizabeth?”

His voice drew her from her thoughts.

Mr Darcy stood waiting, having already handed down her sister.

Elizabeth forced a smile and spoke in what she hoped was a pert manner.

“Forgive me.

I was momentarily overcome by the grandeur of your residence.”

Something flickered in his expression—disappointment, perhaps? “It is no more than stone and mortar,”

he said quietly.

“The true worth of a home lies in those who inhabit it.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm and averted her gaze when it was suddenly drawn to one of the tigers on the rear of the carriage—a young man whose familiar features caused her to study him.

“Is that not Tobias Carter?”

she enquired, her brow furrowed.

Darcy nodded, his shoulders tensing briefly.

“It is.

I took the liberty of offering him a position after his remarkable courage.

His account of Collins’s attempt to sabotage Longbourn’s drainage system to flood Netherfield was invaluable.”

Elizabeth felt a mixture of surprise and admiration.

“I hope you do not think it presumptuous,”

Darcy replied, “The boy showed remarkable integrity, and I thought it prudent to remove him from Mr Collins’s potential influence.”

Elizabeth studied him, her expression softening.

“It was most thoughtful, sir.”

“His welfare concerned you,”

Darcy said simply.

“Therefore, it concerned me as well.”

The late afternoon light slanted through Darcy House’s tall windows, painting golden rectangles across the Aubusson carpet.

Darcy watched Elizabeth’s profile as she accepted a cup of tea from Georgiana, whose hands trembled despite her determined composure.

The morning in Chancery Court had left them all drained, in a peculiar state of suspension - the Lord Chancellor’s promise to deliver his ruling on the morrow hanging over them like an invisible pendulum, each tick bringing them closer to resolution or catastrophe.

“Miss Darcy,”

Elizabeth said, her voice pitched with gentle warmth, “your brother tells me you have created quite a paradise in your orangerie.

Even in winter, to have blooming citrus must be remarkable.”

Georgiana’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.

“The gardener says the lemons may fruit this year, though I can claim little credit.”

“Then we are equally ignorant,”

Elizabeth replied with a smile that drew an answering curve from Georgiana’s usually solemn mouth.

“Although I should dearly love to see them.

In Hertfordshire, we must content ourselves with hardier specimens.”

“Perhaps…”

Darcy hesitated briefly, aware of how this might appear but unable to resist.

“Perhaps you would care to view them now? The afternoon light shows them to particular advantage.”

Elizabeth’s quick glance carried a spark of mischief that suggested she was not deceived by his convenient pretext.

“I should like that a great deal, Mr Darcy.

One must seize such opportunities for horticultural education when they present themselves.”

“Indeed,”

he replied gravely, although his eyes betrayed his amusement.

“A most improving pursuit.”

The orangerie lay down a short corridor, its glass panels capturing the weak sunshine.

Elizabeth’s expression brightened as she took in the unexpectedly lush greenery.

“How wonderful,”

she breathed, examining a glossy leaf.

“To have such summer scents in winter.

Although I must confess, Mr Darcy, this makes our kitchen garden’s rosemary and thyme seem rather modest by comparison.”

“Herbs possess their own dignity,”

he countered, welcoming the familiar spark of challenge in her tone, “I seem to recall a rather spirited defence of their practical value during your last dinner at Netherfield.”

“Ah yes, when you suggested that ornamental gardens spoke to a more refined sensibility.”

Her eyes caught his, bright with remembered provocation.

“I believe you were extolling the virtues of your aunt’s famous roses at the time.”

“I would never dismiss the practical in favour of mere ornament, Miss Elizabeth.

Although perhaps my argument that evening lacked… nuance.”

“Nuance?”

She studied a delicate citrus blossom, her expression arch.

“Is that what you would call your declaration that kitchen gardens belonged firmly below stairs, out of sight of genteel visitors?”

“You have an uncomfortably precise memory for my social failures,”

he observed dryly.

“Only the most entertaining ones,”

she assured him, her smile carrying a warmth that made him momentarily forget tomorrow’s looming judgement.

“Although I must admit, your orangerie makes a compelling argument for the marriage of practical and ornamental virtues.” She meant to speak lightly, but the intimacy of the space, the hushed air between glass and greenery, lent her words unexpected weight.

“High praise indeed, Miss Elizabeth.

I shall inform the gardener immediately of your qualified approval.”

“Oh no, my approval is quite unqualified.

I admire the beauty as well as the practicality of the work.

I do hope you appreciate it yourself.”

He stepped closer, drawn by the subtle interplay of sunlight and shadow across her face.

“I appreciate many things, Miss Elizabeth, although perhaps not always as openly as I should.”

Her eyes widened at his approach, and for a moment the air between them seemed to crystallise with possibility.

Then the sound of voices from the drawing room penetrated their sanctuary, and reality crashed back like a wave.

His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer than propriety would demand.

He straightened and turned away.

“How did you find your first encounter with the law’s majesty?”

Darcy asked, his tone carefully neutral although his eyes held genuine interest.

Elizabeth’s fingers traced the edge of a terra cotta pot, her expression thoughtful.

“In truth, I had not expected the Lord Chancellor to show such… patience with Mr Collins’s meandering testimony.

Although perhaps that patience spoke more to his thoroughness than any merit in the arguments presented.”

“Lord Eldon is known for his careful deliberation,”

Darcy agreed, studying how the late afternoon light caught the subtle shifts of expression across her face.

“His intent is to have his rulings held up by any appellate review.

I was struck by your admirable composure when Mr Collins presumed to offer the court a most singular exposition on matters of riparian law, one which bore little resemblance to established precedent.”

“Singular?”

Her eyebrow lifted in a way that made his chest tighten inexplicably.

“I believe the word you search for is ‘nonsensical.’ Although I will own that his citation of mediaeval water rights was an impressive feat of imagination.”

“It would not be unreasonable to admire such determined misunderstanding,”

Darcy said, then caught the flash of genuine worry beneath her arch look.

“Miss Elizabeth… the Chancellor’s questions regarding practical management spoke to the heart of the matter.

Your grandfather’s careful documentation of improvements--”

“But will it be enough?”

The question escaped before she could master it, and he saw how quickly she tried to recover her usual spirit.

“Forgive me.

I should not ask you to speculate.”

The vulnerability in her voice stirred something protective in his chest, an overwhelming urge to offer comfort, to promise that all would be well, to take her hand and… He stepped back abruptly, his expression shuttering.

What madness was this? Any gesture of particular attention from him now would be not only inappropriate but potentially damaging to her reputation.

He was Darcy of Pemberley, and she… she was the granddaughter of a country squire fighting to protect a modest estate from a grasping cousin.

The morning’s court proceedings had emphasised every social and financial chasm between them.

“The law follows its own course,”

he said, more formally than moments before.

“But your grandfather’s case was well presented.”

Elizabeth’s quick glance suggested she had noticed the sudden shift in his manner, although she simply inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“Then we must trust in justice, must we not, Mr Darcy? I fear such trust comes more easily to some than others.”

The subtle challenge in her words made him want to respond in kind, to return to their earlier easy exchange.

She glanced up, catching his expression before he could school it to neutrality.

For a moment the air between them seemed to crystallise with possibility.

The citrus blossoms surrounding them released their fragrance into the air, sweet yet with an underlying sharpness that reminded Darcy of Elizabeth herself—a woman whose gentle appearance belied a formidable spirit.

A faint warmth clung to the glass panels, trapping the day’s light and scent within, as though the very air conspired to hush the world beyond and draw them closer.

He lingered in the moment, unwilling to disturb the fragile understanding that had taken shape between them.

“Your documentation is most thorough,”

he offered, his voice softening despite his determination to maintain gentlemanly distance.

“In my experience, the Chancellor values practical evidence above theoretical arguments.”

“Then perhaps there is hope yet for those of us who prefer soil beneath our fingernails to ink stains,”

Elizabeth replied, her smile returning with a warmth that reached her eyes.

Darcy took an unconscious half-step closer, drawn by that warmth.

“Miss Elizabeth, I—”

Then the sound of voices from the drawing room penetrated their sanctuary, and reality crashed back.

Georgiana’s gentle laugh mingled with the deeper tones of Mr Phillips, reminding them both of propriety’s constant presence.

He stepped back, his manner cooling perceptibly.

He gestured toward the door with careful courtesy.

“Shall we rejoin the others? I believe I heard Georgiana offer to play.”

Elizabeth’s expression flickered - a shadow passing across her usual certainty - before settling into something more measured.

“The law follows its own course, you said.

After witnessing this morning’s proceedings, I better understand why even the most confident gentleman might pace his study whilst awaiting a Chancellor’s ruling.

Whose words shall the Chancellor credit? What decision did some court make a hundred years past.

It feels governed more by hazard than design.”

She paused, her eyes meeting his briefly.

“We seek justice, but I fear we must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance.” Her voice revealed fragility beneath the gentle teasing, betraying how deeply the uncertainty of tomorrow’s judgement weighed upon her.

Darcy felt the significance of her veiled admission like a physical pressure in his chest.

He could command a regiment of solicitors, direct the course of vast estates - yet here, now, he stood powerless to ease the anxiety that had drawn her shoulders tight beneath her deliberately maintained composure.

The protocols and proprieties that had shaped his existence now formed an insurmountable barrier to offering the comfort he wished to provide.

He inclined his head, acutely aware of how her presence filled the quiet space between citrus trees and gestured toward the drawing room where propriety - and safety - waited.

Their arms brushed as they walked, the faintest contact, but she felt it like a spark.

Neither looked aside.

The silence between them spoke more eloquently than words of all that remained unresolved between them.

The warmth and welcome of the Gardiner’s home on Gracechurch Street settled around Elizabeth like a familiar melody, each note precise and comforting after the austere performance of legal theatre they had witnessed.

She watched the firelight play across the delicate china of her teacup, thinking of how the barristers had postured and preened in their formal dress, as if the wearing of a wig might somehow transform mere mortal understanding into divine wisdom.

“It strikes me as strange,”

she said slowly, measuring each word against the day’s observations, “how peculiar it is that the fate of Longbourn - with all its practical concerns of soil and drainage and crops and tenants’ livelihoods - should rest in the hands of men who have never so much as planted a seed.”

Mrs Gardiner’s eyes held a gleam of recognition.

“Yet they would have us believe that only years of reading Latin phrases and dusty tomes can prepare one for such weighty decisions.”

“Indeed.”

Elizabeth set down her cup with careful precision.

“Although I noted how their grand theories faltered when faced with Grandfather’s detailed accounts of field management.

All their elegant citations could not match the simple evidence of improved yields.”

“The law does seem to pride itself on complexity,”

Jane observed quietly.

“As if understanding must necessarily be wrapped in layers of incomprehensible language.

Yet the gentlemen have spent years studying such matters.

All those hours at Cambridge, all that time at the Inns of Court…”

“Hours spent in chambers lined with leather-bound books,”

Elizabeth replied, challenge creeping into her tired voice. “

Mrs Gardiner set down her cup with deliberate precision.

“You noted how the Lord Chancellor attended particularly to your grandfather’s documentation of yield improvements.”

“Yes,”

Elizabeth acknowledged, her expression brightening.

“And how Mr Collins’s man faltered when questioned about actual field conditions.

I suppose there is something to be said for hands-on experience over pure scholarship.

But all those Latin phrases are nought but a convenient shield,” Elizabeth replied, her exhaustion giving way to sharper analysis.

“For if one cannot penetrate their citadel of language, how can one hope to question their judgement? Although I must say, after today’s display, their mysterious realm struck me as rather less impressive than they might wish—once the ceremonial trappings were set aside, the principles seemed quite… obvious.

Indeed, I dare say any woman who has managed a household budget or negotiated with merchants could grasp them readily enough.”

Mrs Gardiner’s smile carried years of similar observations.

“Although heaven forbid we should suggest such a thing.

Lest we disturb their very masculine conviction that only men who wear wigs and robes to work can truly understand complex matters.

I believe they find it more comfortable to imagine us occupied solely with children and gossip.”

“More comfortable indeed,”

Elizabeth agreed, her voice taking on an edge of challenge.

“For what might happen if we were to demand entry into their hallowed halls? What revelations might emerge if practical experience were valued equally with theoretical knowledge?” She straightened in her chair, animation returning to her features.

“I watched Mr Collins’s man fumble through basic questions about water flow whilst quoting mediaeval precedents with perfect precision.

As if knowing the date of some ancient ruling matters more than understanding how water actually moves across land.”

“You found their arguments lacking then?”

Mrs Gardiner asked, although her expression suggested she already knew the answer.

“Not lacking so much as… disconnected.

They speak of property as an abstract concept, all documents and declarations, whilst we live with its daily reality.”

Elizabeth’s expression softened.

“Mr Darcy at least seems to grasp both worlds - the legal and the practical.

His testimony cut through to the heart of matters in a way that made some of the other gentlemen rather uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps because he too must balance theory with practice,”

Jane suggested gently.

“Yes,”

Elizabeth agreed, her voice thoughtful.

“Although I wonder if they realise how much of their supposed expertise we mastered simply through necessity.

After all, what is contract law but an elaborate version of negotiating with merchants? What is property law but the formal expression of what every estate manager must know by heart?”

Jane reached across and gently laid a hand atop Elizabeth’s—her touch light, but steady.

“Take heart, Lizzy,”

she said with a glint in her eye.

“After all, we have survived far worse than a roomful of men in wigs.

I believe I once diffused a family quarrel with less than a day’s notice with two dozen guests already seated to supper.”

Elizabeth laughed, startled and grateful.

“A fine precedent, indeed.”

Shifting shadows of thought crossed her countenance.as she added, more quietly, “It is strange, is it not, that so much of what we do—quietly, daily—counts for little until it is echoed by a man in court? No, I am not overawed by their mysterious profession.

I simply wish…” She trailed off, letting the onus of centuries of exclusion hang in the comfortable silence between them.

“Yes,”

Mrs Gardiner said softly.

“We all do.

Perhaps one day…”

The words hung in the fire-lit air like a prayer, or a prophecy.