Page 48 of The Mercy of Chance

T hat evening, in the quiet sanctuary of their shared bedroom at Longbourn, Elizabeth sat at the dressing table whilst Jane brushed out her hair with steady, methodical strokes.

The familiar rhythm seemed to untangle not just curls, but thoughts that had knotted themselves throughout the day’s proceedings.

“You are unusually quiet,”

Jane said, meeting Elizabeth’s eyes in the mirror.

“Do you not find today’s victory should bring some peace of mind?”

Elizabeth watched the candlelight play across her sister’s composed features, measuring her next words.

“I find my thoughts rather… unsettled.

Mr Darcy’s role in all this…”

She trailed off, unable to articulate the complexity of her feelings about his secretly orchestrated assistance.

“Dunbar Court, the Matthews estate,”

Jane mused, running the brush through Elizabeth’s hair with gentle strokes.

“It does share that long boundary with Longbourn’s north fields.”

Elizabeth met her sister’s eyes in the mirror.

“Rather convenient, is it not? Although one might wonder why a man of his consequence would trouble himself with such a modest property.”

“Unless”

Jane suggested, “he had reasons beyond mere investment.”

“Jane.”

Elizabeth’s voice carried a warning, although her fingers twisted restlessly in her lap.

“You cannot mean to suggest…”

“That a gentleman might arrange matters to necessitate frequent consultation between neighbouring estates?”

The brush paused mid-stroke.

“That improvements might require careful coordination?”

“You sound remarkably like our aunt,”

Elizabeth observed, although a treacherous warmth bloomed in her chest at the possibility.

“Next you will suggest he purchased it solely to have an excuse to call at Longbourn on estate business.”

“Would that be so very surprising?”

Jane’s gentle speech belied the significance of her words.

“Given how his eyes follow you, even as he maintains such careful distance?”

Elizabeth stared at her own reflection, remembering how Darcy’s expression had shifted in that courthouse corridor - duty warring with something deeper, something that had made his hands tighten on those papers as if they were the only anchor in a storm of competing obligations.

“We should not indulge in such speculation,”

she said finally, although her voice lacked conviction.

She tied the sash of her dressing gown with finality.

“The property’s value is clear enough without seeking hidden meanings.”

“Of course,”

Jane agreed, resuming her brushing with a small smile that suggested she was not quite convinced.

“Would you not agree, however, that those north fields catch the morning light… as if they were meant to be viewed as one estate.”

“Jane!”

But Elizabeth’s protest held more laughter than censure, and in the candlelight, sister’s eyes met sister’s with a shared understanding of all that remained unspoken.

Jane’s hands stilled.

“He has proved himself a true friend to our family.”

“He has, has he not?”

Elizabeth paced three quick steps before spinning back, colour rising to her cheeks as she awaited confirmation.

“He baffles me still.

At times, he stands so near I could swear I feel the warmth of his regard—and then, as if a line has been crossed, he retreats behind walls of propriety more impenetrable than the Tower itself.”

“Lizzy.”

Jane’s look held gentle understanding.

“Could it be that his heart wages war with his sense of duty?”

“His heart?”

Elizabeth attempted a laugh that emerged rather too brittle.

“I think you attribute too much significance to simple courtesy.”

Jane resumed her brushing, although her eyes remained fixed on Elizabeth’s reflection.

“I saw how he watched you in court yesterday.

As if memorising every detail of your profile whilst simultaneously forcing himself to look away.”

Elizabeth’s fingers traced an aimless pattern on the dressing table’s surface.

“Even if… even if there were some inclination…”

She drew a steadying breath.

“He has made it abundantly clear that any such feelings must be mastered rather than indulged.”

“And your own feelings?”

Jane’s question floated between them like a dove seeking purchase.

The silence stretched, filled with the soft scratch of brush through hair and the distant sounds of Longbourn Street settling into evening.

“I find myself…”

Elizabeth began, then stopped, gathering courage.

“I find myself wishing he were less honourable and more selfish.

Is that not a terrible thing to admit?”

“No more terrible than my disappointed hopes regarding Mr Bingley’s resolution,”

Jane admitted with uncharacteristic candour.

“He is everything amiable, everything kind, yet he seems to doubt his own judgement in all things.

One day he appears certain of his course, the next…” She sighed.

“I sometimes think he looks to others to determine his path, rather than trusting his own heart.”

Elizabeth turned to face her sister directly.

“We are a fine pair, are we not? Pinning hopes on men who appear determined to deny both themselves—and us—the smallest chance at happiness.”

“Perhaps it is time we determined our own path,”

Jane suggested, setting down the brush.

“Longbourn needs our attention, especially now that its future is secure.

We need not wait for gentleman callers to give purpose to our days.”

“No indeed.”

Elizabeth felt her spine straighten with renewed resolve.

“Let them wrestle with their noble hesitations.

We have an estate to manage.”

“And if they should find their courage?”

Jane’s voice held a whisper of hope.

“Then they shall have to find us in the midst of our duties,”

Elizabeth replied firmly, although her heart gave a treacherous flutter at the thought.

“I refuse to spend my days watching the drive for approaching carriages that may never appear.”

The sisters exchanged a look of shared understanding - of pride mingled with longing - before turning their attention to practical matters of the morrow.

Elizabeth lay awake that night, unable to banish the memory of Darcy’s expression in that courthouse corridor.

Her undeniable sense was that he was caught between duty and desire.

The Dunbar Court purchase turned like a complicated puzzle in her mind, each new angle revealing fresh possibilities she hardly dared examine.

To buy property on mere speculation spoke of reckless investment - yet Darcy was anything but reckless.

To position himself as an injured party required forethought, careful strategy, a willingness to commit significant resources to an uncertain outcome.

The kind of forethought that suggested—but no.

She dared not follow that reasoning to its conclusion.

Colonel Fitzwilliam lounged in one of Darcy’s leather chairs, brandy glass balanced with military precision as he studied his cousin’s restless movements about the study.

The fire had burned low, casting shadows that seemed to match Darcy’s brooding expression.

Fitzwilliam swirled his brandy thoughtfully.

“Collins’s legal representation proved remarkably… well-funded for a humble parson.”

“Indeed.”

Darcy’s tone was neutral.

“As was his sudden ability to engage several rather expensive experts on water rights—not to mention the ruffians who wrecked the existing drainage channels.”

“Our aunt has always taken an enthusiastic interest in managing other people’s affairs.”

The Colonel’s observation carried layers of meaning.

“I suspect this particular investment may prove less rewarding than her usual ventures.”

“The damages alone will consume whatever funds she advanced.”

Darcy turned from the window, his expression sharpening.

“Unless you think Collins capable of securing such sophisticated counsel through his own resources?”

“About as capable as he is of composing that rather eloquent petition without assistance.”

Fitzwilliam tipped his glass and, finding it empty, lifted the decanter on the table with deliberate care.

“Although proving her direct involvement would be… challenging.”

“As would be explaining her sudden correspondence with Lord Matthews regarding drainage practices in a county where she holds no property?”

There was unmistakable steel beneath Darcy’s measured words.

“Ah yes, her newfound expertise in Hertfordshire water management.

Most… illuminating.”

The Colonel’s smile held no warmth.

“Although I suspect her primary concern was never truly about drainage.”

“No,”

Darcy agreed quietly.

“Her ambitions have ever leant toward more… domestic avenues of control.”

“Speaking of influence,”

Fitzwilliam said with deliberate casualness, “I understand Miss Elizabeth Bennet proved effective in demonstrating the practical flaws in Collins’s arguments.

Our aunt’s investment in his cause must seem rather less secure in light of such… competent opposition.”

Darcy’s movement, his shoulders tightening at Elizabeth’s name betrayed more than words might have, although his voice remained steady.

“Lady Catherine has never appreciated having her schemes disrupted by mere competence.”

“Especially from unexpected quarters.”

The Colonel’s eyes held a knowing gleam.

“Although perhaps this particular scheme’s failure might prove advantageous in ways our aunt never intended.”

Darcy gave no reply, but the tension in his posture deepened.

Fitzwilliam went on, his tone light but observant.

“Or perhaps I should say—someone’s swift and strategic response to our aunt’s meddling has had rather interesting consequences.”

He let the silence stretch, watching his cousin closely.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s defence of her family’s interests was quite remarkable.”

Darcy kept his gaze fixed on the fire.

“The law was clear enough.”

“The law, yes,”

Fitzwilliam agreed, swirling the brandy in his glass.

“Although I suspect that was not the only compass guiding you.”

When Darcy remained silent, his cousin simply nodded, as though confirming a long-held suspicion.

Darcy’s voice came low and tight.

“Her understanding of estate management is… exceptional.”

His reserve was betrayed by the faintest colouring at his neck.

“Just her understanding?”

When Darcy remained silent, the Colonel pressed on.

“Come now, Darcy.

What truly stays your hand? Unquestionably not concern for society’s good opinion.

You have spent years cultivating your reputation for disdaining exactly such considerations.”

“Georgiana’s future prospects—”

“Would benefit enormously from a sister who combines intelligence with genuine warmth.

Or did you imagine our shy girl would flourish better under Caroline Bingley’s guidance?”

Darcy’s wince was barely perceptible.

“You mistake complexity for simplicity.”

“Do I? You speak of duty, yet what duty requires you to deny happiness to yourself and your sister? Unless…”

Fitzwilliam leant forward, humour giving way to insight.

“Unless you fear that in choosing Elizabeth Bennet, you prove yourself less than the paragon everyone expects Fitzwilliam Darcy to be?”

Darcy shook his head.

The silence stretched, heavy with admission.

Finally, he spoke: “She makes me question all I believed about worth, duty—myself.”

“How inconvenient,”

the Colonel said dryly.

“To discover that happiness might require something more complex than rigid adherence to others’ expectations.”

“You are not helping.”

“Am I not? Consider this a tactical assessment.

What truly prevents you from pursuing her? Not society—you have never cared for its opinion.

Not family—except perhaps our aunt, whose own machinations may have inadvertently brought you together.

Not even duty—unless you count duty to your own pride.”

“And Georgiana?”

“Who glows like a Yule lantern whenever Miss Elizabeth’s name is mentioned? Who has shown more animation in one afternoon of her company than in months of refined social calls?”

Fitzwilliam set down his glass with deliberate care.

“Although if you prefer, we could continue seeking a sister for her among the ranks of those who measure worth solely by consequence and connection.

I am sure my mother would be thrilled to present some worthy candidates—with spectacular dowries, perhaps a title, and certainly the docility of a lamb.”

Darcy groaned.

“And ovine intelligence to match.”

His expression shifted, as if seeing a familiar landscape from an entirely new angle.

“She does make Georgiana smile.”

“She makes you smile too, cousin.

When you forget to maintain that impressive fa?ade of yours.”

The Colonel rose to pour fresh brandies.

“Although I warn you—a woman who challenges your assumptions is a dangerous thing indeed.

Are you quite certain you are prepared for such a campaign?”

Darcy’s answer came with quiet resolve.

“The question is whether she’ll find me worthy of the attempt.”

“Only one way to discover that,”

Fitzwilliam remarked cheerfully.

“Although might I suggest fewer observations about duty and connections and more appreciation of her ‘exceptional understanding’?”

“You enjoy this far too much.”

“Naturally.

Now, shall we discuss strategy? I have some thoughts on how to manage that particular campaign…”

Lady Catherine sat like a very angry alabaster statue in her morning room, Collins’s stumbling explanation of the court’s ruling falling into silence as dead as his future prospects.

Only her cane, tapping with frightening precision, betrayed the magnitude of her rage.

“The entail… dissolved?”

Each word fell like an executioner’s blade.

“Entirely, your Ladyship.”

Collins’s usual unctuous manner had withered under the thoroughness of the catastrophe.

“And the damages… most excessive.

Beyond any hope of--”

“Spare me your financial calculations,”

she cut in.

“What precisely did my nephew say in their defence?”

Collins shifted uncomfortably, aware that this particular intelligence would prove most wounding.

“Mr Darcy spoke at some length regarding the excellence of their estate management.

He praised their innovative approach to--”

The cane halted mid-beat.

“Innovative? He used that word? In open court?”

“Most unfortunately, your Ladyship.

He went as far as to suggest that other estates could not but be improved by studying their methods.”

Lady Catherine’s complexion achieved a hue of purple previously unknown to nature.

“My own nephew.

Publicly advocating for such unnatural arrangements.

My poor sister would have been appalled by his interest in a creature so beneath his station.”

Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

“And you, Mr Collins, have managed not only to fail in preventing this catastrophe, but to arrange matters so that my name might be connected with your… activities.”

“Your Ladyship’s involvement was never--”

“Will be presumed by anyone possessed of wit enough to discern the truth.”

Her cane resumed its rhythm with renewed vigour.

“You must, of course, seek a curacy.

Some position far from Hunsford.”

Collins’s already pallid face paled to new depths of bloodless terror.

“Leave… Hunsford?”

“Surely you cannot imagine remaining as my parson? After such a display of poor judgement?”

Her laugh held all the warmth of a January frost.

“Lack of judgement? No, that would imply choice—rather than your usual brand of bumbling incompetence.”

“But your Ladyship’s generosity--”

“Has been thoroughly exhausted by your recent ventures into agricultural sabotage.

You have ruined me financially and I refuse to share any further in your disgrace.”

The fan executed a decisive snap.

“Really, Mr Collins.

Hiring common criminals to destroy drainage works? Could you not at least have managed your sabotage with some pretence of sophistication?”

Collins seemed to deflate further with each precisely aimed barb.

“Perhaps if we were to appeal--”

“We?”

Lady Catherine’s eyebrows rose to the height of aristocratic disdain.

“I believe, Mr Collins, that you have mistaken your situation most entirely.

There is no ‘we’ in your future endeavours.

I wash my hands of you.

Your little entail has taken far too much from Rosings.

I hate to admit it, but I was a fool to offer you help.

I cannot be associated with you again. Indeed, I believe you will find your future lies in some remote parish where neither your name nor your rather spectacular failures need ever reach my ears again.”

“But my dear Lady Catherine--”

“That is no longer an appellation you may employ.”

She turned to gaze out the window, her dismissal as final as a coffin lid closing.

“I believe you will find several modest curacies available in Northumberland.

Or perhaps Scotland.

Do make your arrangements with all possible speed.”

Collins stood on legs that seemed suddenly unable to recall their proper function.

His constructed world of patronage and consequence had shattered like ice in spring thaw, leaving him to face the bitter truth that his attempt to preserve the natural hierarchy had instead guaranteed his own social extinction.

Lady Catherine’s cane maintained its steady rhythm, counting out the moments until her morning room would be free of his presence.

That her own schemes had contributed to this debacle seemed not to have penetrated her certainty.

Indeed, her only real concern appeared to be the unfortunate evidence of her nephew’s progressive leanings.

“My own blood,”

she murmured to the empty air, “championing female estate management.

Unsuitable fascination, just like a man.

The world wobbles on its axis What next? Female magistrates? Women at Westminster?”

Behind her, the fire sputtered low, but she gave no sign of discomfort.

Only the cane ticked on, steady as ever.