Page 49 of The Mercy of Chance

T he late afternoon light fell softly through Longbourn’s windows as Jane and Elizabeth entered, their skirts still bearing traces of soil from their lengthy inspection of the north fields.

They had spent the better part of the day walking the boundaries of the estate, marking points where the new drainage channels would connect with those being constructed at Dunbar Court.

Mr Robinson, their most experienced tenant farmer, had accompanied them, his weathered face creased with approval at the sisters’ thorough understanding of the land’s needs.

“The water will flow proper now, Miss Elizabeth,”

he had declared, leaning on his walking stick.

“First time in thirty years these fields will not be soggy come the autumn rains.

Your grandfather will be right pleased with this arrangement.”

The work had taken longer than anticipated, the complexity of the terrain requiring careful consideration at each juncture.

Elizabeth had lost track of time, absorbed in the practical puzzle of slope and soil and water flow.

Now, as they returned to the house, the slanting light reminded her they had missed taking tea with their grandfather—a ritual he had come to anticipate even as his strength diminished.

Elizabeth was about to suggest they attend him immediately when Mary and Kitty rushed into the entrance hall, their faces bearing expressions of such alarm that Elizabeth felt her heart seize.

“What has happened?”

Jane asked, immediately removing her gloves, her calm voice belying the sudden tension in her shoulders.

“He took ill three hours past,”

Mary reported, her manner stripped to bare facts by genuine concern.

“Mr Jones speaks of decline rather than any specific malady.”

“It came on so suddenly,”

Kitty elaborated, her usual animation subdued by genuine fear.

“He was reviewing the household accounts with Hill when he seemed to… to falter.

His hand went to his chest, and he could not catch his breath.”

“Mr Jones was sent for immediately,”

Mary continued.

“He administered a draught for the pain, but—” Her voice caught, an unusual sign of emotion from their most composed sister.

“Where is he now?”

Elizabeth asked, already moving toward the stairs, her mud-spattered hem forgotten.

“In his chamber,”

Kitty answered.

“Mamma has been with him this past hour.

She would not be persuaded to rest, although she was quite overcome at first.”

Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance with Jane, reading in her sister’s eyes the same fear that gripped her own heart.

They had been so absorbed in securing Longbourn’s future that they had forgotten the fragility of the present—of the grandfather whose wisdom had guided them through these treacherous waters.

“I shall change quickly and join you,”

Jane said, her voice gentle but brooking no argument.

“You go to him now, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth nodded, grateful as always for Jane’s practical kindness.

As she hurried up the stairs, she caught the murmur of voices from the upper floor—her mother’s higher tones interspersed with the deeper rumble of what must be Mr Jones delivering his assessment.

The corridor leading to her grandfather’s chamber seemed longer than she remembered, each step bringing sharper clarity to what they might now face.

They had won Longbourn’s security, yes—but what price might yet be demanded of them? The thought of losing her grandfather, the steady presence who had filled the void left by her father’s untimely death, made her steps falter momentarily before resolution drove her forward again.

Outside his chamber door, Elizabeth paused, gathering her composure like a cloak around her shoulders.

Whatever scene awaited her within, she would face it with the strength her grandfather had helped cultivate in her.

She smoothed her hair, straightened her shoulders, and with a deep breath, reached for the door handle.

Their grandfather’s chamber, when she entered it, held that peculiar stillness that seems to gather around sickrooms, as if the very air hesitates to disturb the occupants.

Mrs Bennet sat rigid beside the bed, her fingers working ceaselessly at her handkerchief whilst she maintained a stream of what was clearly meant to be cheerful conversation.

“Such a lovely spring day, Papa.

The daffodils will be quite spectacular this year, will they not? Just as Thomas always said they would be, with careful attention to the soil.

He had such a way with gardens, did Thomas…”

Her voice caught on her husband’s name, the wound of that loss suddenly fresh again in the face of this new grief.

Elizabeth moved to touch her shoulder, but Mrs Bennet flinched away, her composure threatening to shatter at any gesture of comfort.

“Lizzy.”

Grandfather Bennet’s voice came weak but clear.

“Jane.

You have news from Dunbar Court?”

“The most satisfactory solution, Grandfather,”

Elizabeth replied, keeping her voice light although her heart clenched at his evident frailty.

“All arranged exactly as you predicted.”

“Good. Good.”

His eyes, sharp despite his weakness, moved between his granddaughters.

Mrs Bennet’s fingers stilled momentarily on her handkerchief.

“Just as Thomas would have wished,”

she said, her voice threatening to break.

“He always said the girls showed particular promise in estate matters.

Such an unusual notion, I thought at the time, but he insisted…” She pressed the already-mangled handkerchief to her lips.

“Fanny.”

Grandfather Bennet spoke with unexpected warmth.

“You have been most attentive these past hours.

But perhaps you might rest now that the girls have returned?”

“Rest? Oh! Yes, I suppose I should…”

She rose, movements uncertain, like a sleepwalker disturbed.

“One must maintain one’s strength in times of trial…”

Jane moved to support her mother with gentle efficiency.

“Come, Mamma.

Let me sit with you a while.

You must tell me about the daffodils.”

Elizabeth watched them go, noting how her mother leant into Jane’s strength as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

When she turned back to the bed, she found her grandfather watching her with familiar acuity.

“She feels it all again,”

he said quietly.

“Each loss echoing the first.”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth settled into the chair her mother had vacated.

“Although she need not face it alone.”

His thin fingers found hers with surprising strength.

“No indeed.

You girls will manage.

Just as Thomas knew you would.”

The afternoon light softened further, wrapping them in quiet understanding as Elizabeth began to tell him of their day’s work, each deliberately chosen detail designed to assure him that his legacy rested in capable hands.

Darcy stood at the window of his friend’s London study, watching Bingley’s restless movements with growing impatience.

The spring rain painted meaningless patterns on the glass, much like his friend’s circular reasoning.

“The foundations require rather extensive work,”

Bingley was saying, his usual animation dampened to mere restless spirits.

“And the fields… well, after the recent flooding…”

“Fields your neighbour managed to protect—through timely, careful attention to drainage,”

Darcy said with pointed precision.

“The Bennet’s understanding of water management proved quite reliable.

If you were to work with them the matter would be quickly resolved.”

Bingley’s fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against his chair.

“Yes, well… that is… Caroline has observed that perhaps such detailed attention to estate matters is not quite…”

“Is not quite what?”

Darcy turned from the window, his voice carrying an edge sharp enough to make Bingley flinch.

“Is not quite proper for ladies who have demonstrated more practical capability in a month than you have managed in eight months leasing an estate?”

“Now see here, Darcy--”

“No, Bingley.

You spent the autumn offering marked attentions to Jane Bennet, creating expectations, winning her family’s approval through your talk of estate improvements.

And now you retreat because your sister finds capable women threatening to her pretensions?”

“It is not that simple,”

Bingley protested, although his voice lacked conviction.

“The investment required…”

“Well within your means and would be considerably less had you attended to these matters when first advised.

But then, attention to duty has never been your strong suit, has it? It is much easier to play the role of an agreeable gentleman than trouble yourself to master the responsibilities of your position.

Far more convenient, is it not to withdraw and leave others to bear the consequences—despite the obligations you undertook—though you were eager to claim stewardship when it flattered your vanity”

Bingley straightened, stung at last to genuine emotion.

“We cannot all be perfect masters like you, Darcy.

I am out of my depth here.”

“Indeed.

You raised expectations in a most deserving young lady only to retreat at the very moment that honour and integrity might cost you something.”

Darcy’s voice could have frosted the windowpanes.

“I, however, intend to demonstrate that at least one gentleman of our acquaintance understands the value of a woman whose intelligence matches her beauty.”

“You cannot be in earnest—”

“I mean to court Elizabeth Bennet openly and with serious intent.”

He spoke with the quiet conviction of a man no longer at war with his heart.

“Having observed her management of Longbourn, I find myself rather anticipating our future discussions of estate improvement.”

“But Darcy, you must consider how such an attachment will be spoken of.

A gentleman of your consequence, attaching himself to a lady with no fortune, no connections, who concerns herself with estate management? Walks the muddy fields herself and has her fingers in the soil?”

Echoes of Miss Bingley’s frequent disparagement of the ladies of Longbourn rang in Bingley’s voice.

“Perhaps they will say that whilst some men retreat from happiness out of fear of opinion, others have the courage to recognise true worth when they find it.

Society’s judgement, your sisters’ disapproval, whispers of the ton, raised eyebrows at Almack’s - these are shadows without substance when weighed against genuine merit.”

Darcy moved toward the door, his meaning unmistakable.

“Good day, Bingley.

Do try not to let your sister’s prejudices overcome what remains of your judgement.”

The door closed with quiet finality, leaving Bingley to contemplate how a lifetime of cultivated amiability had quietly curdled into something perilously close to cowardice.