Page 5 of The Mercy of Chance
Elizabeth stood at the stone marker that separated Longbourn from Netherfield lands, frowning at the water pooling around its base. The recent rains had overwhelmed the old water system, and now their improved south field was sending excess water directly onto Netherfield’s lower meadow. Not, she reflected, the most neighbourly way to introduce themselves to Mr Bingley.
She had walked out early, hoping to devise a solution before the problem grew worse. Her grandfather reminded her that water flow required careful observation, and the morning light showed the problem most clearly. So intent was she upon measuring the depth with a fallen branch that she did not notice the approaching rider until his horse’s hooves sounded on the path just across from her.
“Madam.” The tall elegantly dressed gentleman’s voice held modulated concern. “Are you in distress? These paths can be treacherous after rain.”
Elizabeth straightened, mud on her boots forgotten as she met his grave expression. She recognised him immediately as the sort of well favoured, wealthy gentleman who believed every woman required rescue from the smallest inconvenience.
“You are very kind, sir, but I am quite well. I am simply observing how the water gathers here.”
His eyebrows rose. “Water courses? Surely such matters are better left to…” He paused, apparently seeking a polite way to say, ‘men who know about such things.’
“To someone with experience in estate management?” Elizabeth suggested pleasantly. “I assure you, sir, I am quite capable of measuring water depth without requiring rescue.”
The early sun illuminated Mr Darcy’s impressive figure, his fine London coat fitting in a way that suggested nature had favoured him as much as his tailor. The sharp line of his jaw tightened with disapproval, finding it oddly compelling despite his evident censure.
“These paths are treacherous after the rain,” he said, his voice rich despite its clipped accent. Elizabeth’s brow rose without thought. He undoubtedly believed himself the very model of gentlemanly attention. “A lady should not venture here alone.” His gaze dropped pointedly to her mud-spattered hem.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm, although whether from irritation or awareness of his scrutiny, she could not say. “How fortunate then, that I am quite accomplished at navigating treacherous ground,” she replied, lifting her chin. The movement drew her eyes to his face, which managed to be both stern and to retain something pleasant about his mouth when he spoke. “Whilst I appreciate your concern, sir, I have particular reason to understand this water flow.”
He shifted in his saddle, then she thought, he appeared to come to some decision. Dismounting, he tethered his horse and approached the marker. “At least allow me to guide you to more suitable terrain,” he said, extending his arm with a courteous gesture in sharp contrast with the judgement still evident in his expression.
Elizabeth hesitated, compelled to consider how a gentleman could manage to be simultaneously so attractive, and so insufferable.
“What I am attempting to explain, sir,” Elizabeth said with greater volume and diminishing patience, “is that our improved south field drainage appears to be flooding this meadow, which now belongs to Mr Bingley. As I have some responsibility in the matter, I would prefer to comprehend the extent of the matter myself.”
That caught his attention. “You have responsibility for flooding at Netherfield?”
“I have responsibility for Longbourn,” she corrected.
“I am Mr Darcy of Pemberley,” he announced with magnificent hauteur. “Mr Bingley’s intimate friend and adviser in estate matters. And you are?”
“Contemplating,” said Elizabeth sweetly, “how best to inform you that whilst you have been offering to rescue me from the mud, you have been speaking to the person responsible for designing the drainage works that created it.”
He stared at her, his expression shifting from gallant concern to confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, sir.” She indicated the water’s path with her branch, “Which is the estate bordering Netherfield causing this flood to descend onto our neighbour’s fields. And whilst I appreciate your concern for my welfare, I am rather more concerned with how our drainage channel appears to be introducing a water flow that is overwhelming this meadow. Unless, of course, you might swoon if addressed by a lady on matters of drainage?”
He paused, visibly reordering his assumptions. “You speak of drainage with unexpected… familiarity.”
“Unexpected in a lady, you mean?” Elizabeth kept her tone light, though she noted his discomfort with some satisfaction. “You may depend upon it, sir, water flows with equal predictability regardless of whether a man or woman observes it.”
“Indeed. You mentioned improvements to the south field?”
“Yes. We implemented this channel last spring.” Elizabeth indicated the water’s path. “It has proved most effective for Longbourn’s fields, although perhaps too effective, as you see.”
“We?”
She was certain he suggested he imagined she meant some male relative had done the actual design work.
“My grandfather, my sisters, and I. Although I must credit my Aunt Eleanor’s original notes on water management. Her observations from the wet spring of 1783 proved remarkably useful when we designed the works.”
Darcy stood quite still, studying her with an intensity that might have been discomfiting had Elizabeth not been so amused by his obvious mental struggle.
“You have studied water management?”
“Among other aspects of estate maintenance. Of late drainage has become something of a particular interest. One might say it flows naturally from other concerns.” She smiled at her own small jest.
A reluctant answering smile touched his lips before he caught himself. “And your grandfather encourages such studies?”
“He insists upon them. Although perhaps you find it all highly irregular.”
“I…” He glanced at the water, then back at her face. “I find myself reconsidering certain notions I had previously held.” He stepped closer to examine the marker. “Would you explain your observations about the water flow?”
Elizabeth noted that he seemed truly attentive to her explanation, asking several intelligent questions about gradient and soil composition. His obvious understanding made his initial condescension somehow even more vexing, yet she enjoyed their discussion, nonetheless.
“Your solution seems sound in theory,” he said finally. “Although the implementation may prove challenging.”
“Do you always phrase your agreement so cautiously, Mr Darcy?”
His eyes met hers, and she was surprised to see genuine warmth there. “Only when my entire understanding of a situation has been thoroughly overthrown in the space of a quarter hour.”
“Then perhaps I might overthrow it further by suggesting that the gradient here closely resembles one my Aunt Eleanor addressed at Longbourn’s north corner. She devised a flow of stepped channels that reduced the water’s force whilst directing it to where it might prove beneficial rather than destructive.”
Darcy’s expression sharpened with interest. “Stepped channels? Similar to the Roman aqueduct principle?”
“Precisely so. Although on a much humbler scale, naturally. When the water falls in stages, it carries less silt with it than water flowing directly downhill. She disguised the channels with plantings to maintain the land’s aesthetic appeal.”
“At Pemberley, we faced a similar challenge with runoff from the higher grounds.” His voice had lost some of its earlier censure as he stepped closer, the morning air carrying the gentleman’s scent. His hand elegantly gestured indicating the slope of the land. “Our solution involved a series of collection pools feeding into the ornamental lake.”
“Ah, but you have the advantage of a lake to feed. Here we must consider…” Elizabeth’s words faltered as he bent to examine the water flow she was indicating, bringing his broad shoulders level with her gaze. She forced her attention back to the matter at hand.
“Yes?” The quiet prompt carried genuine curiosity that softened his usual hauteur.
“We must consider the meadow’s intended use.” Elizabeth was pleased to find her voice steady, despite the warmth that crept up her neck when he straightened to his full height beside her. “Mr Bingley may wish to graze sheep here, in which case too much water retention would be detrimental to the health of the flock.”
His eyebrows rose, and Elizabeth felt a flutter of satisfaction at having surprised him. “You are knowledgeable in the care of sheep as well?”
“My youngest sister would be horrified to hear you question it.” Elizabeth allowed herself a small smile, noting how his eyes lingered on her expression. “She manages our flocks and takes particular pride in our breeding lines. But regarding the drainage - what is your opinion on clay channels versus stone?”
“Stone proves more durable, although the initial expense is greater.” As he surveyed the area, the morning light brought out the strong lines of his face. His posture brought to mind a Roman statue she had once lingered over—elegant, unadorned, and quietly arresting—although she flushed at the thought and nearly missed his next comment.
“The soil here appears to have significant clay content naturally. Have you observed any shifting in wet weather?” He turned toward her, and she glanced away, hoping he did not catch the flush she felt on her cheeks.
“Some, although less than one might expect.” His attention had shifted fully to their discussion, his earlier disapproval forgotten in their shared interest. “My grandfather attributes it to the underlying chalk bed. We discovered its extent when sinking the new well two years ago.”
Darcy nodded. “That would provide stability. At Pemberley…” He caught himself. “But perhaps you would find it tiresome to hear about another estate’s water management.”
“On the contrary, sir. Sound principles of drainage remain sound regardless of their location. Pray continue.” Elizabeth turned back to catch a small smile cross his face.
She shook herself. Pure folly, of course—she might as well admire a painting in a gallery for all the good it would do her. Gentlemen of his consequence did not seriously consider impoverished gentlewomen who spent their mornings measuring drainage ditches, no matter how well they understood water management. Still, she thought with private amusement, if one must discuss soil composition with anyone, it might as well be with a remarkably fine figure of a man.
“If we were to begin the stepped channels here,” he indicated a spot several yards up the slope, “the natural contour of the land would aid our purpose.”
“We?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at his presumption, although she had to acknowledge the merit of his suggestion. “No doubt Mr Bingley’s friend has better occupations than helping his neighbour’s granddaughter plan drainage solutions.”
His grave expression flickered again with something like amusement. “You may be certain, Miss Bennet, I take a pointed interest in practical improvements. At Pemberley--” He stopped himself. “No doubt you have already divined my tendency to speak of my estate at the smallest provocation.”
“As any proper landowner should.” Elizabeth drew a rough sketch in her notebook, adding measurements. “I suspect your collection pools at Pemberley are rather grander than what we might attempt here.”
“Good principles of design need not depend upon grand execution.” He moved closer to observe her sketch. “If you angle the first channel thus--” His gloved hand reached toward her notebook, then withdrew. “That is, if you would permit the suggestion…”
“I am not so proud as to reject sound advice, Mr Darcy, regardless of its source.” She adjusted the angle on her sketch. “Although I must consult my grandfather before proceeding. His experience with this land spans fifty years.”
“A valuable resource indeed.” He straightened, resuming his more formal bearing. “Might I enquire… that is, would your grandfather be willing to discuss the broader implications of these improvements? As Bingley’s friend, I take an interest in Netherfield’s management.”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile at his careful phrasing. No doubt he found it awkward to request a meeting through a lady he had discovered measuring mud depth. “I shall convey your interest, sir. Although I should mention that my grandfather’s health does not permit him to receive visitors regularly.”
“Ah.” He looked momentarily discomposed. “What would you recommend then…”
“He would be pleased to speak with you if he is able. I generally review such matters with him each morning at ten in his study.” The invitation slipped from her lips before she could fully grasp its implications, and a warmth crept up her neck. “That is, if it would not be beneath your dignity to discuss estate management with a lady present. Or more likely, several ladies.”
The transformation of his countenance fascinated her. His usual mask of aristocratic reserve melted away, replaced by something more enigmatic - a subtle softening around his eyes, a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth that signalled amusement, or perhaps something warmer. He released a fraction of the tension in his jaw as he considered her words. His dark gaze held hers for a moment too long to be entirely correct, and she felt an inexplicable flutter in her chest.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice carrying a rich and intimate note that made her breath catch, “you have thoroughly disabused me of any notion that estate management should be the exclusive province of gentlemen.” He bowed formally, but there was nothing formal in the way his eyes lingered on her face. “I would be honoured to contribute to your deliberations.” His elegant fingers flexed at his sides as he straightened, as though he wished to reach for something - or someone. The thought sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, one not borne of the morning’s chill.
He mounted his horse with barely an effort and rode away. Elizabeth reflected that whilst Mr Darcy of Pemberley might be the last man in the world she could ever expect to marry, he might prove a useful resource in solving their drainage problems. Her grandfather would enjoy matching wits with him, at least.