Page 51 of The Mercy of Chance

E lizabeth sat beside her grandfather’s bed in the hushed hours before dawn, his thin hand resting in hers as pale spring light began to edge the window curtains.

His eyes, although tired, held their familiar acuity as they studied her face.

“You will manage splendidly,”

he said gently, his voice carrying all the quiet certainty that had guided their education.

“Albeit, I had hoped to see certain matters settled before…”

“We are well settled, Grandfather,”

Elizabeth assured him, her throat tight with things unsaid.

“The estate--”

“The estate, yes.”

His smile held fond exasperation.

“Although I speak of other settlements.

Mr Darcy’s recent acquisition of our neighbouring estate suggests interesting possibilities.”

Even now, his gentle teasing brought colour to her cheeks.

“Grandfather…”

“My dear girl,”

he pressed her hand with surprising strength, “do not let pride stand in the way of happiness.

Yours or Jane’s.”

Jane, keeping vigil on his other side, looked up at this.

“You need not concern yourself with our—”

“I have spent my life concerning myself with your happiness,”

he interrupted with familiar asperity.

“I do not mean to abandon the habit now.” His gaze moved between them, sharp despite his weakness.

“One’s happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance.

Promise me you will not let anything prevent you from grasping joy when it presents itself. “

“We promise,”

Jane whispered, her calm manner wavering.

“Good.”

He settled back against his pillows, satisfaction briefly overcoming exhaustion.

“I have watched you grow into women of remarkable capability.

Your father would be…” His voice caught, then steadied.

“Thomas would be so proud of you both. As am I.”

Mrs Hill appeared at the door with fresh tea, her eyes suspiciously bright as she set down the tray.

Her presence in these private moments went unremarked, as natural as breathing after thirty years of devoted service.

“Tell Mary,”

he continued after a moment, “that her scientific approach to agriculture shows true promise.

And Kitty’s eye for propagation will serve the estate well.

Lydia’s determination, properly directed has …” His voice faded briefly before rallying.

“You will guide them, help them pursue their particular strengths?”

“Of course,”

Elizabeth managed, her composure threatening to crack.

He nodded once, satisfaction settling over his features.

“Then I may rest content.”

They sat in comfortable silence as dawn painted the room in strengthening light.

When Hill entered an hour later, he lay in final repose, a quiet stillness upon his features, his granddaughters still holding his hands as if they might keep him with them through sheer force of will.

The women gathered in Longbourn’s darkened parlour whilst the funeral procession wound its way to the churchyard.

Elizabeth stood at the window, not quite watching as the sombre line of gentlemen disappeared around the lane’s curve.

Jane maintained perfect composure as she arranged tea things, although her hands betrayed the slightest tremor.

Mrs Bennet sat rigid in her chair, her usual animation subdued.

“Mr Hill will see all arranged as it ought,”

she said with quiet certainty.

“He knew your grandfather’s preferences in all things.”

“Indeed,”

Elizabeth managed, turning from the window.

“Thirty years of friendship disguised as service.”

Mary and Kitty occupied the settee, their usual disparate natures united in shared grief, whilst Lydia’s restless movements about the room spoke of emotions too complex for her sixteen years to fully express.

The ticking of the clock marked time’s slow passage until the first carriages began returning.

Mr Phillips appeared to report that all had been conducted with perfect dignity, and that father and son now lay together beneath Meryton’s ancient yews.

His careful account faltered only once, when speaking of Mr Hill’s quiet authority in directing the final arrangements.

“They are together now,”

Mrs Bennet whispered, her fingers working at her handkerchief.

“My Thomas and his father…”

Jane’s arm slipped around their mother’s waist as Elizabeth clasped her trembling hand.

Behind them, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia formed a protective wall against well-meaning condolences, unified in shared loss.

The March wind rattled the windows, carrying spring’s early promise as the women of Longbourn gathered their collective strength, preparing to face the stream of callers that social custom would soon deliver to their door.

Their private grief must now give way to public performance.

Dunbar Court, the Matthews’ house stood in resigned dignity against the spring sky, its weathered facades suggesting years of genteel neglect.

Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam surveyed the faded grandeur of the main hall, where dust sheets draped what furniture remained like shrouds.

“Rather reminds one of a charming billet I once had in Spain,”

the Colonel said, running a finger along a dusty window frame.

“A Coru?a, I believe.

Although the Spanish farmhouse boasted more current furnishings.”

“Peters has maintained the essential structure,”

Darcy replied, referring to his newly installed steward.

“The interior, however, requires considerable attention.”

“As does the news Peters just delivered.”

Fitzwilliam shifted to genuine gravity.

“The old gentleman’s passing… one rather regrets missing the opportunity to pay proper respect.”

“Indeed.”

Darcy’s single word carried meaning his cousin readily interpreted.

“The inspection can wait.

We must convey our condolences at once.”

Their arrival at Longbourn an hour later found the ladies seated with due formality in the front parlour, their hastily darkened gowns lending additional pallor to already subdued countenances.

Elizabeth’s quick glance at their entrance held none of her usual sparkle, although Darcy noted how she straightened with no more than a breath of change.

“Mr Darcy.

Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Jane’s perfect composure wavered only marginally.

“You are most kind to call so promptly.”

“We were deeply grieved to learn of your loss,”

the Colonel replied, his usual easy manner gentled to match the occasion.

“Mr Bennet was a gentleman of remarkable understanding.”

“He spoke often of your visit in November,”

Elizabeth managed, her voice steady, whilst her fingers worried the fabric of her dark skirts.

“Your discussions of military organisation quite captured his interest.”

A moment of weighted silence followed, heavy with all that could not be properly expressed in a formal condolence call.

“Please excuse me for a moment?”

Elizabeth rose quickly and left the room.

Jane followed her sister’s abrupt departure with her eyes, then turned back to the callers.

“I fear we are all quite emotional,” she said.

Colonel Fitzwilliam shifted his chair closer to Miss Bennet’s and spoke with kindness.

“No one expects you to feel otherwise.

I understand your loss is quite fresh.

We will not impose—”

“Oh no! Please do not leave! We are all going quite distracted, having only one another for conversation.

Elizabeth will be well.”

Jane’s expression and glistening eyes mixed grief with longing as she reached her hand towards the Colonel, then stopped herself.

“Shall I see whether Miss Elizabeth requires anything?”

Darcy asked.

“Yes, please, Mr Darcy.

She may be in Grandfather’s study.”

Jane said, then her attention fully turned to the Colonel.

Darcy bowed.

“With your permission, Miss Bennet…”

Something unreadable passed across his expression as he stepped from the room, following the path Elizabeth had taken.

Elizabeth had maintained her composure admirably throughout the day, accepting condolences with quiet grace whilst managing the myriad details that death demands.

But now, seeing Mr Darcy struck her with great confusion of mind.

In the fading light of her grandfather’s study, the familiar scent of his books and papers proved her undoing.

Her tears fell as her fingers traced the edge of his desk, where just days ago he had sat reviewing estate papers with characteristic acuity.

The door’s soft click announced another presence.

She hastily straightened, mortified to be discovered in such a state, but when she turned to find Mr Darcy’s tall figure silhouetted in the doorway, something in his expression stopped her automatic apology.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

His voice held none of its usual reserve.

“Pray, do not feel you must maintain appearances on my account.”

“Indeed, sir, you need not concern yourself—I am quite well…”

But the gentle understanding in his eyes undid her careful control.

A sob escaped before she could master it.

In two long strides he crossed to her and gathered her against the solid warmth of his chest.

The impropriety of their position registered dimly in her mind but was overwhelmed by the profound relief of allowing herself, just for a moment, to be supported rather than supporting.

“I remember,”

he said gently, his breath stirring her hair, “finding similar comfort in my father’s study after his passing.

How the familiar space somehow both comforts and makes the absence more acute.”

Elizabeth pressed her face into the fine wool of his coat, breathing in the subtle scent of sandalwood and horse that she would forever after associate with comfort.

His arms tightened fractionally, one large hand moving in soothing circles on her back.

“I should not…”

she managed after a moment, although she made no move to withdraw.

“Should not what? Grieve? Feel the weight of responsibility? Allow yourself human frailty?”

The rumble of his voice vibrated through his chest against her cheek.

“I assure you, you have earned the right to all three.”

The quiet strength in his voice, the solid reality of him anchoring her when everything else seemed to be shifting, created a curious lightheadedness that had nothing to do with grief.

She became acutely aware of the breadth of his shoulders under her hands, the careful restraint in his embrace that somehow made it all the more intimate.

“I had not thought…”

she began, then faltered, unsure how to express her surprise at this newfound gentleness in him.

“No,”

he agreed, seeming to understand her unfinished thought.

“I believe there is much we had not thought of one another.”

The moment stretched, filled with unspoken possibilities.

Finally, reluctantly, Elizabeth stepped back, although the loss of his warmth felt as a physical pain.

“Thank you,”

she said simply, meeting his eyes.

“There is no need.”

His gaze held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“I would… that is, I hope you know you may always…” He broke off as he handed her a fine linen handkerchief.

“Yes,”

she replied.

“I have come to know that.

Thank you.”

He bowed and withdrew, leaving Elizabeth to wonder if it was only grief that made her heart beat so erratically, or if perhaps there was something else taking root in the space between what they had been to each other and what they might become.

Elizabeth remained in the study for several minutes, collecting herself.

She traced her fingers over her grandfather’s favourite quill, still resting in its stand as though awaiting his return.

The room held his presence so strongly that she half-expected to hear his voice calling for his ledgers.

Taking a deep breath, she neatly folded Mr Darcy’s handkerchief, tucking it into her sleeve rather than her pocket.

Such a personal item ought to be returned, she told herself, although the prospect of doing so sent a strange flutter through her chest.

When she finally returned to the parlour, she found Jane engaged in quiet conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam, whilst Mr Darcy stood near the mantel, his posture rigid yet somehow conveying an air of patient waiting.

His eyes found hers immediately, a silent question in their depths.

She managed a small nod of reassurance, which seemed to ease some tension in his shoulders.

It was Mary who unexpectedly broke the tension.

“The gardens show the first signs of spring,”

she said with careful modesty.

“Perhaps… that is, the air might prove refreshing…”

“An excellent suggestion,”

the Colonel agreed with alacrity.

“If the ladies would not find it too taxing?”

Jane’s glance at Elizabeth carried volumes of sisterly communication before she replied.

“Some gentle exercise might indeed prove beneficial. Lizzy?”

The weak spring sunshine cast long shadows across Longbourn’s grounds as the small party made their way along the gravel path.

Elizabeth fell into step beside Mr Darcy, whilst Jane and Colonel Fitzwilliam naturally drifted ahead, their quiet conversation carried away by the spring breeze.

“Your grandfather was a remarkable man, Miss Bennet,”

Darcy said, his voice carrying an intimacy absent in their earlier acquaintance.

“To have preserved his faculties so completely, even in his final days.

He showed remarkable foresight.”

Elizabeth’s fingers brushed the black ribbon at her wrist.

“His last words were of his pride in us - in what we had built together.

He spoke of hope for the future.”

She paused, gathering herself.

“I must own, Mr Darcy, there were moments in recent months when I feared that hope might prove unfounded.”

“Yet here you stand, one of five mistresses of an unentailed Longbourn,”

Darcy replied, his steady gaze holding hers.

“I should think your grandfather’s confidence was admirably placed.”

“You seem most approving, sir.

I had thought you rather attached to traditional ways.”

“I find myself increasingly convinced of the merit in… challenging established patterns.”

His gaze, when it met hers, held such intentional meaning that Elizabeth felt her breath catch.

They passed the old oak that marked the boundary between the original Longbourn lands and the newly secured portions.

Elizabeth paused, resting her hand against its weathered bark.

“This tree has witnessed three centuries of Bennets walking these grounds,”

she mused.

“Although I doubt any previous generation gave it quite so much legal significance as we have of late.”

“The law, like many rigid structures, occasionally requires gentle correction to better serve justice,”

Darcy offered; then added with deliberate weight, “Much like certain long-held opinions.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with sudden understanding.

“And have you found such corrections… difficult to implement, Mr Darcy?”

“Less difficult than maintaining erroneous convictions, once thoroughly examined.”

Ahead of them, Jane’s soft laughter carried on the breeze as Colonel Fitzwilliam entertained her with tales of his time in Spain.

His natural charm seemed to have accomplished what months of Bingley’s tentative attentions had not - drawing out Jane’s genuine animation rather than solely her polite interest.

“You may trust my word, Miss Bennet, diplomatic relations are far more challenging than military campaigns,”

the Colonel was saying.

“One rarely fears for one’s life in a ballroom, but one’s dignity is perpetually under siege.”

“Your cousin seems to have developed a sudden interest in horticultural walks,”

Elizabeth said, allowing a bit of mischief to colour her words.

“Fitzwilliam has always been an admirer of… English gardens,”

Darcy replied, his usual gravity tinged with dry humour.

“Although I believe his current enthusiasm may be more specifically directed.”

Elizabeth felt the charge of all that remained unspoken—a silence at once delightful and disquieting.

“And you, Mr Darcy? What draws you to survey Longbourn’s modest acres today?”

Darcy drew a careful breath, as though marshalling his thoughts.

Elizabeth had never seen him so visibly working to master his usual reserve.

It lent him a curious vulnerability that made her heart beat faster.

He turned to face her fully.

His expression held such earnest intensity that Elizabeth felt the very air around them still.

“I find myself increasingly convinced that Longbourn contains treasures far beyond mere acreage.”

She managed a small nod of reassurance, which seemed to ease some tension in his shoulders, though she herself felt anything but composed.