Page 55 of The Mercy of Chance

K itty sat apart near the hearth, a shawl tucked about her shoulders, her workbasket at her feet.

From beneath the folds of a clean muslin cloth, she drew out the small leather case—one Mr Blackwood had given her.

Narrower than a gentleman’s shaving kit, it was bound in cracked calfskin with worn brass hinges.

She opened it carefully.

Inside, nestled in faded velvet, were small glass vials, a pair of folding steel tweezers, and a slim bone-handled spatula—tools for measuring powders and blending ointments.

One compartment still held the faint scent of lavender and bitter almond.

She traced the edge of one vial with her fingertip, her brows knit, though her expression was not unhappy—only thoughtful.

The fire crackled softly beside her.

“What is that?”

Lydia asked suddenly, peering over the back of the settee.

“It looks like something a dentist would use to frighten children.”

“It is… nothing,”

Kitty replied too quickly, instinctively tucking the case against her side.

A pause followed.

Elizabeth looked up from her letter.

Mary slowly lowered her book.

Lydia, whose curiosity was rarely short-lived, narrowed her eyes.

“An apothecary’s case is hardly nothing,”

Mary observed, her tone neutral but precise.

“Indeed,”

Elizabeth said mildly, tapping her pen against her lip.

“It implies a certain… professional regard.

Or something more personal, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,”

Kitty said, again too quickly, then pressed her lips together.

Silence stretched a little longer than was comfortable.

“I only meant,”

she added, more quietly, “that he respects my interest in herb craft.

He said it belonged to someone who taught him.

That it might be better used than put away in a drawer.”

“Mm,”

said Elizabeth.

Kitty closed the case gently, her hand lingering on the latch.

“A practical item,”

Elizabeth said at last.

“But not commonly left behind by chance.”

Kitty stood.

“Not everything left behind is forgotten.”

“If a man ever gives me a case of bottles,”

Lydia declared, “he had best fill them with perfume.

Or I shall assume he thinks me ill.”

Mrs Bennet, dressed in the severe black of full mourning, her customary lace cap replaced by one of plain muslin entered the drawing room.

Despite the sombre attire, there was a certain animation in her step that had been absent these past weeks.

“Mr Freeman has called to discuss the Lodge garden,”

she announced, smoothing her black skirts.

“He has brought several cuttings from his own herb garden that he believes might thrive in the eastern bed.”

“Has he indeed?”

Elizabeth exchanged a meaningful glance with Mary.

“How very… considerate.”

“He has particular knowledge of medicinal herbs,”

Mrs Bennet continued, her fingers absently adjusting her cap.

“His late wife, it seems, maintained quite an extensive collection.

He thought I might find it useful, given my interest in household remedies.”

“And do you plan to show him your own collection?”

Mary enquired, setting aside her book.

Mrs Bennet’s cheeks coloured.

“I had thought to invite him to take tea in the small parlour after our walk.

Hill has prepared those seed cakes he mentioned admiring last week.”

“Then we must not detain you,”

Elizabeth said gently, noting how her mother’s eyes, still ringed with grief’s shadows, nonetheless held a spark of genuine interest.

“Although perhaps he might stay to dine with us? Jane was hoping to discuss the new drainage work near the Lodge.”

“I had already extended the invitation,”

Mrs Bennet admitted.

“Although I hesitated to mention it, not wishing to appear…” She faltered.

“Forward?”

Elizabeth suggested kindly.

“I believe a gentleman calling to discuss gardens and staying to dine with the family is the very model of propriety, Mamma.”

“Particularly when that gentleman has consulted with the local parson about appropriate behaviour during a family’s mourning period,”

Mary added.

At her mother’s startled look, she explained, “Mr Willis mentioned it after Sunday services.

It seems Mr Freeman is most concerned with showing suitable respect.”

Mrs Bennet’s expression softened.

“He is a thoughtful man.

Not given to excessive speech, but observant.

Rather reminds me…”

She stopped, then continued more quietly, “He mentioned that tending growing things can sometimes ease a heart’s heaviness.

I find there is wisdom in that.”

From the window came the sound of boots on gravel, and they watched as Mr Freeman, a tall figure in dark clothes that acknowledged the house’s mourning without matching its severity, approached the door.

His slightly stooped shoulders and lined face spoke of his fifty years, but his step remained firm.

“I shall join him in the garden,”

Mrs Bennet said, rising with quiet dignity.

“Mary, perhaps you might join us in half an hour? Your knowledge of the herb classifications would be most helpful.”

As their mother departed, Elizabeth turned to Mary with undisguised curiosity.

“Herb classifications? I was not aware you had developed such expertise.”

“Nor had I,”

Mary replied dryly.

“Although I suspect my presence is required more as chaperone than botanist.

I shall endeavour to prepare a list of classifications before I arrive, lest I be asked to distinguish between balm and borage whilst chaperoning a courtship in disguise.”

They moved to the window, watching as their mother greeted Mr Freeman.

The gentleman’s bow to Mrs Bennet carried respect, and if his hand lingered when she offered hers, the gesture remained entirely appropriate.

“They make a well-matched pair,”

Elizabeth said as the couple moved toward path to the Lodge, walking close together whilst absorbed in conversation.

“His steadiness seems to soothe her nerves.”

“And her animation brings colour to his gravity,”

Mary agreed.

“Rather like another couple of our acquaintance.”

Elizabeth’s laugh acknowledged the hit.

“Must you be so observant, sister?”

“One of us must maintain objectivity amidst all this sentiment,”

Mary replied, although her smile held genuine warmth.

“In view of my own discussions with Mr Fairfield, I have discovered the appeal of botanical conversation.”

Through the window, they could see Mrs Bennet pointing out something in a flower bed, her black-gloved hand gesturing with enthusiasm as Mr Freeman bent his head attentively to hear her explanation.

If their heads were perhaps closer than strict propriety might dictate, the earnestness of their horticultural discussion provided ample justification.

“How fortunate,”

Elizabeth mused, “that one may discuss soil composition with perfect propriety, even in deepest mourning.”

“Indeed,”

Mary agreed.

“Although we might hope Mr Freeman’s discussions of herb beds maintain more propriety than certain exchanges about crop rotation.”

“Did you enjoy your visit with Mr Freeman?”

Jane enquired, setting aside her book.

Mrs Bennet’s fingers traced the embroidery on her handkerchief, her expression thoughtful.

“I find them… not unwelcome.”

She looked up, meeting her daughters’ gazes with unusual directness.

“I had not imagined such feelings might arise again.

After your father…” Her voice faltered momentarily.

“Papa would wish your happiness,”

Jane said, entering with her workbasket.

“As would Grandfather.”

“Mr Freeman mentioned calling tomorrow afternoon to discuss improvements to the Lodge,”

Mrs Bennet continued.

“He has some particular ideas about the front windows that he believes might interest me.”

“Windows?”

Elizabeth’s lips curved in barely suppressed amusement.

“How fascinating.”

“I understand he has renovated Garver Hall extensively,”

Mrs Bennet replied with perfect composure, though a slight blush coloured her cheeks.

“A gentleman of mature years develops practical interests, Lizzy.”

“Of course,”

Elizabeth agreed solemnly, though her eyes danced.

“Particularly when those interests align so fortuitously with a certain lady’s property.”

“You are impertinent, child,”

Mrs Bennet chided, but without heat.

“Although I believe your Mr Darcy might understand the appeal of a knowledge of such practical matters.”

Elizabeth’s own cheeks warmed.

“Then we must ensure the Lodge decor receives fitting attention.

Perhaps you might show Mr Freeman your collection of fine china? I understand gentlemen of discernment find such displays most illuminating.”

“Elizabeth!”

Mrs Bennet exclaimed, although her lips twitched suspiciously.

“Indeed,”

Mary interjected dryly.

“Although one hopes Mr Freeman’s interest in renovation maintains more propriety than certain exchanges about crop rotation.”

Mrs Bennet’s startled laugh—the first they had heard since Grandfather’s passing—rang through the parlour like a promise of healing.

“You dreadful girls,”

she said, her voice warm with genuine affection.

“What your grandfather would say!”

“He would say,”

Jane said gently, “that spring brings renewal in many forms.”

As she departed, the sisters exchanged glances containing equal parts amazement and approval.

“Well,”

Elizabeth said finally.

“It seems Mr Darcy’s letters are not the only matter bringing colour to Bennet cheeks these days.”