Page 6 of The Mercy of Chance

Darcy had risen with the larks, determined to inspect Netherfield’s boundaries before Bingley eventually stirred from his bed. The autumn mist lay thick as wool upon the lower meadows, the damp air heavy with the scent of fallen leaves and wet earth. His mount’s hooves made soft, sucking sounds in the sodden ground as he rode, rendering a thorough assessment of the estate’s condition rather more challenging than he had anticipated.

That he was in Hertfordshire at all was an accident of chance and necessity. Bingley’s letter had come six weeks prior, urging him to visit: “ You must come to Netherfield at once, Darcy. Caroline insists the estate requires your expertise, although I suspect she wishes to escape town when the season has ended. Do say you shall join us - I am quite at sea with all these agricultural matters. ”

Darcy had declined twice, citing urgent business at Pemberley. In truth, his reluctance stemmed from his sister’s delicate condition. Georgiana’s spirits had plummeted in the aftermath of her near catastrophe with Wickham, and her usual composure had given way to a melancholy that troubled him deeply. He had scarcely left her side in the months following the incident at Ramsgate.

“Brother, you must go to Mr Bingley,” she had insisted one evening, her eyes downcast as her fingers moved listlessly across the pianoforte keys. “I know you have refused him twice on my account.”

“Your wellbeing is my primary concern,” he had answered, standing rigid by the instrument. He studied her closely. Was that a tremble? Did she not seem frailer?

Georgiana straightened and nearly met his eye. “That is precisely why you must go.” Her voice, although soft, carried an unusual firmness. “I am certain you are disappointed in me, although you are too kind to say it. I would prefer some solitude to reflect on my... mistake.” She had stumbled over the word, her fingers slipped from the keys.

“Georgiana, you are not to blame. I ought to have protected you, to tell you of the danger—I could never—”

“Please,” she had interrupted, something she had never done before. “Mrs Annesley will attend me. Your hovering only reminds me daily of my foolishness. Mr Bingley needs you, and I...” she had drawn a steadying breath, “I need to prove to myself that I can manage without your constant attention.”

Her words had struck him with the force of a physical blow. That she could imagine he was disappointed in her, rather than in his own failure to protect her, was unbearable. And yet, perhaps distance would indeed serve them both. With great reluctance, he had acquiesced.

“ I shall attend you after Michaelmas ,” Darcy had written finally to Bingley, duty to his friend and sister both overcoming his resistance. What he had not foreseen, however, was how thoroughly a chance encounter would disturb his composure and overthrow all his careful plans for the visit.

“And yet, Mr Darcy, the sheep did prosper remarkably well in this pasture,” Miss Elizabeth had said, her eyes bright with barely concealed amusement at his evident surprise. “Although perhaps you find it strange that a lady should speak of such matters?”

“Indeed not, Madam. I find it…” He had hesitated, watching the wind stir loose curls about her face. “…most uncommon.”

“Uncommon? Or unseemly?” The arch of her brow had challenged him.

Now, as he rode back to Netherfield, the memory of her impertinent smile and remarkably fine eyes haunted him. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He turned the name over in his mind, along with the disturbing recognition that he had behaved like a pompous fool. His thoughts drifted briefly to Georgiana—how different these two young women were. His sister, all gentle compliance and now wounded self-doubt, Miss Elizabeth, all confident opinions, and challenging wit. He could not help but wonder if some measure of the latter’s spirit might benefit the former in her recovery.

“You see here, sir,” she had said, opening her notebook with capable hands, “where the channel must be cut to drain the south field adequately.” Her sketch had been precise, her understanding of gradient and construction thorough. The morning light had caught the intelligence in her eyes as she had explained her great aunt’s innovations. His mind drifted from her cogent words to admiration of her graceful form.

“Your expertise does you credit, Miss Elizabeth,” he had managed stiffly.

She had looked up at him with that same challenging smile. Without a word, she forced him to rethink his words, his prejudices, and his privilege.

His horse shifted beneath him now, sensing his distraction. Darcy realised he had drawn rein at the top of the rise, staring back toward Longbourn without conscious intention. From here he could see the south field she had mentioned, its careful drainage works evident even at this distance.

“Perhaps, Mr Darcy,” her words echoed in his memory, “you might find that capability may exist even where you least expect to find it.”

“I shall call tomorrow to speak with your grandfather about these improvements,” he had told her, striving to maintain his dignity despite the mud clinging to his polished boots.

She looked up at him through her lashes, the very picture of genteel deference, save for the gleam in her eye. “How fortunate that my grandfather shall have the benefit of your expertise. Although I hope, sir, you will permit me to attend? I find myself quite unable to resist any conversation involving mud and mathematics.”

The memory of his stammered response made him grip his reins more tightly. His mount tossed its head at the sudden pressure, the leather creaking in protest.

Caught between amusement and discomfiture, he was uncertain whether he was being laughed at or laughed with. The wind caught at her spencer, and she adjusted it with an unconscious grace that made him forget, for a moment, that they were discussing drainage channels. A gentleman’s daughter who understood property maintenance as well as any steward. Who spoke of it with animation rather than false modesty? Who had not simpered or flirted or shown the slightest indication that his consequence impressed her. Whose beauty rendered him quite unable to maintain his habitual aloofness in her presence.

“Your attendance would be…” He had paused, searching for a word that would neither condescend nor reveal too much. “Most instructive.”

“Instructive.” The morning light caught the amusement in her eyes. “How proper of you, Mr Darcy. Although I warn you—if you mention Vitruvius’ theories on hydraulics, my grandfather may keep you until supper. Are you prepared to defend your position on the relative merits of ancient versus modern methods?”

He fought an unexpected smile, his usual reserve wavering in the face of her evident wit. The wind stirred the surrounding leaves, bringing with it the scent of damp earth and autumn. He caught a sweet floral note and unconsciously leant forward towards its source.

Catching himself, he straightened up quickly, and he responded stiffly. “I bow to your superior knowledge of the danger, Madam. Although, Vitruvius would have approved of your careful attention to gradient.”

“Mr Darcy! Nearly a compliment?” She caught her bonnet against the morning breeze, but not before he caught sight of lush dark hair. “I must mark this day in my almanack - a man of fashion deigning to discuss Roman architecture with a country miss.” She had seemed more amused by his discomfort than awed by his position.

Tomorrow he would call at Longbourn—at a proper hour, naturally—to discuss water management. That Miss Elizabeth would likely be present during such discussions was merely a practical necessity. He would treat the situation exactly as he would a meeting with any steward or land agent, though he doubted any steward had ever possessed such fine eyes or such a penetrating way of seeing through his deliberately maintained facade of superiority.

The leather of his saddle creaked as he shifted uncomfortably at the memory. His sister Georgiana’s latest letter lay in his pocket, its pages crackling with each movement. Perhaps Georgiana’s new enthusiasm for mathematics might be applied to a new study of estate accounts. Such an occupation now seemed less a charming peculiarity and more… but no, he must not pursue that line of thought. But here, amid the autumn mist and mud, he had no ready category for this bewildering young lady.

The morning air grew heavier with moisture, promising rain. He touched his horse’s flank, turning back toward Netherfield. The sooner he finished his inspection, the sooner he might review his own estate’s water management. One would not wish to be found wanting in practical knowledge when discussing such matters with a lady of evident expertise.

“Until tomorrow then, Mr Darcy,” her parting words haunted him still. “Do come prepared for a most illuminating discussion of drainage channels.” Her arch expression, her light and pleasing figure, her evident intelligence. It all shattered his expectations. In a London drawing room he would have attributed her wit to flirtation. His reason had no way of placing this young lady in his accustomed understanding of the world.

“Well met, Darcy! Already been out surveying my domain?” Bingley’s cheerful voice greeted Darcy as he entered the breakfast room. “Tell me, did you find everything in proper order?”

Darcy hesitated. The drainage issue ought to be mentioned, yet he felt strangely reluctant to discuss the circumstances of its discovery. “There are some matters requiring attention. The lower meadow--”

“Charles, you cannot imagine how tedious it is here without decent company.” Miss Bingley spoke over him, as she swept into the room, her carrot orange morning dress an assault upon the eyes. “Mr Darcy, how fortunate that you have returned. I was telling my brother that a man of your understanding must find our local society quite beneath notice.”

“I have not begun to make the acquaintance of the neighbourhood,” Darcy replied stiffly, accepting tea from the footman.

“Acquaintance?” Miss Bingley’s eyebrows rose. “You cannot possibly have encountered anyone of consequence on your morning ride. I am told the local gentry are quite…” She paused delicately. “Provincial.”

“Come now, Caroline,” Bingley protested. “Sir William Lucas called yesterday and seemed a pleasant enough fellow. And he spoke of several good families in the area.”

“Did he?” Miss Bingley settled herself where she might best display her figure to advantage. “I suppose there might be one or two acceptable connections. Although I cannot imagine anyone of real cultivation residing so far from town. Mr Darcy, you must find it vastly different from the society you enjoy in Derbyshire.”

Darcy recalled the precise way Miss Elizabeth Bennet had sketched the water channel gradient. There had been more genuine cultivation in that simple demonstration than in all of Caroline Bingley’s practised accomplishments.

“The neighbourhood appears to have some interesting features,” he said at last.

“Oh! You must tell us what you observed on your ride.” Miss Bingley leant forward eagerly, displaying what she undoubtably imagined to be an expression of intelligent interest. “Although I cannot imagine what could interest a man of your discernment in these rural byways.”

“Primarily drainage concerns,” Darcy said shortly, then turned to Bingley. “The lower meadow shows signs of water accumulation. You may wish to consider improvements before spring.”

“Drainage!” Miss Bingley’s horror suggested he had mentioned something impossibly vulgar. “Dear Mr Darcy, you cannot mean to discuss such matters at breakfast. Are there not more elegant topics? I long to hear your opinion of the new exhibits at the Royal Academy. I have been reading the most fascinating treatise on the Italian masters…”

Darcy doubted she had read any such thing. On the rare occasion when Miss Bingley encountered the written word, it was generally in the form of titles on fashion plates or gossip in the newspaper. Unbidden, his mind made a contrast with Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s honest enthusiasm for her subject. There had been no false pretence of refined sensibilities in her practical discussion of water flow, no affected poses as she demonstrated the gradient with her branch. Even with mud on her hem, she had shown more natural elegance than Caroline Bingley would ever achieve with all her studied grace. Not, of course, that the comparison signified anything beyond his professional interest in estate management.

“But tell me about these drainage issues,” Bingley interrupted his sister’s artistic raptures. “Sir William mentioned something about the innovations at Longbourn improving the local yields considerably. Their methods might be worth examining.”

Darcy stiffened at the estate’s name, but Miss Bingley was already speaking.

“Charles pray do not become obsessed with agricultural improvements before we have even properly settled. We are here to better our social standing, not to become farmers. Mr Darcy cannot wish to spend his entire visit discussing ditches. Such matters are better left to stewards and labourers.”

“On the contrary,” Darcy blurted, “a complete understanding of estate management is essential for any landowner. Technical knowledge need not preclude elegance of mind.” He shook his head. Why had he permitted Miss Bingley to irritate him? He ought to remain silent.

“How fascinating,” Miss Bingley drawled. “I am sure Mr Darcy’s experience with estate management must vastly outshine any local knowledge.”

Darcy took another sip of his now tepid tea to avoid a reply. He knew better than to engage with her. Let her imagine what she would. He had no intention of describing his encounter with Miss Elizabeth Bennet until he had better categorised it in his own mind. And even then, he did not wish to involve Miss Bingley in the conversation.

Miss Bingley continued her efforts to dominate all discourse at the table as Mr and Mrs Hurst joined the others in the breakfast room. Darcy arranged his features into a neutral expression and doggedly consumed his meal, all the while removing his mind from the premises. His thoughts drifted to convincing Bingley to go to Longbourn on the morrow, without revealing his utter confusion at the young lady he had encountered in the fields. Bingley was a sociable fellow, so likely it would not take much convincing, but it would be well to prepare him for the discussion of topics that were far from familiar.

“I cannot imagine you would wish to associate with them, Mr Darcy.”

The mention of his name in Miss Bingley’s strident voice broke through his contemplation.

“Pardon me, I was not attending. With whom?” Darcy spoke in the cool, detached manner he reserved for social-climbing mushrooms, not that Miss Bingley would notice.

“The neighbouring estate- Longwood or whatever its name is. It is, according to Mrs Harrington, occupied by a most unnatural collection of women, who run the farm like field hands, although they were once supposed to be gentlewoman. Worse than bluestockings, they are labourers!” Miss Bingley’s eyes flashed with a sort of hungry delight, as though denigrating some unknown local misses was the height of pleasure.

Darcy paused, fixing Miss Bingley with a cool stare. He reminded himself that he would not allow her to nettle him. His mind’s eye conjured an image of Miss Bingley, knee deep in a drainage pool, her ostrich feathers wilting as she attempted to assess the water flow to Netherfield. He nearly smiled at the idea.

“I cannot image what possible harm might befall me should I encounter such ladies.” His measured speech was at odds with the palpable sense of danger that had prickled his skin whilst he bantered with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Perhaps not harm, but surely some manner of discomposure would attend the interactions.

Miss Bingley blinked and assumed a blank expression. Darcy imagined he could see some sort of mechanism rotating behind her eyes as she attempted to make sense of his remark. No doubt she wished to rail against his exposure to such unnatural creatures, but then might she appear to doubt his vigour? Should she suggest he would be somehow unmanned by women who understood that their dinner did not walk into the kitchen fully prepared, but that there was effort involved in the production of vegetables, grains, and beasts? Miss Bingley would no more consider the many labours that brought her fricassee to her plate than she would take a branch and measure the water level and silt in….

Darcy dragged himself back to the present. Miss Bingley appeared to be about to resume her diatribe- he rapidly rose, setting his serviette on the table.

“Would you be so kind as to join me in the library, Bingley? I have some information about the matter I was speaking of earlier which you ought to hear.”

Darcy followed Bingley into the library, closing the door firmly behind them. The room was well stocked with shelves if not with volumes and hushed. The crackle of the fire made a stark contrast to the clatter of breakfast and Miss Bingley’s ceaseless chatter. Bingley, ever amiable, looked at Darcy with mild curiosity.

“I must tell you of an encounter I had whilst surveying the drainage issues.” He paced before the fireplace, his boots silent on the thick carpet.

“Good God, Darcy, you look positively unsettled. Have you found the situation worse than expected?” Bingley’s usually cheerful countenance showed genuine concern.

“No… not precisely worse. The drainage problem itself is quite manageable, although it will require cooperation with our neighbours at Longbourn. But it is the nature of those neighbours that I find… remarkable.” Darcy paused, choosing his words with care. “The estate is run by five sisters, as your sister mentioned.”

Bingley’s eyebrows rose. “Truly? Do the sisters manage the estate? There must be a brother or uncle…”

“There is a mother and a grandfather who I understand is quite elderly. But it appears that the sisters themselves tend to the estate. And before you echo your sister’s sentiments, I should tell you they appear to be doing a creditable job of it.”

Bingley leant forward, his curiosity piqued. “Caroline was rather vehement in her opinions this morning. Some of the local people think their involvement in farm matters is… unseemly.”

“The neighbourhood appears divided. Some, like your sister, view their labours on the estate as unseemly. Others…” Darcy recalled the respectful way Sir William referred to Miss Elizabeth, “seem to have accepted their unconventional approach. They maintain the appearance and manners of gentlewomen whilst possessing practical knowledge that most ladies of their station would consider beneath them.”

Bingley’s eyes twinkled with curiosity. “The Bennet ladies seem to be quite the topic of conversation with the neighbours. I have heard the eldest Miss Bennet praised as a great beauty. What have you heard of her?”

Darcy hesitated, choosing his words with care. He had not yet mentioned his encounter with Miss Elizabeth that morning, and he was not sure why he felt compelled to keep it to himself. “I have not heard much talk. From what I understand, the Misses Bennet are unconventional, but intelligent.”

“Well, I for one am intrigued. Shall we ride over tomorrow morning?”

Darcy gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable. “I believe it would be… prudent to consider all available expertise. Mr Bennet’s understanding of the land could be valuable. Although I have not yet had the pleasure of a proper introduction, I understand he is homebound. We would need to call at Longbourn to meet with him.”

Bingley’s smile widened. “Well, then, it is settled. We’ll ride to Longbourn tomorrow and introduce ourselves. Who knows? Perhaps Miss Bennet will prove to be as incomparably handsome as the neighbourhood says. I must admit, I am rather curious to see for myself.”

Darcy nodded, although his thoughts strayed to quick dark eyes and challenging remarks about water tables. “Yes, tomorrow would be most suitable. Although perhaps we should prepare ourselves for a rather different sort of morning call than we are accustomed to making.” Darcy steered the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Our primary concern should be the drainage issues. If we can work with Mr Bennet in resolving them, it would be a service to the entire community. The productivity of the land affects the local economy, after all.”

Bingley nodded, his expression turning serious. “You are no doubt correct. It is the neighbourly thing to do. And who knows? Perhaps our paying a call will help dispel some of the more unkind rumours about the Bennet ladies. It is a shame that their industriousness is met with such criticism.”

Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line.” Very well. I shall make the necessary arrangements. And Bingley--” he paused, his voice taking on a quieter gravity, “--it would be wise to approach the matter cautiously. Your penchant for pretty faces is well known. Tread with care.”

Bingley smiled, “Of course, Darcy. I will follow your lead.”

As Bingley rose to leave, Darcy remained seated, his thoughts once again drifting to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He was not accustomed to feeling so… unsettled.