Page 8 of The Mercy of Chance

T he sun had risen before six o’clock, and with it, Darcy.

He rode the northern border of the estate, then returned, waiting impatiently for the rest of the party to awaken.

In his own domain, Pemberley, Darcy would have broken his fast before eight and been at work.

Here, he was at loose ends until, at long last, Bingley appeared at nine.

“Good Lord, Darcy,”

said Bingley, entering the breakfast room to find his friend reading a letter for what must have been the tenth time.

“How long have you been up? You look positively thunderous.”

“Since dawn,”

Darcy replied shortly.

“I have been examining your drainage problem.

The south fields--”

“Before breakfast?”

Bingley helped himself to tea, shaking his head.

“I suppose I ought not be surprised.

I grant you, old friend, your dedication to my modest estate rather alarms me.”

“Your ‘modest estate’ will be considerably less profitable if you do not address the issue before the winter rains.”

“Yes, yes,”

Bingley sighed, taking his place at the table.

“Although perhaps it could have waited until a more civilised hour?”

“I find the early morning light most instructive.

One sees things as they truly are.”

Darcy’s look was pointed.

“For instance, the state of your south fields.”

“I had hoped to delay the matter until--”

He broke off at Darcy’s expression, busying himself with his toast.

After several minutes of silence broken only by the clink of china, Bingley rose and walked to the window.

His fingers worried at his coat sleeves as he stared out at the morning mist still clinging to his fields.

“Really, Darcy, must I involve myself?”

he said at last.

“Could we not simply send word through my steward?”

“Your steward who has been in your employ all of three weeks?”

Darcy did not look up from his tea.

“The same steward who failed to mention these drainage issues when you took the lease?”

Bingley’s shoulders slumped.

“Well, no need for both of us to go.

You understand these matters far better than I do.

The agreement could be settled between you and the Bennets’ man of business--”

“I shall not call upon your neighbours to discuss your estate’s concerns without you present.”

Darcy finally raised his eyes to his friend’s face, noting the unusual agitation in his manner.

“It would be the height of impropriety.”

“Yes, but…”

Bingley turned back to the window, then spun around again.

“My sister insists the Bennets are quite peculiar.

No one believes their grandfather still manages the estate.

And apparently one of the daughters involves herself in tenant matters.

Most irregular.”

“I fail to see how this affects the drainage channels that must be addressed before the winter rains, unless you wish to see your south fields flooded.”

“Caroline says they rarely attend assemblies or participate in the neighbourhoods’ social life.

What sort of family--”

“Charles.”

Darcy was firm.

“You cannot rely on drawing room gossip for business matters.

The state of your fields requires attention, regardless of the Bennets’ social habits.”

“‘Tis easily said, in your case,”

Bingley muttered.

“You are not the one who must establish himself as a creditable landholder.

What if the best families find me wanting?”

Darcy softened at this revelation of his friend’s true concern.

“All the more reason to handle this properly, in person.

Your carriage is ordered for ten o’clock.

I suggest you review the relevant papers before then.”

“Although perhaps…”

Bingley straightened his cravat in the window’s reflection.

“If they are interested in estate matters, they might respect a direct approach.

A man taking responsibility for his property.”

“Precisely.”

Darcy hid his smile behind his teacup.

His friend’s transparency might, under other circumstances, have been considered disarming, although he did hope Bingley would manage to attend to the business at hand.

The last thing Darcy wanted was to become overly involved in overseeing Netherfield.

He had promised Bingley he would help him settle in.

He, of course, had no intention of becoming entangled with any of the local families himself.

The study at Longbourn was a modest room, far smaller than what Mr Darcy was accustomed to at Pemberley.

His critical eye took in the scene before him: a quite elderly gentleman seated by the window, a blanket over his knees.

One of his granddaughters stood at a desk scattered with maps, and there was general air of a working estate office rather than a gentleman’s retreat.

It was not what he had expected when Bingley had finally agreed to make this call about the drainage issues.

Nor had he expected to find the Bennet ladies in Mr Bennet’s study rather than the drawing room, but there they were -

Miss Elizabeth bent over an account book whilst her sister sorted correspondence, their grandfather enthroned behind an ancient oak desk scattered with maps.

The room smelled of beeswax, leather bindings, and the particular dusty warmth of well-used books.

The chair seats were faded from years of sunlight and use.

Mr Bennet proved to be a spare, scholarly figure, his shoulders stooped with age but his eyes remarkably keen behind his spectacles.

The tremor in his hands as he gestured Darcy and Bingley to chairs spoke of his advanced years, as did the walking stick propped against his desk.

“Welcome, welcome, gentlemen,”

he said, his voice still carrying the cultivated tones of his Cambridge education despite its age-worn quaver.

“Be good enough to forgive me if I do not rise.

These old bones protest such courtesy nowadays.”

“Sir.”

Darcy bowed with genuine respect.

Here was a gentleman of the old school, surrounded by the accumulated wisdom of generations in leather-bound volumes.

Bingley bowed with his usual animation.

“Not at all, sir! We are most grateful for your counsel on these matters of drainage.”

His eyes, however, had already strayed to where the eldest Miss Bennet sat reading correspondence, her fair head bent over her task.

Darcy introduced himself and Bingley to the gentleman, who then introduced them to Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth.

Darcy did not make mention of their earlier encounter lest his actions be misinterpreted.

Mr Bennet studied him with a steady gaze.

“You hold an estate in Derbyshire, Mr Darcy?”

“I do.

My estate is Pemberley.

We are quite near the Peaks, and not far from the town of Derby.”

“Run off from those highlands must be a nuisance.

You have some experience then in managing drainage from high ground.”

“Quite so,”

Darcy agreed.

Mr Bennet turned to Miss Elizabeth.

“Lizzy, please, open the map for the gentlemen—the one with the western border with Netherfield.”

The older man gestured for her to proceed.

“Now then, you have come about our shared issues with drainage, I understand.

Most intriguing subject.

The Romans, you know…”

Mr Bennet’s eyes brightened with scholarly enthusiasm, although his hands shook as he reached for the map.

“Grandfather,”

Miss Elizabeth intervened smoothly, placing the map within his reach, “shall I fetch the survey from last Michaelmas?” She moved with the quiet efficiency of long practice, already reaching for the correct drawer.

“Ah yes, yes my dear.

The survey.”

Mr Bennet smiled at the gentlemen.

“My memory occasionally requires my granddaughter’s assistance these days, although she is far too kind to mention it.

Now, where were we? Ah yes -…what was it we found there, Lizzy?”

“The south field flooding near Netherfield was particularly troublesome that season,”

Miss Elizabeth supplied, her manner both respectful and protective of her grandfather’s dignity.

“Mr Bingley, you may find this relevant to Netherfield’s lower pastures.”

“Oh! Yes, of course,”

Bingley said, dragging his attention from Miss Bennet’s graceful movements.

“I must admit, Miss Elizabeth, such technical matters often escape me.

Darcy is the one for all this drainage business.” Bingley glanced at the proffered map, his expression one of utter confusion.

“You see, Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy, the natural flow to Netherfield’s south fields has always drained through this valley on Longbourn land,”

Elizabeth explained, her eyes bright with intelligence.

“We have maintained the drainage channels for generations, but with the increased rains these past years…”

Darcy endeavoured to maintain his usual air of detachment.

Her detailed knowledge of the concerns of the owner of an estate and grasp of geography and agriculture would have rivalled even his steward at Pemberley.

It was… unsettling.

And yet, intriguing.

He leant closer to examine the map, catching the faint scent of lavender.

“Quite right, Lizzy,”

her grandfather interjected with obvious pride.

“The 1767 agreement with old Mr Bingley’s predecessor specifically mentioned--” He broke off in a fit of coughing, and Elizabeth immediately poured him a glass of water.

Bingley, for his part, seemed rendered oblivious to the discussion of water distribution as his attention had returned again to Jane Bennet.

Miss Elizabeth rose, retrieving another minutely annotated map.

The sunlight through the mullioned windows caught the dark gleam of her hair as she bent over the document.

“You see, sir,”

she was saying, “by following the natural contour here…” Her sleeve brushed his as she leant forward, and he was far more conscious of that slight contact than of the technical explanation she offered.

“How clever!”

Bingley exclaimed, although his eyes had wandered again to where Miss Bennet sat, her fair head bent in concentration.

“Would you not agree, Darcy?”

“Most irregular,”

he murmured, although whether he meant the drainage works or the entire situation, he could not quite say.

“Irregular?”

Her eyes met his with that now-familiar blend of challenge and amusement.

“Surely efficiency must trump convention, Mr Darcy? Unless you prefer your fields waterlogged in the Roman fashion?”

From his desk, her grandfather chuckled.

“You must forgive my granddaughter, sir.

I fear I have raised her to value results over propriety in attending to matters of the estate.”

The eldest Miss Bennet looked up from her letters then, her smile gentle.

“Lizzy has quite transformed our yields since she took over responsibility for them, Mr Darcy.”

He felt trapped between his awareness of what ought to be - ladies confined to their needlework and watercolours - and the undeniable evidence before him of what could be.

Miss Elizabeth’s capability, her practical intelligence, her evident success in these masculine spheres.

Should it not all offend his sense of correct behaviour?

Miss Bennet rose quietly to adjust the lamp closer to their grandfather’s side.

Bingley immediately stepped forward to assist her, his hand touching hers as they both reached for the lamp.

“I thank you, Mr Bingley,”

Miss Bennet murmured, a becoming flush touching her cheeks.

“Most irregular situation there, as you say, Mr Darcy?”

Mr Bennet’s eyes twinkled with surprising acuity.

“Although not as irregular as finding young ladies so well-versed in governance of their fields.

But necessity, sir, proves an excellent teacher.

Do you not agree, Mr Bingley? You are here learning more than you would ever wish about water flow, to be a good steward of your lands.”

He paused, his hand trembling as he gestured over the map, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Precisely, Mr Bennet,”

Bingley said with transparent inattention, his gaze drifting toward Miss Bennet.

“The… er… water must flow downhill, naturally.”

Miss Elizabeth’s lips twitched, although her voice remained perfectly serious.

“An astute observation, Mr Bingley.

Although perhaps the detailed calculations might prove somewhat tedious?”

“Oh! No, no, not at all,”

Bingley protested, glancing from one Bennet sister to the other.

“Darcy has a particular talent for such things at Pemberley.”

Mr Bennet spoke.

“The rainfall records, Jane.

Where did we put the rainfall records?”

A strain of disquiet entered the old gentleman’s voice.

“Here, Grandfather.”

The eldest Miss Bennet placed the leather-bound volume before him and straightened the tall stack of books which threatened to tumble.

“Allow me, Miss Bennet,”

Bingley said eagerly, nearly upsetting his chair in his haste to assist her.

Darcy grimaced.

Miss Bennet’s gentle manner and quiet beauty were precisely the sort to capture Bingley’s romantic nature, regardless of her situation in life.

“Ah yes, quite right.”

The elder gentleman’s eyes sharpened.

“Although I believe it was Lizzy who made that particular observation about the change in rainfall last autumn.

My memory plays tricks, but not about that.

Most unexpected, to have a granddaughter quote Vitruvius at me over breakfast.”

“You see, Mr Darcy,”

Elizabeth began, “the clay content here requires…” She paused, noticing her grandfather’s hands trembling more pronounced.

“Grandfather, shall I ring for your cordial?”

“No, no, my dear.

Simply an old man’s weakness.

Pray continue.

Mr Darcy must be eager to hear your thoughts on modern drainage techniques.”

The shrewd-look Mr Bennet cast him unsettled Darcy, suggesting that the elderly gentleman’s wit remained as sharp as ever.

“Certainly.”

Darcy fought to keep his expression even.

He could not miss the efficient grace with which she anticipated her grandfather’s needs whilst never undermining his dignity.

“The clay content here requires particular attention,”

Miss Elizabeth was saying, although Darcy attended more to the nearly invisible darning in her sleeve—the sort of damage that might come from reaching through brambles to examine the conditions of the hedgerow.

No fashionable lady would dare such practical investigation, let alone possess the skills to repair the consequences.

“Remarkable!”

Bingley contributed, having certainly heard nothing of clay content.

“Would you not agree, Miss Bennet, that such matters of… of…”

“Drainage?”

she supplied gently.

“Precisely! Drainage.

Most engaging subject.”

Miss Bennet bent her head over the ledger again, but not before Darcy caught the amusement in her modest smile.

His friend was heading down a dangerous path, one he would need to address before Bingley’s romantic nature created expectations.

Bingley was always easily enchanted by a pretty face, but did he consider the entirety of the circumstances? The signs of genteel economy were everywhere, once one looked for them.

The ink in the well had been watered precisely enough to stretch its use without compromising legibility.

The leather bindings showed evidence of careful repair rather than replacement.

Even Miss Bennet’s pale muslin, although exquisitely neat, showed signs of careful mending at the hem.

Mr Bennet’s hand reached for another map, his scholarly enthusiasm undimmed by age.

“You see, Mr Darcy, the classical principles of hydraulics suggest that water flowing through channels of varying dimensions will adjust its velocity and pressure according to the constraints of the passage, with narrower sections increasing velocity whilst wider portions reduce it—knowledge the Romans employed extensively in their aqueduct systems to maintain consistent flow across varied terrain.

The gradient must be taken into account …”

As he spoke, the elder gentleman’s sharp eyes moved among the four young people with rather too much acuity for Darcy’s comfort.

“You see here, Mr Darcy, where the gradient shifts?”

Miss Elizabeth’s finger traced the line with precision.

“Our Lizzy has an excellent understanding of the terrain, Mr Darcy.

Singular for a young lady to be so well informed about hydraulics, do you not think?”

Mr Bennet regarded Darcy with an expression identical to the arch look Miss Elizabeth had given him as he attempted to rescue her from the pooling water.

He had the sensation of being tested by a particularly clever tutor.

“I find,”

he said slowly, “that capability recommends itself, regardless of its source.”

“Such breadth of mind does you credit, sir.”

Miss Elizabeth’s attention appeared wholly fixed upon the survey lines as she spoke, her voice carrying just the faintest trace of something that might have been humour.

“One hardly knows whether to be more impressed by your discernment or your forbearance.” Only the smallest quirk at the corner of her mouth betrayed that the perfectly proper words might carry a double meaning.

“One must judge by results, must one not?”

Mr Bennet said.

“The estate prospers under my granddaughters’ care far better than it did under my own in younger days.”

“Grandfather, you are too modest.”

Miss Elizabeth’s hand rested briefly on the old gentleman’s shoulder.

“You prepared us admirably for such work.”

“Did I indeed?”

The elder Mr Bennet’s eyes twinkled.

“I rather thought all those hours you spent poring over agricultural treatises were meant to be devoted to accomplishments more suited to young ladies.

Embroidery, perhaps.

Or decorative painting.

Do you not wish to be accomplished ladies?”

Accomplished.

Darcy had long held that the word was applied to many a woman who deserved it not otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen.

He could not boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen ladies in the whole range of his acquaintance that were really accomplished.

Elizabeth Bennet had capabilities far beyond those frivolous matters.

“Mr Darcy?”

Miss Elizabeth’s voice drew him from his reverie.

“You appear quite lost in contemplation.

Has the question of drainage so occupied your thoughts?”

“I am considering,”

he said stiffly, “the most efficient approach to water management.”

That look again, one brow raised, her lips curved in a slight smile, as though she saw straight through his careful fa?ade to the turmoil beneath.

“And what conclusions have you drawn about our rather unorthodox methods?”

“I…”

He was saved from reply by Mr Bennet’s sudden movement.

“The figures, Jane.

Where did we put the figures for the south field?”

“Here, Grandfather.”

The eldest Miss Bennet moved forward, placing the leather-bound volume before him.

“You had me add them into the new estate book last week.”

“Ah yes, of course.

My Jane has the most remarkable knack for figures, Mr Darcy.

Although perhaps such matters interest you less than questions of drainage?”

Darcy felt unsure whether the elder Mr Bennet’s occasional confusion was genuine, or if those sharp eyes saw more than they revealed.

Particularly when the old gentleman insisted Miss Elizabeth stand closer to the window “for better light”

as she explained the drainage patterns.

The autumn sunlight illuminated her fair skin as she leant forward to indicate a particular measurement.

The scent of leather bindings and beeswax mingled with the faint perfume of lavender from her neatly mended dress.

It was a fine muslin, he noted with the unconscious judgement of one whose sister ordered new gowns from London each season, but it had been turned at the cuffs and collar with nearly invisible stitches.

Such careful husbandry of resources ought to remind him of the gulf between their situations.

Instead, he wondered at the advantages of such practical wisdom.

The thought was most unwelcome.

The elder Mr Bennet’s shrewd eyes moved between them.

“I believe Mr Darcy finds our local innovations rather more engaging than he anticipated.

Do you not agree, sir?”

A direct response seemed unwise.

“I should be grateful for the opportunity to examine your rainfall records in greater detail.

For Netherfield’s benefit, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

Miss Elizabeth returned to examining the rainfall records with evident absorption.

“Mr Bingley, you will find these patterns of particular interest for Netherfield’s lower fields.”

Bingley leant forward with his characteristic enthusiasm.

“I daresay, I had not considered there might be a similarity in our soil conditions.”

“The challenge lies in the clay content,”

she said, her attention wholly fixed on the technical matter at hand.

Darcy watched as she explained the specific conditions to Bingley without a trace of self-consciousness or coquetry, her mind entirely occupied with solving the practical problems before them.

The realisation that she had quite forgotten his presence in her enthusiasm for the subject made her expertise all the more dangerous to his peace of mind.

The warmth in his chest had nothing to do with the autumn sunlight.

This would not do at all.

“Perhaps,”

Elizabeth suggested, “we might walk the affected areas? The current state of the channels would be better understood on foot.”

Darcy nodded before he had fully considered the propriety of tramping about the countryside with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Her grandfather’s presence would make it acceptable, of course, but the elder gentleman’s infirmities might make such an excursion impossible for him.

“Capital idea!”

Bingley exclaimed, finally contributing to the conversation.

“Miss Bennet, might you join us? To… er… to better understand the concerns of our tenants?”

Darcy caught Elizabeth’s quick smile at her sister, noting how it transformed her whole countenance.

How would it feel to be the cause of such a smile? He immediately suppressed the thought.

“I believe I shall remain here with the maps,”

the elder Mr Bennet announced, settling more comfortably in his chair.

“Lizzy knows every inch of this land.

She will show you what needs attending to.

And Kitty, please show the gentlemen your landscaping plans.” He fixed Darcy with a knowing look that made the younger man distinctly uncomfortable.

Elizabeth efficiently rolled up the relevant maps whilst discussing with her elder sister which tenants they needed to speak with.

As they prepared to quit the study, Darcy observed a silent exchange between Miss Elizabeth and her younger sister Mary - some subtle gesture and quiet words that apparently conveyed Miss Elizabeth’s wishes regarding their grandfather.

The efficiency of it struck him; no elaborate explanations needed, merely the practised understanding of those who shared responsibilities.

As she turned to him with those fine eyes sparking with intelligence, Darcy realised his confusion was the least of his concerns.

The real danger lay in how much he anticipated their walk, and how eager he was to er…discuss estate matters with this most unusual young woman.

Darcy’s interest grew as Miss Catherine Bennet led them through what appeared at first glance to be a purely decorative garden.

She spoke with quiet confidence as she gestured to the elegant arrangements before them.

“You see, Mr Darcy, Mr Bingley, the Williams pears have already been gathered, but the Jargonelles linger a little longer, if the frost holds off.

They produce magnificently when well trimmed.”

Bingley crouched down to examine what appeared to be an ornamental border of flowering herbs.

“And these, Miss Catherine?”

“Ah!”

Her face brightened.

“The lavender is mostly spent now, but we leave it standing to dry naturally—it deters pests and looks well even in decline.

The thyme still blooms here and there, and behind them, you might see the carrot tops—those feathery greens blend well even now.

And those climbing roses?” She gestured to the arches, where a few ragged blooms clung to the stems.

“They are nearly finished for the year, but they’ve done their part concealing the runner beans.

The beans help fertilise the soil for next season’s blooms.”

The design displayed genuine ingeniousness—beds of rainbow chard with their coloured stems still vibrant despite the season, late cabbages set amongst browning kale, and turnip greens poking through the earth, edged with the fading spires of chives and parsley gone mostly to seed.

“Grandfather suggested I might try my hand at improving the kitchen gardens,”

she continued, pride in her voice.

“But I saw no reason they could not be beautiful as well as productive.

The gooseberry and currant bushes, although bare now, make excellent hedging.

And the strawberry beds help hold the soil between the rose roots.

We have mulched them already for the winter.”

Elizabeth stood at the periphery, her expression warm with sisterly pride.

The garden had already surrendered its high summer brilliance, yet still produced root vegetables, quinces, and hardy greens, all while maintaining the outline of a pleasure garden.

Even the pond, its surface flecked with wind-blown leaves, remained useful—stocked with carp and edged with a thinning border of watercress.

“Most ingenious, Miss Catherine,”

he said sincerely, as her face flushed with pleasure.

“I believe my sister Georgiana would be most interested in seeing these designs.

Perhaps you might consider sharing your expertise with her should she visit Netherfield?”

Behind him, Elizabeth’s brows rose at this implicit promise of future visits, but he maintained his focus on Miss Catherine, who launched enthusiastically into her plans for the autumn planting and winter cover crops.