Page 9 of The Mercy of Chance

T he autumn air held a crisp edge as they stepped outside the pleasure gardens into the field.

Without any obvious orchestration, they fell into pairs along the path.

Bingley moved instantly to Miss Bennet’s side, leaving Darcy to walk with Miss Elizabeth.

She had exchanged her indoor slippers for half-boots that, whilst adequately fashionable for country walks, showed signs of frequent use on similar expeditions.

They were scuffed at the toes and bore stains that spoke of regular exposure to mud and dew - more like a land steward’s footwear than a gentleman’s daughter’s walking boots kept pristine between occasional pleasure jaunts.

“The channel begins here,”

Elizabeth said, indicating a shallow depression in the earth half-obscured by fallen leaves and recent rain.

The soil crumbled slightly at her touch.

“Although of course, the original course was altered during my grandfather’s youth, when--”

“When the north field was converted from pasture to cultivation,”

Darcy finished, then caught himself.

He had spoken as he might to his steward or a fellow landowner, not as one ought to address a young lady.

Yet Miss Elizabeth showed no offence at his interruption.

“Precisely,”

she replied, her eyes brightening with interest.

“The soil composition required particular consideration—clay nearer the hedgerow, and the lower stretch prone to water-logging in wetter months.”

Behind them, Bingley’s laugh carried, followed by Jane’s softer response.

Darcy glanced back to see his friend gazing at Miss Bennet as if she had hung the moon itself.

The eldest Miss Bennet was speaking about something, but Bingley’s enchanted expression suggested he had not heard a word.

“Mr Bingley seems rather distracted,”

Elizabeth said, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“Your sister’s presence seems to have that effect,”

Darcy said dryly, then was startled by his own candour.

There was something about Miss Elizabeth that invited frankness, that made him forget the careful manners he typically employed with young ladies.

They paused where two drainage channels met.

Elizabeth crouched without hesitation, brushing aside wind-blown twigs and compacted soil.

Her practical boots peeked out beneath the hem of her walking dress, now lightly muddied at the edge.

Darcy could not seem to avoid explaining how a similar issue had been resolved at Pemberley—diverting surface water across terraces to prevent pooling in the low meadows.

When Elizabeth responded with a thoughtful question about water flow rates Darcy realised he had been conversing with her exactly as he would with a land-owning peer.

The recognition unsettled him.

More unsettling still was how natural it felt, how easily she matched his knowledge and understanding.

“Miss Elizabeth,”

he began, meaning to redirect their conversation toward safer ground, but she was already gesturing further down the slope, where a clay-banked ditch had been recently cleared.

Her observations were too precise to ignore—each rooted in lived experience, not theory.

Her manner was lacking in pretension, yet she saw everything.

She was already pointing out another feature of the drainage works.

Her observations were so precise, her suggestions so practical, that he was drawn back into serious discussion despite his intentions.

Elizabeth grasped her pencil to record the conditions, her stiff fingers struggling with the task.

The rough wood caught her skin, but her hands were too cold to feel the splinter that embedded itself in her finger.

She continued marking measurements, unaware of the blood now staining the paper.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

Darcy’s voice was sharp.

He caught her wrist, turning her hand palm up to reveal the injury.

A thin line of blood had traced its way across her palm.

Without ceremony, he produced his handkerchief and began cleaning away the blood.

“I did not even notice--”

she started, surprised by the amount of blood.

“Your hands are half-frozen.”

He wrapped the handkerchief around her finger with surprising gentleness.

From his pocket he produced a small pair of tweezers.

At her questioning look, he explained, “One learns to carry certain necessities when managing an estate.”

The splinter was stubborn, but his hands were steady and warm.

Elizabeth studied his face as he worked, noting the frown of concentration, the same look he wore when examining complex estate documents.

When had she begun to recognise his expressions?

“There,”

he said, the splinter finally extracted.

He bound her finger with the handkerchief, his movements precise.

“You will need proper gloves for this work.”

“I have gloves,”

she protested, flexing her bandaged finger.

The cloth was still warm from his pocket.

“Not adequate ones, it would appear.”

Without a word, Darcy produced a pair of leather gloves from his coat.

“They will be too big,”

she protested.

“They are warm, and they will protect your hands.

I will make the notes.”

he replied, already turning back to his measurements.

His mien was businesslike again as he straightened.

Behind them, Bingley continued to hang on Jane’s every word, although Darcy doubted his friend could at that moment have identified a drainage channel if he fell into one.

The contrast between Bingley’s obvious infatuation and his own unexpectedly engaging conversation gave Darcy pause.

He was enjoying Miss Elizabeth’s company far too much, and in entirely the wrong way.

A gentleman’s daughter, so knowledgeable of cultivating their lands, who knelt in the dirt to examine water channels was so far out of his experience, he felt disoriented.

Yet as she rose, brushing her skirts clean with practical efficiency, Darcy admired precisely those qualities he should disapprove.

It was a disturbing realisation, one that demanded further examination – in due course, when she was not looking at him with those fine eyes alight with intelligence, asking his opinion about the best approaches to preventing winter flooding.

After examining the final drainage area, Miss Elizabeth indicated their circuit was complete.

“You have seen the worst of our difficulties now, gentlemen.

Although perhaps Mr Bingley’s attention was more engaged by other aspects of the landscape.”

Her glance toward where her sister stood conferring with a young woman tenant carried just enough meaning to make Bingley flush.

“Most instructive,”

Darcy said shortly, aware he had spent far too much time admiring the way her cheeks were flushed from the brisk air.

“We should not further delay your return to the house.”

Miss Elizabeth’s eyes were bright with the exercise and the satisfaction of thorough explanations well-delivered.

Darcy was unexpectedly reluctant to end the inspection, even as he knew he must.

Bingley chattered amiably through their farewells, his eyes lingering rather too long on Miss Bennet.

The autumn air struck sharp and clean after hours spent studying water flow and soil composition, the physical activity having done nothing to clear Darcy’s head of unwelcome observations about a most unusual young lady.

They had mounted and ridden nearly a quarter mile before Bingley broke the contemplative silence, the wind tugging at his coat as dry leaves skittered across the narrow lane.

“I found their methods diverting water flow quite… illuminating.

Would you not agree, Darcy?”

“The principles appear sound,”

Darcy allowed, adjusting his grip on the reins, “although perhaps not suited to every situation.”

“Oh? I thought Miss Bennet’s understanding of the matter particularly…”

Bingley’s enthusiasm faltered at Darcy’s sharp look.

“That is to say, their care of the estate seems most…”

“Practical?”

Darcy supplied dryly.

“Perhaps.

Yet one must consider how such involvement would be regarded in more elevated circumstances.”

“Would not good sense recommend itself at any level of society?”

Bingley’s horse shifted beneath him, sensing his agitation.

“After all, water flows regardless of who redirects it.”

“There are other considerations beyond mere hydrology.”

“Are there?”

Bingley’s tone carried an unusual edge.

“I had thought the purpose was to drain the fields effectively, not to ensure the water knew its proper place in society.”

Darcy reined his horse in to draw his friend’s attention.

“You oversimplify the matter.”

“Do I? It seemed quite straightforward to me.

A lady who understands the myriad matters of managing an estate would make a better mistress for any property than one who merely ornaments it.”

Darcy stared ahead, jaw tight.

The hedgerows lining the lane were sparse now, brambles stripped of berries, the last of the beech leaves turning brittle gold.

The season, like the conversation, offered little warmth.

“A man of substantial fortune,”

Darcy said with careful precision, weighing his duty to both friend and family, “who wishes to establish himself in society must consider more than agricultural efficiency.

Your father worked diligently to elevate your position, Bingley.

You owe it to his memory to consider such matters with gravity.”

“Do I?”

Bingley’s normally cheerful countenance showed unexpected stubbornness.

“Even when that efficiency comes wrapped in such gentle manners and sweetness…”

“Bingley.”

Darcy’s voice cut the air like the wind through the bare trees.

He checked himself, speaking more temperately.

“Your enthusiasm for Netherfield’s prospects, should not be clouded by… local influences.

A man in your position must look to forge connections that will advance his place in society, not bind himself to a family struggling to maintain appearances.”

They rode in silence for several moments, the only sound the soft thud of hooves on autumn soil.

“But surely you must admit,”

Bingley ventured at last, “that the Misses Bennet’s understanding of estate matters show remarkably good sense?”

“I begin to think,”

Darcy replied, the image of Miss Elizabeth crouched in October soil vivid and unwelcome, “that neither good sense nor land stewardship has much bearing on your current preoccupation with Longbourn.”

He urged his horse forward, the animal surging beneath him as if sensing his mood.

Whether his sharpness had been meant for Bingley or himself, he could not say.

Behind him, Bingley offered no reply.

The silence between them was filled only by the rustle of wind through spent hedges and the quiet clop of hooves against the fading year, leaving them both to contemplate the various perils of country estates and their unexpected occupants.