Page 74 of Companions of Their Youth
The morning after their return from Netherfield, Elizabeth was scarcely seated in the drawing room when Hill announced Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy.
“Oh, how very attentive!” Mrs. Bennet said, smoothing her fichu with a pleased smile. “But then, I suppose he must call. It would be scandalous not to inquire after dear Jane after so many days under his roof.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. Her mother’s glee was evident, but it was not as shrill or overpowering as it might once have been.Indeed, the weeks of watching Jane suffer had sobered even Mrs. Bennet’s matchmaking tendencies—if only slightly.
“Do remember, Mama,” Jane murmured beside her, “he may be calling out of courtesy.”
“Nonsense, child. I know gratitude when I see it, and he is most grateful—for your gentle conversation, your complexion, and your excellent manners.”
When the gentlemen were shown in, Bingley went immediately to Jane with a warmth that could not be mistaken for mere politeness. He took her hand with such tender concern that even Elizabeth could not deny that the young man was besotted.
Though Darcy offered no explanation for accompanying his friend, it soon became clear that his time was not spent merely in dutiful silence. He took to playing chess with Mr. Bennet in the drawing room, and the two men began forming a rapport that Elizabeth had not expected.
Mr. Bennet, though often amused at society’s pretensions, respected intelligence above all else—and Mr. Darcy, for all his reserve, revealed a quick and strategic mind across the chessboard. Elizabeth observed their interaction with a kind of quiet pleasure. She had rarely seen her father engage with any gentleman so fully.
Gone was her father’s habitual irony, replaced by a subtle attentiveness. And Darcy—though still composed—was visibly enjoying the challenge. He even made a small sound of admiration when Mr. Bennet reversed a sequence she had seen him use to defeat Mark a dozen times.
At one point, her mother leaned over and whispered, “Well, I never thoughthewould warm to anyone. Mr. Darcy, I mean. I daresay your father has bewitched him.”
Elizabeth turned back to her embroidery to hide her smile. Her mother might be softened, but she had not changed entirely.
As soon as the game ended—where, once again, Mr. Bennet had left the victor—Darcy and Bingley took their leave. They returned again the following day, however, beginning what would become a steady ritual over the following sennight.
Each morning, Hill announced their arrival, and each morning, Mrs. Bennet contrived not to looktootriumphant—though she never quite succeeded.
“They have come again, Jane,” she would say, fussing with her eldest daughter’s ribbons or hairpins. “It is not possible to mistake the cause, and I should not be surprised if a declaration is made before the week is out.”
Jane always blushed prettily and said very little, while Elizabeth found herself watching not Bingley’s quiet attentions, but the man who followed him.
Though Darcy spoke but little, there was an ease to his bearing that had not been there before. He greeted Mr. Bennet with a respectful nod, filled with a subtle warmth, and allowed himself to be defeated daily at chess with a dry comment and a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Ah, I see you are letting me win again, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said one day after executing an especially cunning trap.
Darcy, moving his knight without lifting his gaze, replied, “If I were letting you win, sir, I should be far less surprised each time it happens.”
Elizabeth looked up from her place by the hearth and caught her father’s grin. “Very good,” Mr. Bennet said. “He has learned to fence with words as well as pieces. We shall make a conversationalist of him yet.”
Mrs. Bennet leaned in to whisper to her second daughter, “He is very quiet, is he not? I wonder what he is thinking of. Something serious, no doubt.”
Elizabeth kept her thoughts to herself. In truth, she wondered about that as well.
For his part, Darcy spoke little to her when they were not alone, although he conversed regularly with her father over the chess board. Yet whenever their eyes met, she found in his expression a growing familiarity—not boldness, but something close to longing. And it unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
∞∞∞
The road to Longbourn passed swiftly beneath Darcy’s horse, but not swiftly enough for his liking. The crisp air stung his cheeks as he rode, but he hardly noticed. He found, to his own mild astonishment, that he was glad—no,eager—to be returning. That he should accompany his host on calls was expected. That he should anticipate an hour at Mr. Bennet’s chessboard with something close to pleasure was rather more surprising.
He had not meant to enjoy the man’s company. But somehow, over the course of these visits, something like camaraderie had bloomed. Mr. Bennet was wry, intelligent, and wholly uninterested in empty flattery. He asked sharp questions and made sharper observations, and Darcy had come to value their conversations more than he had anticipated.
"Tell me honestly, Mr. Darcy,” the older man had said one day, moving a rook with deliberate care. “Did you bring that bishop forward because you thought I would not notice, or because youwantedme to notice?”
Darcy had laughed—actuallylaughed—and replied, “I believe I am not as clever as I assumed.”
Mr. Bennet smirked. “Then you will be well-prepared for fatherhood.”
Grimacing, Darcy moved a pawn. “I think that being guardian to my sister has me well-acquainted with the feeling already.”
“You said she is fifteen, did you not?” Mr. Bennet had asked, brows raising. “A difficult age, I daresay. I havefourdaughters, Mr. Darcy, and not a one of them passed through their years of maturing from girlhood to womanhood without some form of calamity.”
