Page 97 of Companions of Their Youth
The sound of her name in his voice startled her, but she did not object.
“You are doing what many would refuse to even attempt,” she said. “Trust the process.”
He glanced down at her, something warm flickering in his gaze. “Thank you. Truly.”
They walked a few more steps before Elizabeth, sensing the heaviness of the topic, opted to shift it.
“My father has sorely missed his chess companion,” she said lightly. “He has grown rather despondent without a proper opponent.”
Darcy’s mouth curved. “That cannot be helped. I suppose I had best return this afternoon and give him a proper rout.”
Elizabeth grinned. “I am sure he will be delighted to try.”
The house was pleasantly warm when they arrived, the scent of roasted apples and cinnamon lingering faintly in the front hall. Elizabeth handed her bonnet and gloves to the maid, barely managing to contain her smile as her father emerged from his study, already alert at the sound of new voices.
“Well,” Mr. Bennet said, eyes twinkling as they landed on Mr. Darcy, “the prodigal son returns.”
“I believe I am more Jonah than prodigal,” Darcy replied with quiet humor.
“I only hope you have not been swallowed by the whale.” Mr. Bennet gestured toward the drawing room. “Come, sir. My patience is exhausted. If I must play with Elizabeth again, I shall begin moving pieces at random out of sheer despair.”
“You wound me, Papa,” Elizabeth said with mock indignation.
He kissed her cheek lightly as they passed. “You play a fine game, my dear.”
Darcy gave a small bow as he followed Mr. Bennet inside. Elizabeth trailed behind, her curiosity piqued as always by the strange, developing bond between the two men. It was not the easy camaraderie of equals, nor the formality of mere acquaintance.
It was—something else.
Almost familial.
She shook aside the thought and watched as the first pieces were set into place. Settling into the window seat with her embroidery hoop, she had an excellent view of both players: her father with his habitual slouch and half-smile, Darcy leaning slightly forward in concentration, fingers resting on the edge of the table like a cat ready to pounce.
“I see you have returned to your favorite opening,” Mr. Bennet said, moving his knight.
“It worked for me once. I thought I would tempt fate,” Darcy murmured.
“Fate is a stingy mistress. Best not to give her too much credit.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to suppress a smile.
As the game progressed, the room fell mostly silent save for the ticking of the clock and the occasional crackle of the fire. Elizabeth watched the interplay with increasing interest. Darcy was certainly a skilled player, but her father had a gift for unpredictability.
Once or twice, Darcy leaned back and narrowed his eyes, as though rethinking everything. Mr. Bennet made his moves withdeceptive laziness, hiding the keen edge of his mind beneath a half-lidded gaze.
At last, a breathless few moments passed—and Mr. Bennet murmured, “Checkmate.”
Darcy exhaled heavily, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well played.”
“Always is,” Mr. Bennet said. “You nearly had me this time.”
They reset the board, but the next game began at a more leisurely pace, allowing conversation to unfurl between moves.
“So,” said Mr. Bennet, drawing out a pawn, “is the general consensus that Miss Darcy should remain with us, Darcy?”
“That depends on your report.” Darcy’s mouth tightened. “I imagine she is still... uncontrollable?”
“Yes, to some extent,” Elizabeth replied. “but she has also begun to realize that she is not in charge of the household, and that her demands will not be met.”
