Page 29 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
“Not at all, sir. Please, come in.” She gestured to the room, grateful for the interruption. “The evening is rather quiet with everyone abroad.”
He moved to the bookshelf, but she noticed his eyes drift towards the corner where Lydia sat in dejected silence. When he looked back at Elizabeth, his expression was quietly concerned.
“Miss Lydia seems rather distressed this evening. Is she unwell?”
Elizabeth glanced towards her sister, who had not stirred at their conversation. “She has been struggling, I’m afraid. We… we had a difficult conversation last night about family matters, and it seems to have affected her more deeply than I anticipated.”
Darcy abandoned his search for the book and moved closer, lowering his voice. “May I ask what happened?”
“She spoke about our father—about feeling angry with him, about carrying guilt over what happened to her. I thought it might help her to voice these feelings, but instead it seems to have sent her backward.” Elizabeth’s voice was heavy with self-reproach. “She declined to go into Meryton with Georgiana today, and I fear she believes herself to be a burden to everyone around her.”
Darcy’s expression grew thoughtful. “Grief is not a straight path, Miss Elizabeth. Sometimes we must revisit the darker places before we can move beyond them.”
“But she was doing so well yesterday, caring for Jane. She seemed to have purpose again. And now…” Elizabeth shook her head. “I should have left well enough alone.”
“You were trying to help her heal,” he said gently. “That conversation may have been necessary, even if it was painful.”
“She spoke of feeling angry at Papa, of wishing things could be different. And I think she fears that this anger makes her a bad person.” Elizabeth’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She said she feels empty inside, as if she’s just pretending to be better.”
Darcy was quiet for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps what Miss Lydia needs is not to feel better, but to feel useful. Capable. To be reminded that she has value beyond her grief.”
Elizabeth looked at him with curiosity. “What do you mean?”
“I happened to overhear her and Georgiana discussing chess yesterday when they were sitting with Miss Bennet. Your father taught her the game?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, a small smile touching her lips despite her worry. “Papa was quite devoted to chess. He said it taught logical thinking and patience—qualities he hoped to instil in all of us, though I fear I proved a poor pupil.”
“Miss Lydia spoke of it with great fondness—and considerable pride in her skill. She mentioned that she was the only one who could give your father a proper challenge.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up as she began to understand his meaning. “You think we might engage her in a game?”
“More than that.” Darcy leaned forward, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. “I was thinking we might arrange for her to feel needed. Useful. If you and I were to begin a game, and you were to appear to struggle…”
Elizabeth laughed despite herself, the first genuine laugh she’d had all evening. “That will require no acting on my part whatsoever, Mr Darcy. I am dreadful at chess. Papa despaired of ever teaching me proper strategy.”
“Perfect,” he said, and she was surprised to see a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “Then we need only set up the board and begin. Miss Lydia’s competitive nature—and her desire to prove herself—will do the rest.”
The plan was simple. Within minutes, they had arranged the chess set on a small table near the centre of the room, positioning themselves where they would be visible to Lydia in her corner. Darcy took the white pieces, and Elizabeth the black, though she thought her chances were hopeless regardless of colour.
“Now,” Darcy said as he moved his first pawn, “you must appear to be taking this seriously, but struggling with each decision.”
“Again, no acting required,” Elizabeth murmured, staring at the board with genuine perplexity. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
She moved a pawn, and Darcy responded with a knight. Within a few moves, Elizabeth found herself genuinely flustered by the complexity of the game, and her expressions of confusion were authentic.
“Oh dear,” she said, perhaps a bit more loudly than necessary, “I fear I’ve put my bishop in terrible danger.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied, his voice carrying just enough volume to reach the corner. “Though perhaps if you moved your knight…”
“My knight?” Elizabeth stared at the board. “But wouldn’t that leave my king exposed?”
They continued this way for several minutes, Elizabeth making questionable moves while Darcy offered gentle suggestions that she largely ignored. She was beginning to worry that Lydia might not take notice when she heard the rustle of skirts and the scrape of a chair.
Lydia had risen from her position and was approaching them, her expression shifting from listless disinterest to something sharper—l disagreement, perhaps, or barely restrained criticism.
“What are you doing?” Lydia asked, and there was more life in her voice than there had been all evening.
“Losing at chess,” Elizabeth said with honest rueful humour. “Mr Darcy was kind enough to offer me a game, but I fear I am providing very little challenge.”
