Page 35 of Colour My World
Her father glanced up; one brow lifted. “My dear Lizzy, if youstare at me any longer, I shall think you are trying to see into my soul.”
Elizabeth, startled, looked down at her plate.
But her father only chuckled. “You are quiet this evening.” He speared a piece of lamb. “Unusual for you.”
“I am simply thinking.”
“A dangerous pastime.”
Elizabeth smirked. “I thought you were one to encourage it.”
“I do,” he said, taking a sip of wine. “And what, may I ask, are you thinking so intently about?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She set down her fork. “Do you believe I am perceptive?”
Mr Bennet exhaled through his nose. She caught the familiar twitch at the corner of his mouth; he was enjoying this. “Lizzy, I believe you are entirely too perceptive.”
“Truly?”
He gestured towards the table. “Do you believe I do not see you watching your sisters with great scrutiny? Since your accident, you seem intent on listening rather than leaping to conclusions. Admirable, I daresay. I would posit you now understand them better than they understand themselves.”
He had noticed. She had assumed her father thought nothing of it. Apparently, he did.
“And you do not think that is unusual?”
“I think it troublesome.” He smirked. “For them.”
Elizabeth laughed, though her thoughts turned in circles.
Her father had trusted her judgement long before she had trusted it herself. And yet, as she lifted her cup, she caught the brown flicker of amusement still dancing in his tan aire.
Chapter 11
Longbourn, December 1806
Her father’s study smelled of leather, ink, wood polish, and old books. Between two high-backed chairs sat the chessboard, a well-crafted piece of true artistry.
A gentleman’s possession of refinement and taste.
Her father had once pointed to the chessboard and traced the contrast between ebony and boxwood. Three generations of play had polished its surface to a soft sheen.
Each chess piece bore the mark of expert craftsmanship, turned and hand-carved, their weighted bases lined with felt. Kings and queens stood adorned with intricate crowns, while knights sat proudly on warhorses with finely detailed bridles and flowing manes. Stout rooks stood as strong, fortified towers. Time had deepened their colour, giving them a patina formed through years of silent battles.
Her father, finger raised, never failed to remind her. “The game of kings! A legacy of intellect, discipline, and tradition, handed down through generations, as enduring as the contest itself.”
Elizabeth settled into her chair. The mantel clock ticked steadily; it was nearly half past eight. Her father regarded her with mild amusement as he set the pieces. He took black for himself. “It has been some time since we last played.”
She rolled her shoulders, testing their ease—or lack thereof. “It has. You have the advantage.”
“Always. Though I do not suppose you have been secretly practising?”
“No. But I have been thinking.” She advanced with her king’s pawn two squares forward.
He advanced his queen’s bishop’s pawn. “A dangerous pastime.”
First Charlotte. Now you.Elizabeth traced the contours of her queen’s side knight before putting it into play. She did not rush, did not move on impulse. She had ever moved her pieces with reckless abandon, testing limits. Until today.
Her father played as he always had: calm, deliberate, and structured over aggression.
