Page 12 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)
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.
He expects me to stumble. I shall not give him the pleasure.
She watched him. She read his aire. They exchanged pawns centreboard. He hesitated as he looked towards his rook. The brown mist about him darkened.
She moved her knight, blocking the move before he could make it. His brows lifted.
Elizabeth said nothing. They exchanged knights in front of his king. The match continued. The only sounds were the faint slide of felt over wood and the whispers of the December wind against the windowpanes.
After a time, Mr Bennet exhaled through his nose. “You are unnervingly quiet.”
Elizabeth removed his bishop from play with her queen. “You have always said I talk too much.”
He studied the board. “And yet, I find I miss it.” His queen awakened and pressed her bishop.
“You prefer I prattle on, then?” She castled on her king’s side.
“Perhaps.” He retreated his queen.
She chased it with a pawn. He castled on his queen’s side. She commanded the centre with her bishop pair.
He steepled his fingers. Seven moves later, he slid his rook to the strong corner. His aire deepened to brown when Elizabeth countered. A bishop sacrificed to advance her rook.
His face turned stony. “You have never bested me before.”
She moved her queen into position. “No, I have not.” Elizabeth saw the moment he realized he would have to concede.
Her father changed his posture. “You are different.”
Is he speaking of my accident? “You noticed.”
He smiled wryly. “It would seem I am not as dim as I pretend to be.”
“Nor are you given to self-reproach.”
“No, I daresay, I am not.”
“This match.” Elizabeth glanced down at the board. “You have not made sport of me.”
“No.”
“You often do.”
The silence pressed on her. She looked up. “Some things are not for jest,” he said.
“And this?”
His eyes softened. “ This is no laughing matter.”
He is not speaking of our match play. “You mean—”
“I imagine you have been waiting for this moment.” He crossed his legs as he sat back in his chair.
She swallowed. “Have I?”
“Yes, my dear. You have.”
The world narrowed. His aire melted to a homogenous tan. “Shall I speak the truths you have not named?”
She shook her head, afraid of what it would unleash.
“Jane. Mary. The butcher. The pastor. Kitty and Lydia.” He paused. “Your mother.”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched.
He steepled his fingers and tapped his lips. “Would you have my leave to confess?”
He understands! She had not even spoken the words, and yet, he knew.
Elizabeth pressed her palms flat against her cheeks and wiped the corners of her eyes. “Yes, Papa. I would.”
She maintained her composure, did not falter, did not second-guess herself. She spoke without pause and laid it all before him. The colours. The way emotions shaped them. How they flared, faded, darkened. How they spoke the truth when words did not.
She had known precisely when her sisters would have their monthlies. She had marked how the butcher’s honesty spoilt faster than his meat. She had sensed the pastor resented the marriage between Mr Hart and Miss Ingraham.
“Fear not, my dear.”
How their mother indulged Lydia, tolerated Kitty, ignored Mary, and wished they all were like Jane. Her father’s expression was unreadable.
Elizabeth had finished. All that remained was silence. And the ticking of the mantel clock.
“You are clever, Lizzy. Perhaps more than I ever realized.”
“You believe me?”
“You always had an instinct for integrity, but now, you discern it as others cannot.” He rubbed his palms together. Then clasped them as if to pray. “But you must be careful. Your manner of truth will not be accepted.”
Her shoulders loosened as the tension drained. She had not realized how deeply she had feared his dismissal, how much she had needed his approbation. “You are not... put out… with me?”
“Angry?” He shook his head. “No, my dear. But I would be false if I said I was not…concerned.”
“Why?”
“Because you must protect yourself.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I shall.”
“No.” His voice was gentle but firm. “You will try. But you cannot.”
“I do not—”
“You are perceptive,” he said, raising a hand, palm forward. “Perhaps more than is wise. But you are also young.”
She clenched her jaw. “You doubt me?”
“I trust your clarity of sight. I hold little faith that others shall welcome it.”
He reached across the board and grasped her hand. “I will be your champion,” he said. “But you must always be completely honest with me.”
“You promise not to dismiss my concerns?”
“You have my word.”
She nodded. The mantle clock ticked steadily. More than three hours had passed.
He released her hand and studied the board. He slid his rook next to his king, then sat back. His face gave away nothing. “So, this is how it is to be, is it?”
“It is.” She lifted her queen.
His aire flared bright. Pride? In me?
She claimed the pawn to his king’s front. “Checkmate.”
He studied the board for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled .