Page 30 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

D arcy stood by the drawing room window, trying not to fidget as he watched the Bennets arrive.

Mark Bennet dismounted with a familiar casualness and turned to assist his father down from the carriage.

The elder gentleman moved with the wry dignity of a man both aware of his age and unbothered by it.

Darcy could not name the precise source of his unease—he had seen Mr. Bennet once or twice in passing—but the thought of formally engaging him in a chess match was unexpectedly nerve-rattling. He had no desire to appear arrogant or foolish before Elizabeth’s father.

It was irrational. He had already met Mr. Bennet, albeit only briefly, and had found the man possessed of a quiet gentility and ironic humor that made Darcy respect him more than most gentlemen of the neighborhood.

And he knew Mark well enough to feel some comfort in his company.

But the idea of being reintroduced to Mr. Bennet—by Elizabeth, no less—made him feel, absurdly, as though he were about to sit for an examination.

Upon the Bennets’ entrance, Bingley greeted them effusively, clapping Mark on the shoulder and exclaiming how glad he was to see him again. Mr. Bennet entered more sedately, though his eyes scanned the room with dry amusement.

Elizabeth joined her father and brother. “Papa,” she said with an impish smile, “may I introduce Mr. Darcy to you?”

“I think all this time cooped up with Jane has addled your wits, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said with a sardonic grin. “I have met Mr. Darcy before.”

“Yes, but now he must be introduced properly—as a worthy chess opponent for you.”

Mr. Bennet raised a brow. “A worthy opponent? You have been bested?”

She feigned a bit of a swoon. “It was a close match. I demand a rematch tomorrow.”

Mr. Bennet turned to Darcy with mock gravity. “You must forgive me, sir. It is rare indeed for Lizzy to admit defeat. I am intrigued. Shall we see if lightning strikes twice?”

“I would be honored,” Darcy said, gesturing to a small table in the corner.

As Elizabeth joined Jane, Mark, and Bingley by the hearth, Miss Bingley also rose to join them. Darcy watched with wonder as Bingley intercepted with cheerful diplomacy.

“Caroline, you must play something in the music room for us, will you not? Something loud and dramatic to stir the blood. It has been too quiet this afternoon.”

Miss Bingley blinked, her lips parting in consternation. “I should think no one would wish me away when we have such company—”

Darcy, seizing the opportunity, added smoothly, “I confess I enjoy background music while I play. It aids my concentration.”

Her reluctance was transparent, but she managed a sweet smile. “Of course. Louisa, do come.”

That settled it. With a simper and a self-satisfied glance at Darcy, Miss Bingley swept toward the music room, calling over her shoulder that Louisa must accompany her. Mrs. Hurst, sighing, followed without argument. Mr. Hurst sprawled on a sofa and was snoring softly within minutes.

Darcy and Mr. Bennet sat across from one another as a footman brought the chessboard and set it carefully between them.

Mr. Bennet’s first move was swift and confident. “Let us see if your skill matches your reputation, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy responded in kind, and they began.

“Ah,” Mr. Bennet said, eyes gleaming, “the Sicilian Defense. Aggressive. I like it.” He countered with a move of his own. “I shall meet you with the Smith-Morra Gambit.”

Darcy said nothing, but allowed himself the faintest smile.

As they played, Mr. Bennet continued to narrate the game aloud with wry commentary.

At first, his movements were brisk, easy, his tone light.

But as Darcy deviated from expected lines of play—sliding his bishop into an unorthodox position, sacrificing a pawn to draw out Mr. Bennet’s knight—the older man grew quiet.

His brow furrowed. His fingers hesitated before moving a piece.

As he watched Elizabeth’s father, Darcy felt a slow satisfaction settle over him. He had not had a worthy opponent in years—not since Cambridge. Mr. Bennet, for all his jesting, was formidable. The pieces clicked and scraped across the board in mounting silence.

Mr. Bennet’s expression shifted, amused eyebrows lowering in consideration. “Hmm. I was not expecting that. Very sly. You do not play like a gentleman of leisure.”

“I learned from my father’s steward,” Darcy said quietly, “who took delight in humbling me.”

Mr. Bennet hummed and studied the board more intently. The tempo slowed.

Ten minutes passed in silence before Mr. Bennet leaned back and said with reluctant satisfaction, “Checkmate.”

Darcy stared. He had not lost a match in years—certainly not since university—and the reality struck with strange disorientation. But Mr. Bennet was grinning.

“Excellent game,” he said. “You nearly had me at move twenty. I began to regret my overconfidence.”

“You play remarkably well,” Darcy said sincerely.

“And you nearly unseated me. Let us play again—though this time I shall not pretend it will be easy.”

Darcy nodded, and they reset the board. The second game proceeded at a more leisurely pace, each of them pausing to converse between moves.

“Tell me about your family, Mr. Darcy. Any siblings?”

“My sister, Georgiana. She is with her companion in London.”

“Not with your parents?”

“No,” Darcy replied slowly. “They have both passed.”

“Ah, I see. I am very sorry.”

Darcy shrugged, even as his heart twinged. There were a few moments of silence, then Mr. Bennet asked, “How old is your sister? Older or younger than you?”

“She is nearly sixteen.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “Ah. An age I do not envy you. For a girl, especially. Sudden moods, tears, declarations of hatred over cold toast. Thank heavens I am nearly out of it with my youngest.”

Darcy hesitated. “I often feel I have no notion what I am doing.”

“Of course you do not,” Mr. Bennet said cheerfully. “I would be far more worried if you believed you did . My wife saves me daily. I am merely the stern voice and the occasional bank draft.”

Darcy protested, and Mr. Bennet merely laughed.

“I love my girls, but the years between twelve and sixteen are certainly trying. Lizzy was all fire and storms at fifteen. And Lydia—Lord preserve us, she is a daily trial. I would be lost without my wife. She understands the girls’ tempers in a way I never could. ”

He paused, then gave Darcy a look that was unexpectedly kind. “It must be particularly challenging for you. You are brother and guardian both. And without your parents…I can only imagine”

Darcy’s throat tightened. He stared at the board to compose himself. “It is… difficult.”

Mr. Bennet nodded slowly. “And noble, in its way.”

They returned to the game for several minutes, each studying the board carefully. Mr. Bennet moved a pawn and said suddenly, “Now, tell me about your estate.”

Darcy stiffened instinctively and looked up, causing Mr. Bennet to chuckle.

“Do not worry, son,” Mr. Bennet said with a grin, “I am not attempting to weigh your worth. I already have a good measure from the neighborhood gossip.”

Darcy choked back a laugh. “Then I hope the accounts have been kind.”

“Oh, half say you are proud, the other half say you are merely shy. Between the two, I suspect you are neither—and both.”

They talked of land—of barley and sheep and late-season hail—and Darcy was surprised to find the conversation invigorating.

Darcy asked nearly as many questions as he answered.

Mr. Bennet knew his soil and weather well, and he had opinions—strong ones—on crop rotation and tenant housing.

It was rare to discuss estate matters without pretense or flattery, and Darcy found himself enjoying the exchange more than he had anticipated.

Miss Bingley returned in a flurry of skirts and a tight, pained smile that was more of a grimace. “My hands are tired from the piano,” she announced, and with theatrical concern, added, “I do hope I was not gone too long.”

She frowned at the fireplace, where Jane and Bingley were in close conversation with one another, completely ignoring Mark and Elizabeth.

Elizabeth stood at once and offered her chair, which Miss Bingley took with visible satisfaction—only to scowl faintly when Elizabeth crossed the room and joined the chess table instead.

Darcy was aware of her before she spoke—of the rustle of her gown, the scent of rosewater, the gentle weight of her presence at his side.

It was as if the room suddenly grew ten degrees warmer.

She leaned to study the board, one hand resting on the back of his chair, and he could not help but notice how near her fingers were to his own.

The thought of shifting his hand just slightly—only a brush—was maddening.

He made a move—careless, without thought—and instantly regretted it.

Mr. Bennet lifted an eyebrow, then looked between him and his daughter with dawning amusement. “Well. That was generous.”

“Was it?” Darcy murmured, eyes fixed on the table but unable to comprehend what was happening on the board.

“It was.” Mr. Bennet slid his piece forward. “Checkmate.”

Darcy groaned. Elizabeth stifled a giggle behind her hand.

“I told you my father played well,” she said archly. “Better than I do.”

Mark bounded over and threw an arm around her shoulders. “She always beats me, you know.”

Elizabeth nudged him. “Because I am cleverer.”

“Indeed,” he agreed with mock gallantry. “She has the brains, but I have the face.”

She swatted his arm and laughed.

The bell rang to signal time to change for dinner.

“How sad,” Miss Bingley said with saccharine sweetness. “Such a shame we must end our lovely visit.”

Bingley stood. “Will you stay and dine with us?”

Miss Bingley sniffed. “I should think it would inconvenience the cook.”

“But—”