Page 12 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”

Elizabeth

T he drawing room at Netherfield felt oppressively quiet that evening.

With Mrs Hurst, Miss Bingley, and Georgiana having departed for Meryton, and Jane finally resting peacefully in her chamber, Elizabeth found herself at loose ends.

She had taken up some needlework near the fire, but her attention kept drifting to the corner where Lydia sat hunched in a chair, staring out the darkened window.

Only yesterday, Lydia had seemed so much improved.

The arrival at Netherfield to help tend Jane had given her purpose, and she had been almost animated in her attentions to their sick sister.

But this afternoon, when Georgiana had invited her to join the shopping expedition into Meryton, Lydia had declined with such vehemence that even kind Miss Darcy had been taken aback.

Elizabeth knew why. The conversation they had shared the night before—about Papa, about blame, about the weight of guilt and grief—had opened wounds that perhaps should have remained closed a little longer.

Lydia had spoken with such raw honesty about her anger at their father, her desperate wish that things could be different, her fear that she was fundamentally changed by what had happened to her.

Elizabeth had thought it might help, but instead it seemed to have sent her sister descending back into the darkness she had briefly emerged from.

Setting aside her embroidery, Elizabeth approached her youngest sister with careful steps. “Lydia? Are you quite well?”

Lydia’s shoulders hunched further. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, though her voice carried no conviction.

Elizabeth settled into the chair beside her. “Dear Lydia. How can I help?”

“I thought… I thought I was getting better. But I’m not. I’m just pretending, and eventually everyone will see through it.”

Elizabeth’s heart clenched. “That’s not true, Lydia. You are getting better. These obstacles—”

“Are they obstacles, or is this just who I am now?” Lydia turned her face towards the window, her reflection ghostly in the dark glass.

“When Georgiana asked me to go with them today, I couldn’t bear it.

The thought of being cheerful, of pretending to care about ribbons and lace when I feel so empty inside. She must think me terribly ungrateful.”

“I’m certain she understands—”

“Does she? Or does she think I’m just being difficult? Maybe I am.” Lydia’s voice cracked.

Elizabeth reached out and squeezed her sister’s hand. “That conversation we had last night—I know it was difficult, but—”

“It made everything worse,” Lydia interrupted. “I thought if I could just say it all out loud, the anger would go away. But it hasn’t. If anything, I’m angrier than before. At him, at myself, at… at everything.” Her voice broke on the last word.

Elizabeth was still searching for words of comfort when she footsteps in the corridor. Mr Darcy appeared in the doorway, pausing when he saw them both.

“Miss Elizabeth. I hope I am not intruding. I was looking for a book I had left here earlier.”

“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.”

“Your sister is quite right, Miss Lydia. I overestimated her skill, basing it on your enthusiastic commentary the other day,” Darcy said. “Perhaps you might assist her?”

Lydia stepped closer, and Elizabeth caught the flicker of interest in her eyes. “You’ve left your queen completely undefended,” she observed, her voice carrying a note of the old Lydia—the one who never hesitated to point out others’ mistakes.

“Have I?” Elizabeth peered at the board. “Oh dear, you’re quite right. I hadn’t noticed.”

“And your castle is trapped by your own pieces,” Lydia continued, warming to her theme. “Really, Lizzy, did Papa teach you nothing?”

“He tried,” Elizabeth said, watching her sister’s face. “I fear I was a disappointing pupil.”

Lydia made an exasperated sound. “You’re going about it all wrong. Chess is not just about moving pieces—you need to think several moves ahead. Papa always said—” She stopped abruptly, as if suddenly remembering her anger at their father.

Elizabeth held her breath, but after a moment, Lydia continued more quietly, “He always said that chess was like life. You have to consider the consequences of every move.”

“I am thinking ahead,” Elizabeth said. “I’m thinking about how quickly Mr Darcy will achieve checkmate.”

Mr Darcy chuckled but said nothing.

Despite herself, Lydia’s lips twitched. “At this rate, very quickly indeed.” She leaned closer to the board, and Elizabeth saw the familiar spark of competition in her eyes—dimmed but not extinguished. “You’re playing right into his hands.”

“Am I?” Elizabeth looked between the board and her sister. “I suppose I should surrender then.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Lydia said, and for a moment she sounded almost like her old self. “Move your queen here.” She pointed to a square. “Then your knight can support it, and you’ll have a much stronger position.”

Elizabeth moved the piece and was rewarded by seeing Darcy’s eyebrows rise in surprise. She caught his eye and saw the hint of a smile there.

“Much better,” he acknowledged. “That was quite a good move.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Lydia said with satisfaction, and Elizabeth felt a surge of hope at the pride in her sister’s voice. “Now, Mr Darcy, you’ll have to work a bit harder for your victory.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “I had not anticipated such able counsel.”

The game continued, with Lydia becoming more invested in Elizabeth’s success. She leaned over Elizabeth’s shoulder, pointing out opportunities and pitfalls, her voice growing more animated with each exchange.

“No, no, Lizzy! Can’t you see what he’s doing? He’s setting up a fork with his knight. Move your bishop to block.”

“Here?” Elizabeth asked, pointing to a square.

“Two spaces to the left,” Lydia corrected. “There. Now you’re threatening his rook.”

Elizabeth made the move and was surprised to see Darcy pause to consider his response. Perhaps Lydia’s coaching was more effective than she had expected.

“You know,” Lydia said after another few minutes, “you’re hopeless at this, Lizzy. Papa may have despaired of teaching you, but at least he tried. You must be boring Mr Darcy to tears with such tentative play.”

“On the contrary,” Darcy said, “Miss Elizabeth shows admirable persistence.”

“Persistence, perhaps, but no skill whatsoever.” Lydia shook her head in exasperation, but Elizabeth noticed the slight softening in her expression when she mentioned their father. “Here, let me show you how it’s done.”

And with that, she slipped into Elizabeth’s chair, her eyes bright with challenge as she surveyed the board. “Now, Mr Darcy, let’s see what you can do against someone who actually learned Papa’s lessons.”

Elizabeth stepped back, catching Darcy’s eye over Lydia’s bent head.

The warmth in his gaze made something flutter in her chest—gratitude, certainly, for his kindness to her sister, but perhaps something more.

She found herself studying the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair caught the candlelight, the gentle concentration in his expression as he considered Lydia’s more aggressive style of play.

When he looked up and met her eyes, his smile was soft, and Elizabeth felt those butterflies take flight in her stomach. For a moment, the room seemed to hold just the two of them, connected by their shared concern for Lydia and their successful conspiracy to restore her spirits.

She forced herself to look away, to focus on her sister’s animated commentary on the game. This was about Lydia, she reminded herself. Whatever foolish fancies she might be developing about Mr Darcy’s character were beside the point.

But as the evening progressed and Lydia’s voice grew stronger, more confident, Elizabeth couldn’t quite suppress the warmth that bloomed in her chest every time she caught Darcy’s pleased smile, or the way her pulse quickened when their eyes met across the chessboard.

Some feelings, she was learning, were difficult to ignore. But tonight, seeing Lydia’s first genuine smile in days, Elizabeth thought that perhaps some risks were worth taking—for her sister’s sake, and perhaps for her own.