Elizabeth mirrored his move, her eyes flicking up to meet his across the board. “And have I met your expectations, sir?”
He tapped a finger against his rook, considering. “Not in the least.” He shifted another pawn forward. “Which is, I expect, the reason I find myself so uncommonly entertained.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“As well you should,” he said, watching as she made her next move.
The room around them hummed with casual noise—Mrs. Bennet chattered happily to Kitty and Lydia about their new houseguest, while Jane sat quietly with her embroidery, a picture of serene patience as her younger sisters prattled on. The fire crackled, and someone—Mary, perhaps—was leafing through a book with a determined sort of rustling.
In the corner, shielded from easy eavesdropping, Mr. Bennet moved a knight into position. “You strike me as a young lady accustomed to forming her own opinions,” he observed.
Elizabeth raised a brow, moving her bishop. “You think less of me for it?”
His lips thinned into a smile, as though suppressing amusement. “On the contrary. A young lady who thinks for herself is a rare and valuable creature.”
“Is she?”
He moved another piece, trapping one of her pawns. “Oh, indeed. A mind unclouded by silliness or excessive sentiment—” He cast a glance toward his younger daughters, who were whispering excitedly about something or other. “—is a treasure not easily found.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, tapping a finger against her queen. “And what words would you use to describe your own daughters?”
His eyes gleamed. “A great many of them,” he smirked, moving his knight deliberately. “Chief among them: exhausting.”
Elizabeth huffed a quiet laugh, nudging one of her pawns forward. “And yet, you seem rather fond of them.”
“I am,” he admitted, watching the board. “Fondness, however, does not negate the need for fortitude.”
“Fortitude?” Elizabeth arched a brow.
“To endure their ceaseless chatter.”
Across the room, Lydia let out a peal of laughter, something shrill and conspiratorial.
Elizabeth hid her smile as she examined the board, her fingers hovering over the carved pieces as she considered her next move. A knight or a bishop? The move required careful calculation—much like the conversation unfolding across the board.
“And tell me, Miss Elizabeth,” he continued, moving another piece forward, his tone deceptively mild. “What is it that brings you to our humble corner of England?”
Elizabeth’s fingers paused briefly over her bishop. She knew better than to assume the question was simple curiosity.
She moved her piece. “I was invited.”
“A wise response.” Mr. Bennet tapped a finger against his chin, examining the board. “And what do you make of our little society? It must be quite different from what you are used to.”
Elizabeth glanced at the others—their lively chatter, the warmth of the room, the utter lack of pretense.
“It is,” she admitted, moving a rook into position. “But not unpleasantly so.”
“Ah.” His knight slid forward smoothly, capturing one of her pawns. “Then you are adaptable.”
She pressed her lips together, studying the board. “That depends on the circumstances.”
Mr. Bennet chuckled quietly, adjusting one of his pieces. “As it should. Those who adapt too easily often find themselves swept along in directions they never intended.”
Elizabeth lifted a brow, meeting his gaze once more. “And those who refuse to adapt at all?”
“Miss Elizabeth, I am an old man,” he said with a sigh, shifting in his seat. “I have known many a person to hold stubbornly to their course, even when the road has long since turned against them. And I have known others to change too quickly, losing themselves entirely.” His fingers hovered over his queen, then tapped it lightly before settling for a different piece instead. “The best players know when to hold, and when to shift.”
She took his queen.
