“You must join us, Miss Elizabeth,” the girl urged. “My brother claims you have an excellent understanding of strategy.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, surprised. “Does he indeed? I was not aware Mr. Darcy had formed any opinion of my gaming abilities.”
“I merely observed that anyone with your quick wit would likely excel at cards,” Darcy said, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. “It was a logical inference, not a specific recollection.”
Yet something in his hesitation made Elizabeth wonder if this was entirely true. Had some fragment of memory surfaced—perhaps of their card games at Netherfield, where she had indeed demonstrated a surprising aptitude for strategy?
The game proved a welcome distraction from such speculations. Elizabeth found herself genuinely enjoying the light-hearted competition, her natural wit emerging as she bantered with Lady Eleanor and teased Mary for her too-serious approach to what was meant to be frivolous entertainment.
“You treat commerce as if it were a theological treatise,” she told her sister, laughing as Mary frowned at her cards with scholarly intensity. “The fate of nations does not hang upon your next play.”
“A lack of proper attention to detail leads to careless errors,” Mary replied primly. “In cards as in life.”
“But sometimes, spontaneity leads to unexpected triumphs,” Elizabeth countered, laying down a winning combination that elicited a groan from Lady Eleanor and a reluctant smile from Darcy.
“Well played, Miss Bennet,” he acknowledged. “Your strategy was… unconventional.”
“High praise indeed from Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes meeting his with a spark of their old connection. “Who is renowned for his conventional approaches to all things.”
Instead of taking offense, Darcy’s smile deepened slightly. “You have formed a most decided opinion of my character, it seems.”
“I merely observe what is before me,” Elizabeth said, suddenly aware of how dangerously close they were to flirtation. “Though I admit my observations may be incomplete.”
“As are all human observations,” Darcy replied, his gaze holding hers for a moment longer than strict propriety might allow. “We see what we expect to see, more often than not.”
The charged moment was broken by Mary’s decisive placement of her cards. “I believe that constitutes a victory,” she announced, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents flowing around her.
As the evening progressed, the storm showed no sign of abating. Wind howled around the stone walls of Bellfield Grange, while rain continued to lash against the windows with undiminished fury.
“I believe some music would be appropriate,” Lady Eleanor suggested as the card game concluded. “Georgiana, would you favor us with a performance?”
Georgiana willingly moved to the pianoforte, her slender fingers drawing forth a delicate melody that seemed to float above the storm. Elizabeth watched Darcy’s expression soften as he listened to his sister play, his love for her evident in every line of his face.
When Georgiana finished, Lady Eleanor turned to Elizabeth. “Perhaps you might play for us as well, Miss Elizabeth? I understand from Mary that you are quite accomplished.”
“My sister exaggerates my modest abilities,” Elizabeth demurred. “Particularly in comparison to Miss Darcy’s superior talents.”
“Nevertheless, we would be delighted to hear you,” Lady Eleanor insisted. “Would we not, Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy, thus directly addressed, had no choice but to agree. “Indeed. If Miss Bennet would not find it too taxing after such a demanding day.”
There was genuine concern in his voice, an awareness of her fatigue that touched Elizabeth more deeply than she cared to admit. Yet she was unable to decline, drawn by an inexplicable need to share this part of herself with him—to remind him, perhaps, of the woman he had once chosen to marry.
She moved to the instrument, settling herself before the familiar keys. After a moment’s consideration, she began to play—not a showy piece designed to display technical skill, but a simple folk melody she had often performed at Longbourn. Her fingers moved from memory, freeing her mind to wander as the music filled the room.
She became aware of Darcy watching her, his gaze more intense than seemed warranted by her modest performance. When she glanced up, the expression on his face stole her breath—a look of such concentrated attention, such painful almost-recognition, that she nearly faltered in her playing.
Did he remember, somewhere in the depths of his injured mind, that she had played this very piece at Lucas Lodge, where he had first begun to notice her? Or was it merely appreciation for the music itself?
As the final notes faded, silence fell over the room, broken only by the continued rage of the storm outside. Elizabeth remained at the instrument, suddenly reluctant to move away from this moment of connection, however tenuous it might be.
“That was lovely, Miss Elizabeth,” Georgiana said warmly. “Such feeling in a simple melody.”
“Indeed,” Lady Eleanor agreed. “You play with genuine emotion, my dear.”
Darcy said nothing, but his eyes remained fixed on Elizabeth with an intensity that made her cheeks warm. She rose from the pianoforte, intending to return to her seat, but found herself intercepted by Darcy, who had moved to stand near the instrument.
“You play very well,” he said quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “With more expression than technical precision, perhaps, but the effect is most affecting.”
