She rose from her seat to find Charlotte to share the tale. Perhaps when she returned home, she could—
Papa was not at home to tell the story to.
Papa never would be home again.
He’d have chuckled at the tale. His eyes would have twinkled as he said something like, “I still do not imagine though that Mr. Darcy is so much worse than any other rich man.” And then he would turn to her with serious concern, and say, “I hope, Lizzy, you did not take what he said at all to heart.”
It always snuck up on her.
Even during the first days. She had not cried when they carried Papa home from where he’d been thrown from his horse and bashed his head in. Though the sight of the body had been shocking.
She had been too busy. Managing the servants, seeing to it that Mama was given space to wail, and that Jane had the freedom to comfortingly sit next to Mama, ensuring that the well-wishers who'd come to grieve her father were kept refreshed and in ample coffee, chocolate, tea, and toast.
And then, the next day, she’d seen a miniature of Papa sitting on the mantelpiece, and she’d heard the tone of his voice in her head, and she had to run to her room so she would not make a spectacle before everyone as she sobbed and sobbed.
It was like that now. Elizabeth cried softly, unable to stop it, even though she did not wish to make a spectacle of herself amongst the crowd. Pressing a hand to her eyes she hurried out through the nearest balcony door into the chilled night air.
Hiding on the side where no one could see her from inside the rooms, she let herself cry it out. She thought of Papa, abouthow he’d never hear this story, and about how he would have liked it.
When she wiped her eyes and turned back to re-enter the assembly rooms, Elizabeth found to her surprise that Mr. Darcy now stood with her on the balcony, possessing quite an awkward air.
The two stared at each other. Despite the sun having fallen, his features were clear enough in the ample light shining out from the assembly rooms, aided by the nearly full moon.
Mr. Darcy inclined his head in a small bow and said, “Madam, I must apologize to you, I had not meant to be heard by you, or to upset you so.”
Elizabeth blankly looked at the gentleman. For a long second she possessed no notion of what he spoke about.
The gentleman grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I ought not have rudely made comments disparaging your appearance, when I knew you might hear what I said.” Mr. Darcy paused for a second, as though expecting her to say something, and then he added, “I behaved in an ungentlemanly manner, and I must beg your forgiveness.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied distantly, and slowly let go of her thoughts of Papa. “You did insult me.”
She still could not get a read on his character, but his decision to awkwardly embarrass himself by apologizing added a new wrinkle to it.
This addition to the tale would have delighted Papa more than the rest, and at this moment that thought gave Elizabeth a glow of nostalgic memory and friendliness to the world, rather than an urge to cry once more. After all, Papa had always encouraged her to be happy and to find the amusing and diverting in every situation.
She wiped at her eyes again, and with a sudden smile she could not repress, Elizabeth made her own curtsey, “I accept your apology, and it was graciously given.”
They two looked at each other, and Mr. Darcy inclined his head again, but he still seemed dissatisfied.
Elizabeth added impishly, “I feel it worthwhile to acknowledge that it was not the abominable insult to my vanity — one which I fear cannot be undone by your apology, since the knowledge that I am not one who can tempt you can never be forgotten—”
“I did not mean that—”
“Mr. Darcy, please allow me to finish my speech. I beg you. You have already had ample opportunity to speak.”
He seemed to flush, but Elizabeth could not be certain in the dark.
“It wasnotthe insult to my vanity that brought me to tears, but rather a different memory and line of thought that was prompted by your words, but not chieflyaboutthem. I still thank you for the apology, and I do accept it.”
“Ah.” He looked rather unconvinced. “I am glad to hear then that it was not my words that precipitated your tears. But I still spoke wrongly, and I feel a certain responsibility to…” He shrugged, a little helplessly. “Is there any way that I might rectify matters? Do you wish to… dance?”
He could not keep the distaste from his tone at the worddance.
Elizabeth could not stop the helpless laughter that bubbled out, she was still unsettled, and the gentleman’s concern was ridiculous.
Seeing the offense on his face she hurriedly said, “I do apologize. It merely was clear from your tone of voice that you dislike dancing on general, not particular grounds, and that you considered it a burden to make the offer — I appreciatethe sentiment, and the effort you made to go against your inclinations by offering to subject yourself to such a fate asdancing. If you might forgive me for laughing at your offer, then I shall truly, from my heart, forgive you for the high crime and treason of not seeing me as tempting enough to abandon your principled and contrary opposition to dancing.”
And really Elizabeth’s actual resentment had now faded away.
