“Oh, do not mind me,” she said. “I am old enough to be left all alone, single or not.”
Darcy said something or other to Mrs Sullivan about where Colonel Fitzwilliam was, but Elizabeth could hardly listen. Her heart was pounding. She might not have another moment all night to have Darcy’s undivided attention.
Darcy’s heart might not be easily won, and not if his thoughts were with L or Mrs Sullivan, but she could encourage him. She thought of what to say, smiling at him while they took their place in the set. He looked at her curiously, and she stopped grinning and staring. He probably wondered why she was smiling at him so much when she had never even bothered to pay him any attention before.
“I thought you were not fond of dancing,” she blurted. He looked at her askance, and she regretted that was what she thought to say. “I mean, thank you for asking me.”
“I would not want to be selfish or ungentlemanly and ignore a lady sitting down at a ball.” For a moment, she feared he was angry, but he smiled and gave her a knowing look. “I have learnt a valuable lesson.”
After dancing a while in silence, she wondered if Darcy had ever had a true hope of marrying through the service or if it was done purely to appease his cousin. Maybe she could learn a little about what he was looking for in a wife.
“So, the matchmaking subscription is still in business, it seems.” He nodded. “If, if you met someone through such a means”—she took a large breath—“what quality would you want to be certain your correspondent had?” He would describe some quality L had, and then she could make him see that Elizabeth Bennet shared the same characteristic.
“Honesty,” he answered when the dance brought them back together.
“Honesty?” She could not hide her surprise. “Not humour or intelligence? What woman would even countenance lying to you while writing with the intention of marrying? It would all come out when you met in person.”
“I do not purely mean honest in the sense of not lying, but in the sense that we could say anything to one another.”
“You want an honest attachment, a true affection?” she asked, holding out hope that he might find that with her.
“Yes, but more than that. The truth is often painful, and nothing but strict truth can carry you through life with honour and credit. I would entrust my fortune and my happiness to another person if I marry, and I would only do that if we could be entirely honest with one another.”
He looked a little embarrassed by what he admitted. Elizabeth’s heart began pounding wildly. She had not been honest. Darcy was such a direct person, and his seriousness only amplified it. What would he think of her integrity if he learnt she was L all along and never admitted the truth?
When she could think of nothing to say that would prove her own honest character, he asked, “May I ask your opinion of my cousin’s friend, Mrs Sullivan?”
Elizabeth’s heart sank further to hear him ask about her. “She is a sprightly, chatty woman. I am inclined to like her.”
He smiled and looked over the dancers to look at Mrs Sullivan, who had found Colonel Fitzwilliam. Was that fondness in his eyes as he looked at Mrs Sullivan? “She is eager to make friends. I am not sure if her manner and her connexions will win her many in London, however.”
“There is a great sincerity behind her forwardness, I believe.”
He agreed. “I do not mind it, although, as Miss Bingley hinted, most would say that a woman had better say too little in company than too much.”
“True,” she said. “My mother always told us that a forwardness to join in conversation with men when the topic rolled on politics, learning, or science would cause us to be thought pert.”
“You never shy from sharing your opinions with me,” he said, when the dance brought them together again.
“Maybe I ought to conceal the little learning I have, and some of my opinions too, but I think you are a man of genuine sense.” She gave Darcy a warm smile and looked directly into his eyes. “So I know you won’t look at me with a jealous or malignant eye if I share an informed opinion, even if it is contrary to yours.”
She did not aim to flatter him, but Darcy was a sensible man, and sensible men seldom fell her way. She dearly hoped that she could show this one what he meant to her. She ignored thefact that she had not been honest enough for a man of Darcy’s character. Surely, there was no real need for him to know that she was L?
“You are welcome to argue with me as you please,” he said, but his attention seemed elsewhere.
“Mr Darcy, I might disagree with you, but you should know it is not out of spite, at least not any longer.”
He nodded, but Elizabeth felt as though he did not truly hear her. Perhaps her defence of Wickham hurt him more than she realised. How could she have any chance of earning his respect if she never apologised? If she was afraid to be honest about being L, she could at least be honest in expressing her regret.
As they waited at the bottom, she said, “While I have this moment with you, please allow me to apologise.”
His eyes narrowed in confusion. “For what?”
It felt like she had a thousand things to apologise for. That she was sorry for being L, sorry for not showing up in the park and for the disappointment he felt, sorry for believing Wickham, and for all the unkindness she had shown Darcy.
Sorry for not having the courage to tell him she was L.
“For everything I said to you at Mrs Hurst’s,” she murmured. “I was wrong, and I am sorry that my foolish defence of that man hurt you. And I should never have said you were not a gentleman. I do not know you as well as I thought, and certainly not as well as I want to.”
