P&P What-Ifs #5 - A Single Tear
I’ve always been struck by the saying, “Boys don’t cry.” I lost my own father early in life, and I did cry, but somehow, I was made to feel I shouldn’t show it. That it was weakness.
It made me wonder: what would that kind of pressure look like for someone like Mr. Darcy?
That’s where this variation begins.
What If Elizabeth Had Seen Him Cry?
What if, after Elizabeth refused his proposal at Hunsford, Darcy didn’t storm off in pride and fury, but turned away just long enough for her to glimpse the fall of a single tear?
A tear he would never want her to see. A moment he would never admit to. But for Elizabeth, it becomes something she cannot forget.
In this story, that unguarded flicker of emotion casts everything that follows in a different light. One tear. One crack in his armor. And suddenly, everything begins to shift.
A Single Tear
“From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but Elizabeth gasped as her gaze met his. A single tear slid down his cheek.
Over the years, Fitzwilliam Darcy had been taught that boys do not cry—not even when their beloved mother dies. As he grew older, he learned that men do not cry—not even when their esteemed father passes. And certainly not the Master of Pemberley—not even when he is forced to watch his beloved younger sister almost ruined because of a scoundrel.
So it could not be his tear, not even when his heart lay shattered into a thousand pieces. It was simply not done, not for a Darcy.
Until that very moment, Elizabeth could not have believed for such a proud, arrogant man to truly be in love with her. A short period of madness, perhaps, brought on by prolonged exposure to Lady Catherine, but never love.
So, she stared, stunned. Surely, she had imagined it. Mr. Darcy could not be crying. And yet there it was, a single tear tracing a solemn path down his cheek, unacknowledged, unhidden.
Her breath caught.
Part of her wished to look away, to preserve the illusion she had long clung to, that he was cold, imperious, incapable of feeling. That made it easier to hate him. But she could not.
He is in pain, she thought, real pain.
She tried to summon her earlier anger, the righteous indignation she had clung to. But it slipped from her grasp like mist beneath sunlight.
She had been wrong. That single, unacknowledged tear had spoken what no words ever could.
Only then did Elizabeth truly see the man before her. She looked into his eyes; the pain there was unmistakable.
She had seen that look only once before, in her own sister, after Mr. Bingley’s abandonment.
A wave of shame swept over her. She had spoken cruelly, and she had meant to. She had wanted him to suffer.
What sort of woman takes satisfaction in another’s pain?
Not the woman I wish to be.
Elizabeth Bennet did not like herself much in that moment, having uncovered such a flaw in her character.
“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
Darcy turned to leave, but paused as her voice called his name.
“Mr. Darcy, sir, please wait,” Elizabeth said, “I believe we both have behaved badly this evening, and I am sorry for my part.”
She paused, while he looked at her in astonishment.
“I did not mean to cause you pain, I allowed myself to speak in anger due to my sister’s suffering. But it was poorly done of me.”
Her words struck him. In them, he heard not only remorse but grace, and in their light, saw how far he had fallen short as a gentleman.
If he was hurting, it was by his own design. And now she was asking for forgiveness. What an extraordinary woman she was, even knowing how deeply she despised him, he could not help but admire her all the more.
“Miss Elizabeth…” He faltered. A thousand words pressed against his tongue, but none found voice.
“Please, say nothing more,” Elizabeth interrupted gently. “We both need time to think. If you wish to have a proper and civil conversation, I’m sure you know where to find me. And if that is not your desire, then I too wish you health and happiness.”
With that, she left the room, leaving behind a very conflicted gentleman.
Let me know your thoughts, would you like to see this expanded into a full-length variation? Drop a comment, I always enjoy hearing from you.
I’d read a longer story based on this!
Interesting idea...worth expanding into a novella at least! David...it's never been done before and now that you've perked our interest, we want to read more of what you have to say now that you've started it!