Topaz's mouth fell into an o, the shape mirrored in her eyes as she took in the sight of the woman she'd just dumped champagne on. Before she could summon up the wit to say anything (and thankfully before she could be accosted by the woman herself), Mr. Browne had swept gracefully into the conversation and gallantly offered a handkerchief. Topaz was grateful for the interruption but simultaneously mortified that it had been needed (and that he had been watching closely enough to be aware that it was needed). If they had been more closely acquainted, she would have liked nothing more than to have latched onto his arm and let him lead her away into the crowd, but as it stood that would have been terribly presumptuous of her. Who was to say he even remembered their conversation from the ball earlier that summer, anyway? Maybe he was just the sort of gentleman who would always come to the aid of a lady in distress.
(Except he did remember, because he'd started to say her name before he switched to the young lady. This almost-spoken word gave her a thrill of nerves that she didn't know how to place).
"No, of course not. My apologies," she managed to bluster towards the woman. The conversation continued between the three of them for another few seconds, during which Topaz was hardly aware of what she or either of her conversation partners said. She was instead fixated on the realization that in just a moment she was going to be left with the decision to either stay and talk with Mr. Browne, or make another stupid excuse to bolt. She didn't feel she had the courage to stay, but it seemed it would take more courage to leave — she remembered how awful she'd felt after having to turn down his request to dance at the last ball, and she couldn't stomach the idea of knowingly disappointing him again.
The other young woman had cleaned her dress to satisfaction and was leaving, and Topaz made some banal remark as she did so. Then it was the moment of truth: she and Mr. Browne had been left alone in their conversational bubble, which provided just as much pressure to speak to each other (perhaps moreso) than if they had been alone in a parlor together. Topaz looked at him and tried to smile, but between her nerves at how this conversation might unfold and her conviction that she had somehow already ruined it, she wasn't sure how genuine it managed to look. "Hello," she said, and was quite at a loss for anything else.
(Except he did remember, because he'd started to say her name before he switched to the young lady. This almost-spoken word gave her a thrill of nerves that she didn't know how to place).
"No, of course not. My apologies," she managed to bluster towards the woman. The conversation continued between the three of them for another few seconds, during which Topaz was hardly aware of what she or either of her conversation partners said. She was instead fixated on the realization that in just a moment she was going to be left with the decision to either stay and talk with Mr. Browne, or make another stupid excuse to bolt. She didn't feel she had the courage to stay, but it seemed it would take more courage to leave — she remembered how awful she'd felt after having to turn down his request to dance at the last ball, and she couldn't stomach the idea of knowingly disappointing him again.
The other young woman had cleaned her dress to satisfaction and was leaving, and Topaz made some banal remark as she did so. Then it was the moment of truth: she and Mr. Browne had been left alone in their conversational bubble, which provided just as much pressure to speak to each other (perhaps moreso) than if they had been alone in a parlor together. Topaz looked at him and tried to smile, but between her nerves at how this conversation might unfold and her conviction that she had somehow already ruined it, she wasn't sure how genuine it managed to look. "Hello," she said, and was quite at a loss for anything else.
pinned my hopes to the summit of someday
Magnolia