Mr. Darcy's Diary

by Amanda Grange

  ‘Your family are well, I hope, Miss Bennet?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied. She paused, then said, ‘My sister Jane has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her?’

  I was disconcerted, but I replied calmly enough.

  ‘No, I have not been so fortunate.’

  I relapsed into silence, dissatisfied with the turn the conversation had taken, and soon afterwards my cousin and I took our leave.

  Easter Day, Sunday 13th April

  I had seen nothing of Elizabeth since my visit to the parsonage, but I saw her this morning at church. She was looking very well. The early sun had put colour in her cheeks, and brightened her eyes.

  After the service, Lady Catherine stopped to speak to the Collinses. Mr Collins beamed as she walked towards him.

  ‘Your sermon was too long,’ said Lady Catherine. ‘Twenty minutes is ample time in which to instruct your flock.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Catherine, I—’

  ‘You made no mention of sobriety. You should have done. There has been too much drunkenness of late. It is a rector’s business to tend to the body of his parishioners as well as their souls.’

  ‘Of course, Lady—’

  ‘There were too many hymns. I do not like to have above three hymns in an Easter service. I am very musical and singing is my joy, but three hymns are enough.’

  She began to walk to the carriage, and Mr Collins followed her.

  ‘Yes, Lady Catherine, I—’

  ‘One of the pews has woodworm. I noticed it as I walked past. You will see to it.’

  ‘At once, Lady—’ he said.

  ‘And you will come to dinner with us tonight. Mrs Collins will come with you, as will Miss Lucas and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. We will make up a card-table.’

  ‘So good—’ he said, bowing and rubbing his hands together.

  ‘I will send the carriage for you.’

  I followed her into the carriage and the footman closed the door.

  I found myself looking forward to Elizabeth’s arrival at Rosings, but quickly crushed the feeling.

  Her party arrived punctually, and because I knew the danger of speaking to her, I passed the time in conversation with my aunt. We talked of our various relations, but I could not help my eyes straying to Elizabeth. Her conversation was of a more lively kind. She was speaking to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and as I saw the animation of her features, I found it hard to take my eyes away.

  My aunt, too, kept looking towards them, until at last she said: ‘What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.’

  Colonel Fitzwilliam replied that they were speaking of music. My aunt joined in the conversation, praising Georgiana’s abilities on the pianoforte, then mortifying me by inviting Elizabeth to practise on the pianoforte in Mrs Jenkinson’s room. To invite a guest to play on the pianoforte in the companion’s room? I had not thought my aunt could be so ill-bred.

  Elizabeth looked surprised, but said nothing, only her smile showing what she thought.

  When coffee was over, Elizabeth began to play, and remembering the pleasure I had had in her playing before, I walked over to her side. Her eyes were brightened by the music, and I placed myself in a position from which I could see the play of emotion over her countenance.

  She noticed. At the first pause in the music she turned to me with a smile and said: ‘You mean to frighten me, Mr Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister does play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.’

  ‘I shall not say you are mistaken,’ I replied, ‘because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.’

  Where this speech came from I do not know. I am not used to making playful exchanges, but there is something in Elizabeth’s character which lightens mine.

  Elizabeth laughed heartily, and I smiled, knowing that we were both enjoying the exchange. So well was I enjoying it that I forgot my caution and gave myself over to an appreciation of the moment.

  ‘Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me,’ she said to Colonel Fitzwilliam. Turning to me, she said: ‘It is very ungenerous of you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire – and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too – for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear.’

  I smiled. ‘I am not afraid of you.’

  Her eyes brightened at my remark.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam begged to be told how I behave amongst strangers.

  ‘You shall hear all then,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball – and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances!’

  In her eyes, my refusal to dance became ridiculous, and I saw it so myself, for the first time. To stride about in all my pride, instead of enjoying myself as any well-regulated man would have done. Absurd! I would not ordinarily have tolerated any such teasing, and yet there was something in her manner that removed any sting, and instead made it a cause for laughter.

  It was at this moment I realized there had been little laughter in my life of late. I had taken on the responsibilities of a man when my father died, and had prided myself on discharging them well, as my father would have done. I had tended my estate, looked to the welfare of my tenants, provided for my sister’s health, happiness and education, seen to the livings in my patronage and discharged my business faithfully. Until meeting Elizabeth that had been enough, but now I saw how dull my life had been. It had been too ordered. Too well-regulated. Only now did I begin to see it, and to feel it, for the feelings inside me were wholly different from any I had known. When I laughed, my disposition lightened.

  ‘I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party,’ I pointed out, catching her tone.

  ‘True: and nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.’

  She teased me, wondering how it was that a man of sense and education could not do so, and Colonel Fitzwilliam joined her, saying I would not give myself the trouble.

  ‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done,’ I agreed.

  ‘My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do, but then I had always supposed it to be my own fault – because I would not take the trouble of practising.’

  I smiled.

  ‘You are perfectly right.’

  At this moment, Lady Catherine interrupted us.

  ‘What are you talking about, Darcy?’

  ‘Of music,’ I said.

  Lady Catherine joined us at the pianoforte.

  ‘Miss Bennet would not play amiss, if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a London master,’ declared my aunt. ‘She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.’

  I scarcely heard her. I was watching Elizabeth. She bore with my aunt’s comments with remarkable civility, and at the request of Colonel Fitzwilliam and myself, she remained at the instrument until the carriage was ready to take the party home.

  I thought I had rid myself of my admiration for her. I thought I had forgotten her. But I was wrong.

  Monday 14th April

 
I was taking a walk round the grounds this morning when my steps led me unconsciously to the parsonage. Finding myself outside I could not, in all politeness, pass by, and I called in to pay my respects. To my horror, I found Elizabeth there alone. She seemed as surprised as I was, but she was not, I think, displeased. Why should she be? It must be satisfying for her to think that she has captivated me. She bid me take a seat, and I had no choice but to sit down.

  ‘I am sorry for this intrusion,’ I said, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, and wanting to make sure she knew it had not been by design. ‘I understood all the ladies to be within.’

  ‘Mrs Collins and Maria have gone on business to the village,’ she replied.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Lady Catherine is well?’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes, I thank you. She is.’

  Silence fell.

  ‘And Miss de Bourgh? She, too, is well?’

  ‘Yes, I thank you. She is.’

  ‘And Colonel Fitzwilliam?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, he too is well.’

  Another silence fell.

  ‘How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr Darcy!’ she began at last. ‘It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?’

  ‘Perfectly so, I thank you.’

  ‘I think I have understood that Mr Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?’

  ‘I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.’

  ‘If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.’

  I did not like the subject, but replied evenly enough.

  ‘I should not be surprised if he were to give it up, as soon as any eligible purchase offers.’

  I should have left the parsonage then. I knew it. And yet I could not tear myself away. There was something about the shape of her face that invited my eye to follow it, and something about the way her hair fell that made me want to touch it.

  She said nothing, and once more there was silence.

  I could not say what was in my mind, and yet I found I could not leave.

  ‘This seems a very comfortable house,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘It must be agreeable for Mrs Collins to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.’

  ‘An easy distance do you call it?’ she asked in surprise. ‘It is nearly fifty miles.’

  ‘And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s journey.’

  ‘I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match,’ cried Elizabeth.

  ‘It is a proof of your own attachment for Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far,’ I said.

  ‘I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family.’

  Ah. She knew the evils of her relations and would not be sorry to escape them. When she married, she would leave them behind.

  ‘But I am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance,’ she continued.

  ‘You cannot have a right to such very strong local attachments,’ I said, pulling my chair forward a little as I spoke, for I felt an overwhelming urge to be near her. ‘You cannot have always been at Longbourn.’

  She looked surprised, and I was halted. I had almost been carried away by admiration and tempted into saying that she could have no objection to living at Pemberley, but I had gone too quickly and I was thankful for it. Her look of surprise saved me from committing myself to a course of action I would surely regret. I drew my chair back, and picking up a newspaper, I glanced over it.

  ‘Are you pleased with Kent?’ I asked, with enough coolness to depress any hope she might have been entertaining from my ill-judged manner.

  ‘It is very pleasant,’ she said, looking at me in perplexity.

  I embarked on a discussion of its attractions, until we were saved from the need of further conversation by the return of Mrs Collins and Maria. They were surprised to see me there, but explaining my mistake I stayed only a few minutes longer and then returned to Rosings.

  Tuesday 15th April

  Elizabeth has bewitched me. I am in far more danger here than I ever was in Hertfordshire. There, I had her family constantly before me, reminding me how impossible a match between us would be. Here, I have only her. Her liveliness, her gaiety, her good humour, all tempt me to abandon self-restraint and declare myself; but I must not do it. I do not only have myself to consider. I have my sister.

  To expose Georgiana to the vulgarity of Mrs Bennet would be an act of cruelty no brotherly devotion could allow. And to present to Georgiana, as sisters, Mary, Kitty and Lydia Bennet would be repulsive. To have her influenced by them, to force her into company with them – for it could not be otherwise if I were to make Elizabeth my wife – would be unforgivable. Worse still, she might be forced to hear of George Wickham, who is a favourite of the younger girls. No. I cannot do it. I will not do it.

  I must beware, then, lest I let slip a word in Elizabeth’s company. I must not let her know how I feel. She suspects my partiality I am sure. Indeed, by her lively nature she has encouraged it, and no doubt she is waiting for me to speak. If she married me she would be lifted out of her sphere and elevated to mine. She would be joined in matrimony to a man of superior character and understanding, and she would be the mistress of Pemberley. A man of my character and reputation, wealth and position would tempt any woman. But it must never be.

  Thursday 17th April

  I do not know what has come over me. I should be avoiding Elizabeth, but every day when Colonel Fitzwilliam goes to the parsonage, I go with him. I cannot deny myself the pleasure of looking at her. Her face is not beautiful but it haunts me.

  I have had enough resolution to say nothing, for fear of saying too much, but my silence has begun to be noticed.

  ‘Why are you silent when we go to the parsonage?’ asked Colonel Fitzwilliam as we returned home today. ‘It is not like you, Darcy.’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘Come now! I have seen you talk to bishops and ploughmen. You can always think of something to say to them, however much you protest you find it difficult to converse with strangers. And yet when you go to the parsonage, you do not open your mouth. It is most uncivil of you. The least you could do is ask after Mrs Collins’s chickens, and ask Mr Collins how his sermons are coming along, and if you cannot think of anything to say to the young ladies, you can always fall back on the weather.’

  ‘I will endeavour to do better next time.’

  But as I said it, I realized I must not go to the parsonage again. If I talk to Elizabeth, there is no telling where it will lead. She looks at me archly sometimes, and I am sure she is expecting me to declare myself.

  Would a marriage between us really be so impossible? I ask myself, but even as I wonder, an image of her family rises up before me, and I know it would. And so I am determined to remain silent, for if I give in to a moment of weakness, I will regret it for the rest of my life.

  Saturday 19th April

  I have remained true to my resolve not to visit the parsonage, but my good intentions have been thwarted by my tendency to walk in the park, and three times now I have come upon Elizabeth. The first time was by chance; the second and third times, I seemed to find myself there whether I would or not. From doing nothing more th
an doffing my hat and asking after her health on the first occasion, I have come to say more, and this morning I betrayed my thoughts to an alarming degree.

  ‘You are enjoying your stay at Hunsford, I hope?’ I asked her when I met her.

  It was an innocent question.

  ‘Yes, I am, thank you.’

  ‘You find Mr and Mrs Collins in good health?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And happy, I trust?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Rosings is a fine house.’

  ‘It is, though it is difficult to find my way about. I have become lost on one or two occasions. When I tried to find the library, I walked into the parlour instead.’

  ‘It is not to be expected that you would find your way round it all at once. Next time you visit Kent you will have a better opportunity to become acquainted with it.’

  She looked astonished at this, and I berated myself inwardly. I had almost betrayed my feelings, which in that incautious sentence had suggested the idea that the next time she visited Kent she would be staying at Rosings, and how could she do that unless she was my wife? But indeed, it grows harder and harder to be circumspect. I ought to leave at once, and put myself out of harm’s way. But if I do, it will arouse comment, so I must endure a little while longer. Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will be leaving soon, and then I will be safe.

  Tuesday 22nd April

  I am in torment. After all my promises to myself. After all my resolutions, this – this! – is the result.

  I cannot believe the events of the last few hours. If only I could put them down to a fever of the brain, but there is no doubt they happened. I have offered my hand to Elizabeth Bennet.

  I should not have gone to see her. I had no need to do it, merely because she did not join us for tea. She had a headache. What lady does not suffer from headaches?