Page 37 of Penned By Mr Darcy
You want to know what he is thinking, you not? You want to know all the ways he has insulted you within these pages. You want to know if it was truly him that penned that discarded letter! You wish to know who was the object of his most fervent desires without any doubt. You hope…
“Stop it!”
Those trembling hands scrubbed at her face, her breathing harsh and uneven. She turned, staring once more at that diary, which from the outside looked so unassuming. This diary, if its owner’s account was to be believed, contained the man’s very essence – his innermost thoughts, and dare she say it – his heart.
She turned, lifting the diary and placing it on the bed in front of her. Between two fingers, she grasped the leather cover, turning it gingerly as though Mr Darcy himself may come bursting out from the pages.
The writing began on the very first page. His handwriting was at once familiar, and it was confirmed to her that the discarded entry had indeed belonged to him. The page was filled with his small, sloping penmanship. From a distance, the words blurred into one – it was only when she lifted it from the bed and held it closer to her face that she could begin to make out the words.
And so, she began to read.
Chapter Twelve
Elizabeth
1st August 18--
A new diary; a fresh start, perhaps. We are to travel south for the remainder of the summer. I am reluctant to leave, for Pemberley in summer is a sanctuary - cool, green, and still. London grows unbearable this time of year, and I have always found relief in Derbyshire’s quiet, its calm far removed from society’s expectations. Yet Georgiana has set her heart upon a sojourn in Ramsgate. Her companion, Mrs. Younge, has praised it often - its air, its prospects, its supposed refinement.
I have consented, though not without unease. I cannot say why this separation troubles me more than others have. Georgiana has grown; she is no longer the girl I once watched with an elder brother’s benign detachment. She is a young woman now, and with womanhood comes both beauty and vulnerability. I trust Mrs. Younge; she appears attentive, warm, and firm - qualities that will serve Georgiana well. Yet I mistrust the world. I know its deceits. I have seen its charm and cruelty too closely to allow peace of mind where my sister is concerned.
Rosings will occupy me for a time. My aunt, Lady Catherine, has expressed a wish that I attend to some improvements upon the estate, though I suspect she is more interested in arranging improvements to my marital state. Anne will no doubt be thrust upon me by her mother, as she always is – it is my belief that she cares for me in that respect even less than I do for her…a feat that is impressive, for I have never viewed my cousin in any sort of marital light.
3rdAugust 18--
The journey to Rosings was arduous. The roads get worse with each journey. Georgiana could scarcely sit still as we neared Kent; she is most excited to take her first trip of such a nature without me, and I see more and more the future that lies ahead without her. In my mind, she is still the babe that was placed in my arms when my mother lay dead, my father too consumed with grief to hold her. Those days are long passed, but they will live in my memory forever more.
My aunt is pleased our arrival, but she is aggrieved that Georgiana will soon depart for Ramsgate.
“You cannot think to send her alone!” she said to me upon hearing the news, which I did not tell her in my initial correspondence for I knew she would only utilise the time to scheme a way to keep her here.
“She will not be alone,” was my reply, for Mrs Younge is well known to my aunt, who assisted in her selection along with Fitzwilliam.
I will not go to the lengths of transcribing the exact conversation, for it was of little interest to me at the time, and I imagine even less so if I were to reread the account in the future.
Elizabeth could not help the bark of laughter that escaped her. Was it possible that, within the private confines of his confession, Mr Darcy possessed a sense of humour? She continued reading, finding little of note. He was meticulous in the detail of his day, and after two or three days had passed with this mysterious aunt, Elizabeth felt that she had experienced the tedium of his visit herself. Miss Darcy departed for Ramsgate two days after their arrival at Rosings, and Mr Darcy passed the days riding and in the company of his aunt.
After reading perhaps ten of the pages, Elizabeth set the diary down. She was not sure what she had been expecting, but this had been the account of an ordinary man – something she had not seen Mr Darcy as before. His snobbery and pride seemed lessened within these pages, for his inner dialogue seemed far more reasonable when read. Perhaps her true grievance with the man was that he did not seem to hold his tongue in the manner expected of a gentleman.
There was a knock at the door, and Elizabeth scrambled to put the diary away, hiding it beneath the covers. The door was pushed open a moment later, the person on the other side not attempting to wait for permission. It was Mrs Hill, and Elizabeth could see the figure of Mr Hill behind her, holding the door. Elizabeth rushed out of bed, holding the door so Mrs Hill could huff and puff past her.
“I’ve brought you water, Miss Lizzy,” Hill said. “Really, what have you been playing at, my girl?”
“I really am quite alright. Once I am warm, I will be up and about as usual.”
“Oh no, that isn’t what your mother said! The whole day abed, those are her instructions.”
“I am wet, not dying!” Elizabeth protested.
Hill retreated back into the hallway, returning with a pile of linen. Her red face was just visible above the pile, which was unnecessarily large simply for the means of Lizzy drying herself.
“You and your tongue, Miss Elizabeth. Too much cheek! Wash yourself, and then straight to bed as your mother says!”
She left the room before Lizzy could argue back, the door closing heavily behind her. Elizabeth bit back a smile. She dipped her fingers in the bowl of water, finding it pleasantly hot. She dipped a cloth inside, and gave herself a dab or two just for appearances before diving back into bed and scrabbling for Mr Darcy’s journal.
She did not know why she was so eager to continue reading, for if she wished for a dreary account of one’s every thought, she could count on both Mary and Mr Collins for that level of excruciating mediocrity.
20hAugust 18--
