The untold journal entries.
Pride and Prejudice in a blue stocking style.
Humorous takes on a much-loved classic,
Written and performed by Stephanie Poppins.
Caroline Bingley.
Morning Entry.
I can scarcely hold my pen steady,
So violently does my hand tremble,
With a force of emotion I am obliged to suppress in company.
That woman,
That creature,
Miss Elizabeth Bennet,
Has achieved what I would have thought impossible.
She has turned the head of Mr Darcy,
Fitzwilliam Darcy,
A man of 10,
000 a year of the most distinguished connections of Pemberley itself,
Brought low by a pair of impertinent eyes and a sharp tongue that knows nothing of restraint or proper feminine delicacy.
I attended Mrs Montague's salon this Tuesday past,
Where several ladies of the blue stocking circle spoke most eloquently on the principles of stoicism.
Mrs Carter read from Epictetus,
Urging us to concern ourselves only with what lies within our control,
To accept with equanimity those matters which fortune places beyond our reach.
I listened,
I nodded,
I even complimented their scholarship.
But I cannot,
I will not adopt their precious stoic principles,
Not in this.
They speak of mastering one's passions,
As though there were not occasions when righteous indignation demands expression,
Where intervention becomes a moral duty.
Am I to sit with philosophical composure while a man of Darcy's consequence throws himself away on a family so utter beneath him?
This is a matter of pride,
Yes,
I use that word deliberately,
And of common decency.
What is the alternative that I should watch in serene detachment as he connects himself with a Bennets,
A family with no fortune,
No connections,
And most damningly,
No propriety?
The mother is a vulgar woman whose every utterance betrays her low breeding.
The younger sisters are wild,
Utterly undisciplined creatures who chase after officers like common camp followers.
And a father,
When he bestirs himself from his library at all,
Seems to take perverse pleasure in the ridiculousness of his own family.
And yet Fitzwilliam,
He looks at Elizabeth Bennet as though she were some kind of prize.
I've seen it,
The way his eyes follow her across the room,
The way he seeks her conversation,
Endures her teasing and even seems to enjoy her contradicting him.
It is incomprehensible.
It is grotesque.
The Stoics would say I torment myself unnecessarily,
That Darcy's choices are his own to make,
That I should focus on governing my own mind rather than attempting to govern his actions.
But they are wrong.
Some things are too important to be lent to the vicissitudes of individual caprice.
Darcy's respectability,
The respectability of his family name,
Of his sister,
Of Pemberley itself,
Hangs in the balance.
How can he possibly maintain his position in society when he has connected his ancient and honourable family with such a lowly one as the Bennets?
I have decided he must be saved from himself.
And if that requires me to set aside Stoic detachment and act with purpose and determination,
Then so be it.
I will not apologise for refusing to be philosophical when the stakes are so high.
Let Mrs Montague's circle speak of inner tranquillity.
I prefer to speak and act in defence of what is right,
Proper and necessary,
Even if Darcy himself cannot see it.
I must write again,
For my spirits have been so materially altered by the events of this afternoon.
I feel I must record them while the memory remains fresh and warm.
Fitzwilliam,
Darcy and I,
This afternoon,
After luncheon,
Walked out together in the gardens.
Charles had business in town and Louisa was complaining of a headache,
Leaving the two of us quite naturally to take the air together.
The weather was fine,
Unseasonably mild,
And Darcy seemed in excellent spirits.
More than that,
He seemed quite himself again.
The brooding distraction that has marked his manner these past weeks was entirely absent.
We spoke of Pemberley and his face brightened as it always does when he discusses his estate.
I asked after the new plantings near the south lawn,
Remembering every detail he had mentioned last spring,
And he seemed genuinely pleased by my recall.
We discussed the management of the home farm,
The arrangement of the library,
The upcoming repairs to the orangery,
All matters on which I could converse with intelligence and proper interest,
Matters befitting the mistress of such an estate.
Not once did he mention Elizabeth Bennet.
Not once did his attention wander or his eyes take on that distant,
Contemplative cast that has so plagued me of late.
He was present,
Engaged,
And dare I say it,
He appeared to take genuine pleasure in my company.
When we paused by the fountain,
He complimented the arrangement of my shawl and remarked the colour became me.
It was a small thing,
Perhaps,
But from a man as reserved as Darcy,
Such observations carry real weight.
He handed me over a style with particular care,
And when I stumbled slightly on the uneven ground beyond,
His hand remained at my elbow a moment longer than strictly necessary.
I have begun to think,
Begun to hope,
That whatever temporary fascination Elizabeth Bennet holds for him is passing.
How could it not,
When faced with a choice between a woman who understands his world,
His responsibilities,
His consequence,
And one who merely entertains him with provincial wit and impertinent opinions,
Surely his better judgement must prevail.
Perhaps my presence here serves its purpose after all.
Perhaps by offering him daily proof of what a proper alliance looks like,
The easy conversation between equals,
The shared understanding of society's expectations,
The natural harmony of matching stations,
I am reminding him of what he truly needs in a wife.
I dare say this afternoon has renewed my confidence.
I am not wrong to intervene,
I am not wrong to believe that reason and proximity must ultimately triumph over whatever fleeting infatuation has clouded his judgement.
The Stoics may preach acceptance,
But today has proven the wisdom of real action.
Fortune favours those who shape their own destiny.
I shall sleep well tonight.
Postscript I have just remembered that dear Georgiana arrives tomorrow morning for her visit.
What perfect timing.
The dear girl has always been so receptive to my guidance,
So trusting of my counsel.
She is still young enough to be properly influenced,
And she holds her brother's opinion in the highest regard,
Just as he is devoted to her happiness and welfare.
I shall take her aside tomorrow afternoon,
Perhaps when we are at our needlework,
And speak to her of the natural alliance between our families.
I shall do it delicately,
Of course,
Nothing so vulgar as a direct proposition.
But I can paint the picture well enough.
The harmony of our fortunes,
The complementary nature of our connections,
The way our families have been united in friendship these many years.
I shall speak of how Charles relies upon Darcy's judgement,
How I have always admired her brother's principal character,
How well suited our temperaments and understanding are.
Georgiana is a perceptive girl beneath her shyness.
She will understand what I am suggesting,
And she will surely see,
As any sensible person must,
How infinitely preferable such an arrangement would be to any entanglement with the Bennets,
A family she has never met,
Who could offer her brother nothing of value,
And whose wild,
Younger sisters would be a mortification to a girl of Georgiana's gentle,
Retiring nature.
If she were to mention these thoughts to her brother,
Simply as observations from a dear friend,
As natural reflections on the happiness such a union would bring,
It could have considerable effect.
Darcy values her judgement almost as much as she values his.
He seeks her good opinion,
And surely Georgiana,
Having been so carefully protected and guided by him,
Would wish to see him ally himself with someone who understands the weight of their position,
Someone who could be a proper sister to her.
Yes,
Tomorrow I shall plant these seeds with care.
Sometimes the most powerful persuasions come not from direct argument,
But from those gentle suggestions that seem to arise naturally in the course of conversation.
