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.
Fitzwilliam Darcy The fire in the library burns low,
Yet the flames within my breast rage with an intensity that threatens to consume what remains of my composure.
I take up my pen with a trembling hand,
Not from fear,
But from a fury so profound I scarce know how to contain it with the bounds of civilised conduct.
Wickham.
That name alone is sufficient to set my blood boiling,
To make my jaw clench until my teeth ache.
The serpent has struck again,
And this time at the very heart of all I hold dear.
First my Georgiana,
Sweet,
Innocent girl,
Barely sixteen,
Trusting as a lamb,
Nearly ensnared by his calculating charm and false promises.
Now he has dared to pursue Lydia Bennet,
Elizabeth's youngest sister,
That foolish,
Headstrong girl who lacks the sense to see through his practice deceptions.
The memory of discovering his designs upon Georgiana still haunts my darkest hours.
My sister,
My dear sister,
Whom I have protected and cherished since our father's death,
Very nearly ruined by that blaggard's mercenary schemes.
Had Mrs.
Young not been his confederate,
Had I not arrived at Ramsgate when I did,
The thought is unbearable.
The trust in her eyes when she confessed his proposals,
The shame that followed when she understood his true nature,
Those images are seared into my very soul.
And now he's turned his predatory attention to the Bennets,
Knowing full well any disgrace to them must wound Elizabeth most grievously.
For he is not so foolish as to mistake my regard for her,
Though I have strived to conceal it.
He strikes at me through those I love,
The coward.
He knows I cannot call him out.
Without bringing scandal upon both families,
I cannot expose him without revealing Georgiana's near disgrace.
He calculates his attacks with the precision of a chess master,
Always assuming he remains beyond the reach of honourable retribution.
I think often of my father's words regarding the character of unworthy men,
The kind of man he never wished me to become.
Had he known then that George Wickham,
The young boy he took under his wing,
Would indeed be that very man.
Fitzwilliam,
He said,
Beware the man who speaks too sweetly of virtue while his actions proclaim him a scoundrel.
He was right.
George Wickham has charm enough,
But I fear it conceals a nature most mercenary.
In his Christian charity my father took him in,
He educated him alongside me,
He treated him almost as a son.
And how has that kindness been repaid?
With betrayal,
Manipulation and a calculated campaign to destroy our family's honour.
The weight of my name presses upon my shoulders like a physical burden.
Five centuries of honour,
Of service to crown and country,
Integrity unblemished,
All of this I hold in trust.
It is not merely my own reputation at stake.
I am the guardian of the Darcy legacy and I cannot allow George Wickham to tarnish what my forebears built with their blood and virtue.
Yet,
God forbid,
There are moments when I care nothing for propriety,
Consequence,
In the darkest of sleepiest nights.
I imagine meeting Wickham at dawn with pistols,
Watching the life drain from his treacherous eyes.
I envisage my hands about his throat,
Feeling his pulse flutter and fade.
These are not the thoughts of a gentleman.
Yet they come unbidden and I confess I do not entirely wish them away.
It is not what happens to you,
But how you react to it that matters,
Said Epictetus.
I first heard this quote from a member of the Blue Stocking Circle and I must confess the words he spoke resonated with me.
My aunt,
Lady Catherine,
Suggests such groups are treacherous,
But I disagree.
How I seek the wisdom of the Stoic philosophers now.
I must temper this rage with reason.
I must take control.
I am not my emotions.
I am the observer of them.
Yet how difficult it is to observe dispassionately when one's very soul cries out for vengeance.
No one hurts you without your permission,
Epictetus is quoted as saying.
But did he ever face such calculated malice as George Wickham represents?
Every slight,
Every manipulation,
Every attempt to corrupt me and those under my protection.
I confess these slights I find it so difficult to dismiss with philosophic intention.
But dismiss them I must to maintain clarity and focus.
I must decide a way forward and I cannot do that when my thoughts are confused with anger and bitterness.
And what of Wickham's latest transgression?
That it has caused Elizabeth so much pain.
This problem with Lydia Bennet must be resolved.
I have sent word to my agents to investigate Wickham's current circumstances and whereabouts.
If money will solve this latest crisis,
As did the former affair,
Then money he shall have.
The Bennet family's honour and by extension Elizabeth's happiness is however worth any price.
But this cannot continue.
I cannot spend my life in constant vigilance against his depredations.
I cannot allow him to hold my family's reputation hostage to his greed.
When this current matter is resolved I will find a way to remove him.
Transportation to the colonies perhaps or a commission in some distant regiment where his particular talents for deception might at least serve king and country.
Until then I shall endeavour to follow the stoic path,
To meet his malice with calculated response.
But I confess the struggle grows harder with each passing day.
When I think of Georgiana's tears,
Of Elizabeth's potential anguish should her family be ruined,
No,
I must not think of it.
I must act swiftly and decisively before my restraint fails entirely and I do something we shall all regret.
The candle now burns low.
Dawn approaches.
Soon I must put aside these private torments and once again don the mask of the composed gentleman.
Here in these pages however I have allowed my fury its voice.
Perhaps in doing so I might find the strength to master it.
Post scriptum.
I find I cannot close this journal without acknowledging the deepest source of my anguish.
It's not merely family honour or personal pride.
It is the thought of Elizabeth Bennet's pain.
How ardently I admire her.
Yet these words seem insufficient to capture the depth of feeling that has taken root in my soul.
Every harsh word she once spoke cuts me still,
Though I know I deserved each one.
But to watch her countenance cloud with worry,
To see the light dim in those fine eyes,
This is a torment beyond any physical pain Wickham might inflict.
The cruel irony is,
My very love for her constrains me.
I cannot act with the violence my heart demands.
Such actions would horrify her.
I cannot speak freely of my devotion while her family teeters on the brink of scandal.
I am trapped between my desire to vanquish her enemies and my deeper understanding she would not wish me to compromise my principles,
Even for her sake.
So I contain it all.
Until Wickham is dealt with,
That is.
Until her family's honour is secure,
I must continue this silent vigil.
And then,
By God,
When this trial is passed,
I shall find her a way to make her understand the depths of my regard and the regret I have over past misdemeanours.
Then she shall know every action I have taken,
Restraint I have practised,
Has been in service of her peace and happiness.
For now,
It will have to be enough to love her from this careful distance.
