An excerpt from Darcy’s diaries. In this flashback, Darcy turns up at a resort quite unexpectedly, just as Georgiana is planning to elope with George Wickham…

But when I offered to accompany Georgiana on her ride that afternoon, to my astonishment, I watched her face fall. ‘No, no, I should not ride far enough for your pleasure!’

‘But to accompany you must be sufficient pleasure in itself.’

She finally agreed, but most unwillingly. I arranged to borrow a horse from the inn, and we eventually set off, moving from cobbled streets to open country.

She rode beautifully, but I was still conscious of a strangeness.

As we slowed to a walk, I said, ‘Perhaps riding with a mere brother might bore you. Perhaps there is some other man you might prefer?’ Her blush at this was so extreme that I pulled up the mare, in consternation. Had I stumbled upon the reason for her strangeness? Could Georgiana, young as she was and sheltered as she had always been, possibly have fallen in love already? – It was almost unimaginable to me.

Not that a young man might admire her – not at all! – but that she, at a mere fifteen…

There was a silence before she turned to face me, her face the colour of paper. I jumped down, thinking, ‘Could it be still worse? Could she possibly have been compromised? In short, could the bloom that I had noticed evidence something too appalling to put into words?’

She cried, ‘Oh Fitzwilliam!’

‘Tell me,’ I said, as steadily as I could, ‘what has happened – and who has hurt you.’

‘Oh! He has not hurt me!’ she cried anxiously. ‘Indeed, I love him dearly!’

‘But – which you have not said, but which I can surmise – he is either unwilling or unable to declare his honourable intentions. Can – whoever it is – truly be as low as that?’

‘No, no!’ she cried, distressed. ‘He is not low – he is all that is kind, charming and amiable but – but he fears you, for you have never liked him!’

And in that moment my heart seemed to stop, for she could mean no one beyond Wickham. I turned her around to face me, for she was sobbing bitterly. She and Wickham had always been friendly, even close. But surely not even Wickham could be capable of taking such advantage of her as – as this? ‘Georgiana. Tell me that you do not speak of – of Wickham.’

‘I do! He loves me and we are engaged!’

‘Engaged! What! – without my consent?’

‘I – I could not help it. I always loved him so!’

I pulled her to me and sought her averted gaze. ‘But he has never dared – he has not –’

‘Oh, never! – only my hand.’
I steadied myself and said, ‘And by engaged you actually mean – engaged to him?’

‘I mean, that I have agreed to marry him. I have agreed to – a secret engagement.’ Adding, with so heady a mix of pride, exaltation and misery that not even I could discern which was strongest, ‘Why, had you not arrived, we should have left by now!’

This was a blow, worse than all the rest!

Another excerpt from Darcy’s diaries, in which he realises that he is becoming smitten with Elizabeth Bennet

It is difficult for me to write this, even to myself – the only person with access to these papers.

But how I wish that I had not agreed to come to Rosings this year! The reason is Miss Eliza Bennet. How ironic is this? – For was it not I, along with Louisa Hurst, who prevented Bingley from engaging himself to her sister? How is it possible that I – clear-eyed, unimpulsive, self-contained – could be guilty of a similar error of judgement myself?

There is, I believe, some magic at work in the Bennet household.

The father is clever, witty, sardonic and possesses a certain elegance of mind – but he is very nearly a recluse and utterly regardless of society. His wife is noisy, garrulous, scheming and entirely without disguise. Yet combined, they have contrived to produce two near-magical beings: the first gloriously gentle, sweet and lovely, the second nearly as beautiful and very much more brilliant.

I was walking my new pointer in the woods only yesterday, when I encountered Miss Bennet, seated upon a log, a book on her lap, staring into the middle distance.

Were I an artist, I should have yearned for such a subject! – the contrast between the feathery greenness, the dappled light, her pale gown and those long-lashed eyes was so striking! But my approach, or perhaps the dog’s, broke the spell. She started and half-rose.

I said, ‘Do not disturb yourself, I beg. I did not intend to interrupt.’
She resumed her seat with a little laugh. ‘Why, how you startled me! I was miles away!’

‘A novel?’

‘No, a poem. Cowper. On so golden a day, I could not resist fleeing the rectory, in order to read it.’

‘I greatly admire Cowper,’ I was obliged to admit.

‘My father’s favourite. “So life glides smoothly and by stealth away / More golden than the age of fabled gold.”’

I completed it for her: ‘“Renown’d in ancient song, not vex’d with care / Or stain’d with guilt, beneficent, approv’d / Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.” You chose wonderfully well, for today is golden indeed.’
The day, her aspect, the poem, were all in such sweet accord that I expected her to rise and to join me. She did not, however, merely saying, ‘This is a favourite spot of mine – perhaps, my favourite walk.’

I could not fault her taste – nor her wish to flee the rectory either, for Mr Collins was generally there. ‘Do you intend to linger, Miss Bennet? Or might I be useful in escorting you back?’

‘Oh! I should hope to stay another hour, unless the wind rises as swiftly as it did yesterday. And besides, you will have birds to kill or something equally tedious to divert you – men always seem to!’

‘But not your father, I think?’
‘True – but Papa is an original, and such men are exceedingly rare.’

‘You think us trivial, do you?’
‘If by trivial you mean addicted to pursuing foxes, chivvying hares, or instructing dogs in curious behaviours – many men can seem trivial indeed! But my father is addicted to ideas, instead.’

‘And to Cowper.’

‘He does not read a great deal of poetry, but he does admire Cowper.’

I bowed and walked on – thinking, with unwilling admiration, ‘What a surprising creature – I should never have suspected her of having a poetic turn!’ Though, as I glanced behind, she had already bent her head over her book and was forming as pretty a picture of youthful elegance as one could wish for, one dark curl just detached from all the rest. Not even her sister Jane could have appeared to greater advantage.