Fitzwilliam · Darcy

Rejection is not something a man of great wealth often has to deal with in his lifetime. Any item or acquaintance requested is recieved immediately without question or argument and is often partaken in an eager manner by his inferiors. Those who are more socially adept than myself never struggle to gain high social status and are frequently in the company of the opposite sex. Indeed, one with easy standards would not find it difficult to find a willing wife when in possession of such wealth.

Perhaps then, it simply says somethings of my own standards when in search of a wife, for I am under the impression that I am perhaps the only man to have ever picked a woman who, despite a lack of money and connections, could have possibly even considered rejecting my proposal of marriage. The irony of it would perhaps make the situation at least somewhat amusing, had my pride not be quite so tarnished during the event-- for a decline in my offer had never even crossed my mind.

How naive I was to consider that such a woman, who's beauty and strength of character far outwieghed her circumstances of life, was to ever feel any interest in myself. And how arrogant must I be to have originally believed that no woman should dare to turn down my plea.

My mortification that day was indeed at a high level, and was only leveled by my surprise and anger at the outcome. I admit to regretting certain words that passed my lips on that fateful day, but it had been made quite clear to me that not even a more civil manner of my actions would have tempted such a woman into marriage.

I have, I hope, at least cleared the false accusations that were put upon me in the disagreement following, but not even defending my name from such untruths can spark my mood from it's morose outlook.

I cannot remember a night, since that rejection, where I have slept without interuption from my thoughts. I struggle to recall the last time I could go to bed at a respectable hour, and sleep easily through the first arrival of the sun, and whilst I tell myself all too frequently that my chance is well and truly over, my mind never seems to think of anything other than the woman of my interests.

If I am ever to meet her again, I can at least hope I will be able to act with true civility and propriety that will not reveal my heartache.

How cruel life can be.

It is with a heavy heart that I welcome the encroaching grip of winter's frosty touch. Each night is already drawing shorter and mornings are often chilled, which with some humility, I can admit make me somewhat reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed at the coming of each day. Though I do not dislike winter, and have some fond memories of the solace that snow brings, I will not hesitate to confess my preference in the months of mid-year.

There is little one can object to about the summer when the sun is humble enough to refrain from it's searing heat. I struggle to even find fault in the occasional shower (and admittedly the expected downpours), for one cannot complain at nature's course of keeping the earth fertile and satisfied, especially when bearing witness to the brilliance of such an aftermath.

Whilst I find myself refraining from presenting much of my clandestine memories, there are some that I may permit to recollecting without making my character quite so evident. Perhaps most of them pertaining the numerous times spent in company of agreeable friends and family. My sister, for certain, enjoys nothing more than taking a hamper out into the acres surrounding Pemberly to dine on lunch amongst nature's grasp, and I struggle to disagree with such images when I am permitted her company. My enjoyment involving such times needs little more than to witness her features alight with good spirits, for what pleases her is bound to be quite acceptable in my own eyes.

Some months ago Georgiana requested I tutor her my skills of horse riding, and naturally I accepted to show her the basics a female should know. Lord knows where her want for such knowledge came, but I do recall her once stating that carriages were a tiresome form of travel. A fair few of our summer weeks were taken up by her development of riding yet her enthusiasm for it never seemed to falter. Part of me wonders if she merely asked because she knows of my own enjoyment in such a pastime, but she has assured me otherwise.

I can only hope that the end of this summer will result in more fond memories and not leave me with such animosity as the previous years have, namely the disastrous outcomes of last summer, but only time will truly tell.

After much persuasion upon my dearest sister's behalf and the eventual surrendering of my own desires, I have begun a diary of which I shall hope will be rarely used. She assures me it shall be good for my well-being and is insistent that one who writes as much as myself will enjoy taking the time to note my interests within here.

I will not deny that she is wise for her age and all too sly at getting her way, so perhaps I can respect that her idea is beneficial to not only myself but to my acquaintances who would otherwise be forced to listen to such grievances and protesting I would be permitted to raise on a daily basis.

Acknowledgement of her excellence aside for the moment, I shall endeavour to keep this journal well hidden from her eyes and will continue to claim that no such diary exists. I fear such declarations will only encourage her constant suggestions to create one, but it shall bring some amusement to my self.

Perhaps upon my travels, when this book will be most used, I will allow Georgiana to read-- upon my return-- what has been written. I imagine that would please her.