Wednesday, 2 June 1813
To myself,
I have never truly kept a journal in the past, or at least kept up with one. This little book is near its end and features entries from my days in the army going back at least ten years. My last entry dates to August of 1809 and tells of a stormy night on a ship that rocked me into illness. The only reason I am writing this now is to express my thoughts and perhaps clear my head of most of my guilt, as I have no one to confide in now. I do doubt that it will work.
I was a fool to say what I did. Against my better judgement? When did I become the kind of man to say such a thing? I was raised a gentleman, not a snobbish fool who believed myself higher than anyone who did not share in my lavish upbringing, and yet I proved myself to be just the git to do that. Stupid, foolish me! I have made the only woman who would ever love me, who could ever make me happy, detest the very thought of me. I have insulted the kindest woman who spoke so freely and so openly with me and I have pushed her to such distress that she could not leave her room so long as I was sharing a roof with her. Even Darcy said to me, "Richard, this is not like you. You cannot have so mismanaged it. To insult a woman and expect her to marry you?"
I feel like such a fool. I am a blithering, bumbling, idiot of a fool. I am a numpty, a cream-faced loon, a bobelyne and any other word that can be used for 'fool'. I have chased away the only woman who ever bothered to give me a second thought or a second look and ever dared to possibly love me. Did she love me? Perhaps I will never know, but of all the ladies I had ever been in the company of, Miss Catherine Bennet was the only likely candidate to love me. I suppose she, too, was a fool for bothering with me, but I suppose love makes fools out of all of us. Love did not make a fool out of me, for I do that perfectly well on my own, but Miss Caty? My dearest, lovely Caty Bennet... I had plans of marrying her, of cherishing her, of giving her beautiful children to look after - I don't know how I expected that last part to work, unless the children all looked like her. My beautiful Caty... How you must hate me so!
Against my better judgement... I shall never forget those words. They will haunt me for the rest of my life and probably hers as well. I can only imagine how horrible she must have felt when she heard those words and coming from me! I had worked so hard to gain her trust, to gain a smile and a blush whenever she caught my eye, to gain her permission to have me accompany her on walks or sit for her sketches, but a handful of foolish words destroyed all that I had built up. Will I ever be forgiven? Could she ever forgive me? Could I ever forgive myself?
In other news, my brother is ill. I do not know the details, nor do I know how long his illness has lasted, for I received a letter here in London dated to the 17th of May and it is now the second day of June. I know not what remains of his illness, nor how he fares, so I will rest another day and tomorrow, return to my family's Matlock estate to be there for him if I am needed. My brother and I grew up rather close and if he is to die, I shall be distressed even further. Inheritance or not, he is my brother and he is not disposable property to me. I pray to the Lord that I will not be too late in my arrival.
Signed,
Colonel R. Fitzwilliam