My name is Anne de Bourgh, and I am fifteen years old today. I decided to start writing my thoughts down because after the past month, it seems quite likely I will not be able to write the same sentence boasting of reaching sixteen years. I have been terribly ill this past two months. The doctors, apothecaries, physicians and various other 'learned men' who have attended me speak to my mother in hushed tones, believing I either do not hear or do not understand. They mostly believe my remaining time to be of short duration, and after the past two months, I believe them.

I cannot call this a diary, because if things go on as they have recently, I will only be able to write sporadically, if at all, as many days I can do nothing more difficult than listening to a servant reading to me. The only consolation in this sad little life might be that I have managed to enjoy quite a lot of the world's greatest literature (much of which my mother would no doubt disapprove of).

In the past month, I have had three days where I was absolutely convinced that I would not see the next sunrise. The pain was nigh on unbearable, and most of the remedies either did not work, or more often, made things even worse. Laudanum has been used generously, but it seems to cause more problems than it solves. It leaves me with terrifying nightmares and seems to exacerbate my cough to no end. Bleeding and various foul-tasting concoctions have been tried with little success, and to be honest, little in the way of demonstrable skill or knowledge in my physicians to give me confidence. They seem to mostly be trying different things randomly, betting my life with each roll of the dice. Combined with the very grave looks on my caregivers, I had three specific days, far worse than most where I thought I would not live to see the morrow.

I believe, for my own sanity, I will make a mark for each time I am absolutely certain I might die. I will use the Greek symbol for Infinity, as that seems to indicate both the depth of my pain, and my expectation to quite soon be merged with the infinite. Thrice this month: ∞∞∞

Perhaps, as I go on, I will identify other symbols that might be useful, but for the moment, my hand is cramping, and I must hide this journal before my maid returns.


Elizabeth felt tears streaming down her face as she read the first few pages of the journal and was absolutely horrified at the level of pain and despair. She also found herself inspired by the flashes of subtle humor that shone through even that first introductory page. Anne had managed to learn to hide herself from the world; and based on her interactions over the past several weeks, perhaps she had learned to hide herself from herself as well.

The journal was written using a pencil. It was an unusual choice for a journal which were usually written in ink for longevity, but the instrument made sense for someone who was mostly an invalid. She imagined trying to manage quills and inkwells, and in the end, wondered why anyone bothered with ink at all. The pencil was easy enough to read, and it would last long enough.

Elizabeth diverted her mind from the horror of what she was reading by thinking about the mechanics of the operation. Had her young friend had an assistant to sharpen the pencils, as a penknife and an invalid did not seem like they would get along well. She wondered if she had to hide her writing, and if so, what was the excuse for the pencils and journal books. She wondered if the lady wrote other things to fool her guardians.

Most of all, she wondered how someone lived with that despair day in and day out without going mad. She continued on for quite a number of months that contained descriptions of everything from the deepest despair, to the heights of what might pass for happiness.


Fitzwilliam came to visit today, and Mother and I made every possible effort to hide our conditions (my sickliness and her obsessiveness), though for vastly different reasons. It has been more than a month since I felt an impending discussion with St. Peter, and I actually feel fairly good now.

My cousin has been of age for a year, and Mother thinks she will somehow browbeat him into marrying me, so she does everything she can do to hide my condition. I believe she would have more luck browbeating the tides than Fitzwilliam Darcy, but there is little point wasting what little strength I have in arguing with her. My mother is not one to be dislodged from her chosen course by logic, practicality or common sense – or any kind of sense for that matter.

I hide the true state my illness from him because I would like to have one person in the world who does not pity me. He has no idea just how ill I am, and I would keep it that way, although sometimes it takes extraordinary measures to keep it hidden, and I imagine it will become more difficult over time. I suppose the same should apply to my other cousin Richard as well. The two of them are to visit at Easter just as they always have done, and I will endeavor to show them that I am 'ill' but not 'that ill'. I will no doubt sooner or later have to convince them I am not ill, but just disagreeable.

It will be difficult, but I have endured worse.


Elizabeth wondered if the young Anne was at that point being selfish or foolish keeping her health a secret from two cousins who would no doubt have been happy to help her; but it was obviously not for Elizabeth Bennet to decide such things. The girl was quite young at the time, somewhere around Kitty's current age, and Elizabeth could not imagine either of those two even having to contemplate such a decision, let alone make it thoughtfully. For her own part, her sixteen or seventeen-year-old self would not have been able to boast of any great fount of wisdom either, so she could not criticize in the least… but she could feel sympathy for the girl that was.

The ever present ∞ signs showed that the young lady at least believed herself to be at death's door at least once a month, and frequently twice. As Elizabeth continued through the months and years, she even saw one awful month with six of them.

Whether Anne was truly at that much risk, or if she just believed she was meant little. Believing it was bad enough, and in fact, Elizabeth thought that believing it might actually be worse than being close in truth.


Mother continues her campaign against Fitzwilliam to get him to marry me, and he continues to resist mightily. I must confess, it is one of my few amusements, aside from my reading. During his last visit, he forcefully denied the entire arrangement, and pointed out to Mother that if Aunt Anne had made such an arrangement, she most certainly would have told him. The poor man was livid, and it was heartbreaking watching him try to maintain his polite demeanor when he clearly wanted to tear Mother's hair out. That would obviously be ungentlemanly, so he demurred… much to my disappointment. Aside from my own self, I believe he may be the tightest wound individual I have ever met (not that I have met all that many people).

I believe I will ambush him tomorrow and speak to him candidly. I do enjoy his company, but not enough to endure what happens when he declares his lack of intentions so forcefully. I will suggest we become much more distant, since we cannot really have any true intimacy like we had as children anyway, and the little bit of good company I am likely to get from him is not worth the bother. Aside from that, there is the very real possibility my mother will attempt a compromise, which would be… bad.

I will miss his company, and hope he manages to marry soon to end the entire debacle. He is the man most in need of a good wife of everyone I have ever known. He is a very good man at heart, but something is not quite right in his head. He offends nearly everywhere he goes and has no idea why. His father filled his head with pride, his school filled his head with nonsense, and the poor man has no idea how to get past it. I can only hope he chooses wisely. The right wife could fix everything that is wrong with him, and the wrong wife would be a complete misery for both of them. I have to say that in some ways, I pity the poor creature. For a certain, she will be rich as Croesus, but so am I and what has that bought me? For her riches, she will basically have to act as governess for both her children and her husband.

See there, apparently matchmaking for Darcy men runs in the blood. I would like to see him settled. Of course, with the way he behaves in public, I can well imagine he will find the perfect woman and frighten her off with his appalling manners.


Elizabeth was quite surprised to such a clear analysis from such a young girl, and once again impressed with the humor. She tried very hard to not read too much into what the young lady said about Mr. Darcy, but she was beginning to believe there was more than one game being played. This entire exercise might well have been engineered by Anne just to have her innocently read her comments about the vexing‑vexing man that were sprinkled throughout the journals. The fact that Anne predicted their first encounter at the Meryton Assembly eight years in advance was either curious or ominous.

By that point in the diaries, Elizabeth had ascertained that the young lady went in and out of illness in waves. The troughs were very low indeed, while in the peaks, she was below average in health but not so terrible.

Anne had never learned the 'accomplishments' due young ladies because she just did not want to. It was as simple as that. Lady Catherine thought she was too ill to learn, but anybody who could write page after page in a journal could learn to draw or paint or play the pianoforte. No, Anne de Bourgh had not learnt by her own design. Whether out of laziness or disdain for the expectations, she put no effort whatsoever into it, and her mother did not press. Lady Catherine did not force her to learn because she thought any lady with her pedigree would not need such mundane things as accomplishments.

Elizabeth thought that Lady Catherine might, in normal circumstances, have a point. She had obviously attracted a very good marriage herself without those accomplishments, and probably ascribed all her own virtues to her daughter. Unfortunately, that analysis seemed to Elizabeth to be missing an important point. Lady Catherine was Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam, daughter of the Earl of Matlock. Her daughter was plain old Miss Anne de Bourgh, yet another heiress with no living father or brothers at all. It was a very different situation, and Anne could have used all the help she could get.

By Elizabeth's calculations, Anne was now on the high side of 23, so this had been going on for nearly a decade, which was far longer than Elizabeth herself had spent seriously working on the wifely skills.

Elizabeth thought about that for a while, and it was at that point in the story that she got out pencil and paper (the pencil seemed appropriate) and started making notes. She would of course have to reread the diary from the beginning; but she now had a plan of attack, and it was time to start being more rigorous.


"Lizzy, come away from whatever insanity has gripped you this last day and have some tea. This is almost your last day here, and you are entirely wasting it on whatever project you seem to have acquired."

Elizabeth looked up at her sister, laughed and said, "Yes, that is much more intimidating, Mary. Perhaps you will manage to be a stern mother after all. See if you can put a little more… well… fire into that frown."

Mary just swatted her on the head, then grabbed her hand to drag her over to the table for tea.

"So, what has you so bothered on your last two days with your dearest sister?"

Elizabeth smiled, and did not contradict Mary. Jane might well have been considered her dearest sister at one time, but Mary had quietly supplanted her by a slim margin. She would of course never mention that fact to either of them, but fact it was."

She sighed, and said, "I am engaged because I am a weak and timid creature."

"How so?"

"I cannot seem to say 'no'."

Mary took a sip and said, "I suppose those are something to do with Anne?"

"Yes… she asked me to… well…"

Mary touched the back of her hand and said, "I know it was probably in confidence, Lizzy. I will not pry. I just ask if you will be done before Uncle Gardiner's man arrives to take you home?"

"I am done now, I believe. I will wish to spend the day with you tomorrow. I will need to have a conference with Lady Catherine and Anne, but I wish to defer it until the very last minute. I will send a note tomorrow to arrange things as I must."

"Being squeamish, are we now?"

Lizzy smiled a soft, lazy smirk, and said, "No, being strategic."