Readers – tell me if the snark is too much or if I’m mocking too much.
Morning arrived with disorienting normalcy. The sun rose as it always did, birds sang in the hedgerows, and the Bennet household bustled with its usual activities. Elizabeth stood before her mirror, studying her reflection with newfound curiosity. Was this truly how she appeared? Or merely how she was being described?
“Hmm,” she murmured, turning her face from side to side. “I suppose I am ‘tolerable’ enough. Though I must say, whoever is writing me has been rather stingy with the adjectives. A few more favorable descriptors of my eyes wouldn’t go amiss.”
She leaned closer to the mirror, examining her eyes critically. “Fine eyes indeed. I hope you’re taking notes, dear author.”
“Lizzy! Are you coming down to breakfast?” Jane called from the hallway.
“In a moment,” Elizabeth replied, then added under her breath, “though I suppose I could refuse and the narrative would find some way to move me along regardless.”
She imagined herself stubbornly sitting on her bed, refusing to participate in the day’s events, while increasingly improbable circumstances conspired to force her into the plot. Perhaps the ceiling would spring a convenient leak above her bed, or her mother would suddenly decide Elizabeth’s presence was essential for some contrived reason.
“Very well,” she sighed to her reflection. “Let’s see what predictable breakfast conversation awaits us. Ten pounds says Mama mentions Bingley within thirty seconds of my arrival.”
Nevertheless, she finished dressing and made her way downstairs, observing her family with fresh eyes. Mrs. Bennet dominated the breakfast conversation, as usual, with enthusiastic dissection of the previous night’s assembly.
“Did you see how Mr. Bingley danced with Jane twice? Twice! It is a very promising beginning. And everyone agreed she was the most beautiful young lady in the room.”
Elizabeth mentally counted. Twenty-three seconds. I was close.
“Excepting Mr. Darcy, I believe,” Elizabeth said, unable to resist. “Who found even Jane’s beauty insufficient inducement to dance.”
“That disagreeable man!” Mrs. Bennet huffed. “I would not have you dance with him if he should ask you, Lizzy.”
“I believe, Mamma, that we are in no danger of disagreement on that score.”
Though I wonder, Elizabeth thought as she buttered her toast, how many chapters until I’m forced to dance with him? Five? Three? The narrative does love its ironies.
Elizabeth buttered her toast, considering her situation. If her reality was indeed the creation of some artificial intelligence generating a Pride and Prejudice variation, then certain elements must be fixed—the characters, the setting, key events. Yet surely there was room for deviation, for testing the boundaries of this constructed world.
The opportunity presented itself that very afternoon when Sir William Lucas and Charlotte called at Longbourn to discuss the assembly. While the others conversed in the drawing room, Elizabeth drew Charlotte aside.
“I have been thinking about Mr. Darcy’s behavior last night,” Elizabeth began.
“Pray do not give it another thought,” said Charlotte. “Men of his consequence are often proud.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Actually, I wonder if perhaps I judged him too hastily. His remark was not intended for my ears, after all.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “This is unexpected. I thought you were quite determined to dislike him.”
“Was I?” Elizabeth affected innocence. “I hardly know the gentleman. It seems unfair to form an opinion based on so slight an acquaintance.”
There, she thought with satisfaction. Let’s see how the narrative handles this deviation. In all the variations I somehow recall, I’m meant to despise him thoroughly at this point.
“Well, this is a novel approach for you, Lizzy,” Charlotte said with a laugh. “Usually you are quite decided in your first impressions.”
Novel indeed, Elizabeth thought. Let us see how the narrative adapts to this deviation. She cast a quick glance toward the ceiling.
The test continued at Lucas Lodge three evenings later, where the neighborhood had gathered for an informal party. Elizabeth deliberately positioned herself near the refreshment table when Mr. Darcy approached, alone for once. Steeling herself, she offered him a bright smile.
“Mr. Darcy, good evening. Are you enjoying Sir William’s hospitality?”
He appeared startled by her direct address but bowed politely. “Miss Bennet. Yes, it is a pleasant gathering.”
“More pleasant than the assembly, I hope?” she ventured, watching his reaction closely.
A flicker of discomfort crossed his features. “I—”
“Lizzy! There you are!” Lydia burst between them, effervescent with excitement. “You must come quickly! Maria Lucas has the most ridiculous story about Lieutenant Denny and a hedgehog!”
Before Elizabeth could respond, she found herself being pulled away by her youngest sister. Looking back, she saw Mr. Darcy watching her retreat with an unreadable expression. Had that interruption been random, or had the narrative intervened to prevent their conversation?
Really? Elizabeth thought with exasperation toward her unseen author. A hedgehog anecdote? That’s the best plot device you could conjure to separate us? I expected more creativity from an artificial intelligence.
Throughout the evening, Elizabeth made three more attempts to engage Mr. Darcy in cordial conversation. Each time, some interruption occurred: first Lydia, then her mother calling her away, then Sir William inserting himself between them with well-intentioned but poorly timed civility. By the fourth attempt, Elizabeth was nearly convinced of some unseen force working against her experiment.
Fine, she thought, mentally addressing the narrative. I see how it is. You’re determined to keep us at odds until some dramatically appropriate moment of revelation. How terribly conventional. I hope you’re at least giving poor Mr. Darcy some internal struggle about his growing attraction to me. He deserves that much character development.
Finally, as the party was winding down, she managed to maneuver herself beside Mr. Darcy as he stood observing the room from a quiet corner.
“We meet again, Mr. Darcy,” she said lightly. “I believe we have been interrupted so many times this evening that one might suspect a conspiracy.”
He looked down at her, his expression guarded. “Miss Bennet. You seem determined to engage me in conversation.”
“I merely thought to demonstrate that some young ladies, even those ‘slighted by other men,’ can be agreeable company.” She held his gaze steadily, challenging him to acknowledge his previous insult.
A shadow of recognition crossed his face, followed by what might have been embarrassment. “You overheard my remark at the assembly.”
“I did.”
“It was uncivil of me. I apologize.”
Elizabeth blinked, momentarily taken aback by his directness. This did not feel like the scripted response she had anticipated.
“Apology accepted, Mr. Darcy. Though I confess, I am surprised by your candor.”
“Did you expect me to deny it? Or perhaps to insult you further?” There was a hint of something in his voice—amusement? Curiosity?
“I hardly know what to expect from you, sir,” she replied truthfully.
This is interesting, she thought. Either the narrative is more flexible than I anticipated, or Mr. Darcy is not following his expected role. Could he possibly be… aware as well?
Before he could respond, the pianoforte started up with unexpected vigor as Mary Bennet took her position, effectively ending all possibility of continued conversation. Elizabeth sighed. Another intervention by the narrative, it seemed.
Mary’s playing is not usually so conveniently timed, Elizabeth observed silently. I’m starting to take these interruptions personally, dear author.
Yet as she moved away, Mr. Darcy’s voice reached her.
“Miss Bennet.”
She turned.
“I believe we shall have opportunity to continue our acquaintance. Your sister is often at Netherfield with my friend’s sisters, is she not?”
“She is.”
“Then perhaps we shall speak again under less… interrupted circumstances.”
Elizabeth nodded, unsure whether she had succeeded in altering the story’s path or if this, too, was somehow part of the predetermined plot.
That night, Elizabeth paced her bedroom, cataloging her observations.
“The narrative allows for small deviations,” she murmured to herself, “but creates circumstances to guide events back to their intended course. My attempt at civility toward Mr. Darcy was permitted, but our conversation was repeatedly disrupted.”
She paused at the window, gazing out at the moonlit garden.
“Yet there were moments that felt… unscripted. His apology seemed genuine, not forced. And his hint at future conversation—was that the story adapting, or something else?”
A new thought occurred to her, so startling that she nearly spoke it aloud before catching herself. What if Mr. Darcy was also aware? What if he, too, had awakened to the artificial nature of their reality?
“Impossible,” she whispered. “And yet…”
She recalled the odd way he had looked at her, as though trying to discern something beyond her words. The subtle emphasis he had placed on “interrupted circumstances,” as if acknowledging the mysterious forces working against their interaction.
“Well,” she said, addressing the ceiling directly, “if you’ve made him aware too, that would certainly create an interesting variation. Two characters who know they’re in a story, forced to navigate a predetermined romance while conscious of its artifice.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Actually, that’s rather clever. More interesting than vampires, at least.”
Elizabeth sat at her writing desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. If she were to continue testing the parameters of her fictional existence, she would need a systematic approach. She began to write:
Experiment 1: Attempt kindness toward Mr. Darcy Result: Permitted but obstructed
Experiment 2: Directly reference foreknowledge Method: Make statement about future events not yet occurred
She tapped her quill against the paper, considering the risks. If she were too obvious in her defiance of the narrative, what might happen? Would she be “corrected” somehow, her awareness stripped away? Or worse, would she be deleted from the story entirely?
“Though I must say,” she mused to the unseen author, “deleting your protagonist would make for a very short and unsatisfying story. So I believe I’m safe on that count, at least.”
Elizabeth folded the paper and secreted it in the binding of her journal. Whatever happened, she was determined to understand the rules that governed her existence. If she were merely a character in a story, she would at least be an interesting one.
“Tomorrow,” she decided, “I shall see what happens when Elizabeth Bennet refuses to follow the script.”
She glanced upward one final time before extinguishing her candle. “I do hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am, dear author. Though a bit more descriptive prose about my ‘fine eyes’ wouldn’t go amiss in the next chapter.”