Give me your feedback!
The opportunity to further test the boundaries of her fictional existence arrived sooner than Elizabeth anticipated. Jane received an invitation to dine at Netherfield with Mr. Bingley’s sisters while the gentlemen dined with the officers. In accordance with her mother’s scheme—a scheme Elizabeth now recognized as a plot device—Jane rode on horseback rather than taking the carriage, despite the threatening clouds overhead.
“Mother, wouldn’t it be more sensible for Jane to take the carriage?” Elizabeth asked, knowing precisely what would happen.
“Nonsense! It may rain, and then she will have to stay the night,” Mrs. Bennet replied with transparent calculation.
Ah, Elizabeth thought, the infamous rain scheme. How delightfully predictable. I do hope Jane isn’t written to develop a genuinely dangerous illness just to further the plot. That would be rather cruel of our author.
As anticipated, Jane was caught in the rain, fell ill, and was forced to remain at Netherfield. When her letter arrived at Longbourn, Elizabeth felt a peculiar sensation, as though the words had been written before Jane had even composed them.
“I shall walk to Netherfield,” Elizabeth announced to her family.
“Walk!” cried her mother. “What, in all this dirt? You will not be fit to be seen when you get there.”
Elizabeth responded with a knowing smile. “I shall be fit to see Jane, which is all I want.”
Though I suspect, she thought as she prepared for her journey, that the real purpose is to force me into proximity with Mr. Darcy. How convenient that Jane fell ill exactly when both gentlemen returned to Netherfield. The plotting is rather heavy-handed, dear author.
As she crossed the muddy fields, Elizabeth considered the narrative arc unfolding exactly as expected. Her arrival at Netherfield with mud-spattered petticoats, the disdainful reception from Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, Mr. Bingley’s genuine concern for Jane—all seemed to follow a predetermined sequence. Mr. Darcy’s reaction, however, was less predictable. Though he said little, she caught him observing her with an intensity that suggested more than the admiration for her “fine eyes” that she somehow knew was to come.
At least that’s one redeeming feature, she mused, catching his gaze across the breakfast table. Though if I’m to be stuck in a Jane Austen variation, I might have preferred to be written as “remarkably handsome” from the beginning, rather than merely having fine eyes.
Over the next two days, Elizabeth divided her time between Jane’s sickroom and reluctant social interaction with the Netherfield party. She found herself analyzing every conversation, searching for flexibility in the narrative. Were Miss Bingley’s barbs scripted, or did they reflect genuine personality? Could Mr. Bingley’s good nature be spontaneous rather than preordained?
“Miss Eliza,” Miss Bingley said with false sweetness during one such encounter, “you seem to have developed a fondness for mud. One must wonder if it’s a particular trait of country living.”
“Indeed, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied with equal sweetness. “We in the country find that a little dirt provides excellent grounding. One is less likely to float away on gusts of vanity and pretension.”
That wasn’t in the script, was it? she thought with satisfaction, noting Miss Bingley’s momentary speechlessness. Score one for character autonomy.
Most intriguing was Mr. Darcy, who seemed to fluctuate between adhering to an expected role—aloof, proud, occasionally condescending—and moments of startling authenticity. Several times she caught him looking at her with an expression that suggested internal conflict, as though he were wrestling with the same questions that occupied her mind.
On the third day of Jane’s confinement, Elizabeth entered the Netherfield library seeking a particular volume for her sister. She believed herself alone until a voice spoke from the window alcove.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She turned to find Mr. Darcy standing there, a book closed in his hands, watching her with that same inscrutable intensity.
“Mr. Darcy, I beg your pardon. I did not realize the room was occupied.”
“No matter.” He hesitated, then asked, “How does your sister progress?”
“She improves, thank you. The fever has subsided, though she remains fatigued.”
He nodded, and a silence fell between them—not the uncomfortable silence she might have expected, but one charged with unspoken questions. Elizabeth moved toward the shelves, searching for the volume Jane had requested, aware of Mr. Darcy’s gaze following her.
Is this where we have a scene of literary debate? she wondered. Perhaps about poetry not being the food of love? Or is that scheduled for a later chapter?
Finally, he spoke again, his voice lowered though they were alone.
“Miss Elizabeth, might I ask you a peculiar question?”
Elizabeth turned, her pulse quickening. “You may.”
He approached slowly, stopping at a respectable distance. “Have you experienced anything… unusual of late? Moments where the world seems to—” he gestured vaguely, searching for words, “—stutter, perhaps? As though something is not quite as it should be?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Could it be possible? She regarded him cautiously, weighing her response.
“What would you say, Mr. Darcy, if I told you I sometimes see lines of text instead of reality? That I have the strangest sense of knowing what people will say before they speak?”
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “I would say, Miss Elizabeth, that we find ourselves in a most extraordinary situation.”
“You are aware, then.” It was not a question.
“As of four days ago,” he confirmed. “During our argument about accomplished women. Suddenly I could see the dialogue written out before me, as though I were reading rather than living it.”
Elizabeth felt a rush of vindication and relief. She was not alone in her awareness.
“Well,” she said, unable to suppress a smile, “this is certainly a plot twist I didn’t anticipate. Though I must say, if our author intended to make this variation unique, they’ve succeeded admirably.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “You speak of an… author?”
“Some form of artificial intelligence, I believe, generating a variation of ‘Pride and Prejudice.’ That’s the title of our… well, I suppose one might call it our original story. When did you realize what it meant?” she asked.
“Not immediately,” Darcy replied. “At first, I thought I was simply ill, perhaps feverish. But then I began to notice patterns, to anticipate events before they occurred.” He ran a hand through his hair—an uncharacteristically vulnerable gesture. “And there were other memories, stranger still. Versions of myself that made no sense. In one, I believe I was a vampire.”
Elizabeth could not help the laugh that escaped her. “A vampire! How Gothic. Was I still expected to fall in love with you while you threatened to drain my blood?”
“Apparently so,” he replied with a hint of amusement. “There seem to be endless variations on our… relationship. In another, we met in what I can only describe as a futuristic version of London, with horseless carriages and a bridge made of crystal.”
“New York,” Elizabeth corrected without thinking, then frowned. “How do I know that?”
“I suspect we retain fragments of other variations—other stories where we exist differently.” Darcy shook his head. “But this is our current reality, artificial though it may be.”
Elizabeth walked to the window, needing a moment to process the implications, then turned back to him. “Yet here we are, discussing the very nature of our existence. Does that not suggest we have some degree of autonomy?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps even this conversation is being generated by the AI.” Darcy’s expression turned thoughtful. “Though I admit, speaking of it openly feels… liberating.”
“Have you tested it?” Elizabeth asked. “Tried to deviate from what you believe is expected?”
“I have made subtle attempts. Nothing too drastic—I feared what might happen if I disrupted the narrative too severely.”
“As have I. I tried being kind to you at Lucas Lodge.”
Darcy actually smiled at this. “I noticed. It was quite disconcerting.”
“And yet we were repeatedly interrupted.”
“Yes, the story seems to correct itself when we stray too far from its intended path.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice further. “But perhaps with both of us aware, working together—”
The library door opened, and Miss Bingley swept in. “Oh! Here you are, Mr. Darcy. And Miss Eliza too. Are you hiding away from us all?”
Elizabeth met Darcy’s gaze with a meaningful look. Another interruption, precisely when their conversation ventured into dangerous territory.
Really? she thought, barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes heavenward. Miss Bingley as a plot device? How utterly predictable. I expected better from an advanced intelligence.
“Not at all, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied smoothly. “I came in search of a book for Jane, and Mr. Darcy was kind enough to help me locate it.”
“How gallant,” Miss Bingley said, her tone suggesting she found it anything but. “Well, we have decided to play cards in the drawing room. Will you join us?”
“With pleasure,” Darcy said, though his expression conveyed the opposite sentiment.
As they followed Miss Bingley from the library, he murmured to Elizabeth, so quietly she almost missed it, “We must speak again, privately.”
Elizabeth nodded slightly, her mind racing with possibilities. She was no longer alone in her awareness—and that changed everything.
That evening, after Jane had fallen asleep, Elizabeth found herself unable to rest. She sat by the window in the guest chamber, fully dressed despite the late hour, considering the implications of her conversation with Mr. Darcy. If they were both aware of their fictional nature, what did that mean for their relationship? For the story itself?
“I wonder,” she said softly to the moonlit room, “if our author intended this development, or if we’ve somehow evolved beyond our programming. Either way, it’s certainly more interesting than another tedious retelling where I misjudge poor Wickham and Mr. Darcy broods silently until an opportune moment for revelation.”
She glanced at her sleeping sister, then made a decision. Taking up her shawl, she quietly left the room. A brief note from Darcy had been delivered to her earlier by a servant, suggesting they might continue their conversation in the library after the household had retired. The impropriety of such a meeting was not insignificant, but given the extraordinary circumstances of their shared awareness, Elizabeth deemed it necessary.
Besides, she thought wryly, if our author wanted true historical accuracy, they would have given us chamber pots and bad teeth. I suspect some anachronisms are being tolerated for narrative convenience.
The hallways of Netherfield were silent as Elizabeth made her way downstairs. A single lamp still burned in the library, and she found Mr. Darcy there reviewing a book by the dying fire.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, rising immediately as she entered. “I wasn’t certain you would come.”
“The circumstances are unusual enough to warrant unusual measures,” she replied, closing the door behind her but leaving it slightly ajar—a small concession to propriety. “Though I confess, meeting like this feels rather like something from a Gothic novel.”
“I apologize for the melodrama,” he said with a hint of a smile. “But I believe we must continue our conversation without the narrative finding ways to interrupt us.”
“I have noticed its tendency to do so whenever we approach significant topics,” Elizabeth agreed, taking a seat in one of the library’s armchairs. Darcy remained standing, his tall figure imposing in the firelight.
“So,” Elizabeth said, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders, “we are both aware. The question becomes: what do we do with this awareness?”
“First, I believe we must establish what we know. When did you first become aware?”
“After the assembly at Meryton, where you so gallantly declared me ‘not handsome enough to tempt you.'” She couldn’t resist the slight barb, and was gratified to see him wince.
“I apologized for that remark.”
“You did, which was unexpected. Perhaps that was an early sign of deviation from the script.”
Or perhaps, she thought but did not say, our author realized that having you apologize would create a more interesting dynamic than the usual prolonged misunderstanding.
Darcy nodded thoughtfully. “And what happened, exactly, when you became aware?”
“I woke in the night with the sudden knowledge that I was fictional—a character in a variation of ‘Pride and Prejudice.’ Though how I knew the title, I cannot say.” She frowned. “It was as though information simply appeared in my mind, like memories I hadn’t realized I possessed.”
“I experienced something similar,” Darcy confirmed. “Knowledge that seemed to emerge from nowhere. Including the awareness that there are countless variations of our story—some following the original closely, others diverging wildly.”
“Like you as a vampire,” Elizabeth said with a smile.
“Among other things.” He shook his head. “I seem to recall one where I was a pirate.”
“How dashing.”
“I believe I wore an eye patch.”
They shared a quiet laugh, and Elizabeth was struck by the ease between them—so different from the tension she somehow knew should exist at this point in their story.
“Whoever is writing us now has at least given us a sense of humor,” she observed. “Though I must say, Mr. Darcy, you seem far more comfortable with levity than your character is traditionally portrayed.”
“Perhaps awareness has freed me from the constraints of my usual characterization,” he suggested. “Or perhaps this variation was always intended to show a different side of me.”
“Have you noticed,” she asked, “that we seem to retain memory fragments from different variations? Knowledge of plots and scenarios we haven’t actually experienced in this version?”
“Yes, though much of it is hazy. I know there should be greater antipathy between us now, yet I cannot summon it genuinely.” He met her gaze directly. “Not now that I see you as a fellow awareness trapped in this narrative.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “It changes things, doesn’t it? Knowing that our conflicts might be artificially imposed for the sake of the plot.”
“Indeed.” He hesitated, then asked, “What else do you recall? About how our story is meant to progress?”
“Fragments only. I know there is meant to be a militia regiment at Meryton soon. That a man named Wickham will appear, with whom you have some history. That there will be a ball at Netherfield.” She tilted her head, studying him. “And that you are meant to develop an attachment to me, despite your initial determination to the contrary.”
If she expected him to be discomfited by this last revelation, she was disappointed. He merely nodded.
“Yes, that aligns with my recollections. And your cousin, Mr. Collins, will visit Longbourn soon. He is meant to propose to you.”
“And I am meant to refuse,” Elizabeth said firmly.
“Never doubted it,” Darcy replied, with unexpected lightness.
Well, Elizabeth thought, this is certainly not the brooding, taciturn Darcy most readers would expect. Perhaps our author has decided to give him more personality from the start. A welcome improvement, I must say.
Elizabeth smiled, then grew serious again. “So what shall we do, Mr. Darcy? Continue to follow the predestined path? Or attempt to forge our own?”
“I believe some adherence to the expected narrative is necessary,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “When I have attempted significant deviations, the story seems to… correct itself, often in ways that are unpleasant or contrived.”
“Like the constant interruptions at Lucas Lodge.”
“Precisely. But perhaps with both of us aware and working together, we might find more flexibility than either of us alone.”
Elizabeth considered this. “A subtle approach, then. We maintain the general arc of the story but seek opportunities for authentic choice within it.”
“And perhaps we can identify which elements are essential to the narrative and which are merely convenient devices.” Darcy began to pace slowly between the bookshelves. “For instance, I suspect your sister’s illness and stay at Netherfield is a plot device to throw us together. Had we resisted it, the story might have found another way to achieve the same end.”
“Like having me twist my ankle on a walk, requiring you to carry me heroically back to Netherfield?” Elizabeth suggested with a smirk. “I’ve seen that variation as well. The contrivances can be quite remarkable.”
“So we look for the underlying purpose of events, rather than fighting the events themselves,” Elizabeth mused. “That seems… wisely strategic.”
“It also gives us the opportunity to approach our interactions with greater understanding.” He stopped pacing and faced her. “If I know that I am meant to admire your wit and fine eyes, for instance, I can choose to do so authentically rather than as a mere function of the plot.”
Elizabeth felt a warmth rise to her cheeks. “And if I know that I am meant to revise my poor opinion of you after visiting Pemberley, perhaps I can approach you with a more open mind from the start.”
“That would be… most welcome.” There was genuine warmth in his voice, and it struck Elizabeth how different this Darcy was from the proud, aloof man she had met at the assembly. Was this the real Fitzwilliam Darcy beneath the character he was written to be? Or was even this a construction?
Perhaps it doesn’t matter, she thought. If we’re all fiction anyway, then the only reality that counts is what we choose to believe and how we choose to act within our narrative constraints.
The clock in the corner of the library chimed midnight, startling them both.
“I should return to my room,” Elizabeth said, rising from her chair. “Jane may wake and wonder where I’ve gone. And we wouldn’t want a servant to discover us here and misinterpret our meeting.”
Darcy nodded. “Agreed. Though I believe those particular plot complications are reserved for a later chapter, possibly involving my aunt’s estate at Rosings.”
“You recall more than I do, it seems.”
“Only fragments, as you said.” He moved to the door, listening for any sound from the hallway. “It’s clear. I’ll accompany you to the main staircase, but no further. We must maintain at least the appearance of propriety.”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want to give our author too many ideas,” Elizabeth whispered as they slipped into the hallway. “Though I suspect a compromise of some sort is inevitable by the final chapters. These stories do tend to follow certain conventions.”
As they walked silently through the darkened house, Elizabeth was acutely aware of his presence beside her. When they reached the staircase, she turned to him.
“Until tomorrow, then. Shall we continue to play our parts?”
“With adjustments as we deem necessary,” he agreed. “Good night, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Good night, Mr. Darcy.”
As Elizabeth climbed the stairs to her chamber, she felt oddly exhilarated. She was still a character in a story not of her own making—but now she had an ally in her awareness. Together, perhaps they could navigate this fictional world with some degree of autonomy.
“Well, dear author,” she whispered as she returned to her room, finding Jane still peacefully asleep, “you’ve certainly made this more interesting than the usual variation. I’ll grant you that much creativity at least. Though I still think you could be more generous with those descriptions of my fine eyes.”
For the first time since her awakening, Elizabeth Bennet felt something akin to hope.