Jane Elliot was the young daughter of a wealthy gentleman in Victorian era England. In 1851 she began to write a secret diary. A diary that has survived to this very day.
She was married to a man she did not love, she got sent to an asylum, fe...
Today I was officially presented at court with a splendid ball held by my aunt, Lady Margaret Wakefield. My aunt is the most generous of women, and ever since my mother's death she has taken the role of my mother, which I am forever grateful for. The day began with my dress- a beautiful blue silk and lace gown.
Here, I have drawn a picture of the beautiful piece-
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I had not been sitting down for less than 5 minutes before a young gentleman asked me to dance, which I accepted. I did not catch his name, and I was alright with that, although I do know that he is of higher rank than myself, that much was obvious. We waltzed to a wonderful piece by Mozart and afterwards the gentleman's attention was taken away from me and towards a neighbour of mine- Elizabeth Stonefield. She's beautiful, young, and of noble rank, so it came as no surprise to me that when she arrived many men swooned over her beauty and grace, ripping their attention away from their previous partners.
Then, as I was sitting down with my usual party, which consisted of my aunt, my father and their friends, I heard the familiar voice of Sir Willoughby Radcliffe.
"Good evening, sir," He greeted my father and I glanced up at him, seeing that he was dressed in splendid formal attire, which showed off his riches quite well.
"Ah, there you are, my good friend!" My father grinned and took his friend's hand, being careful not to spill his drink.
"Good evening, Lady Wakefield," Sir Radcliffe bowed to my aunt and she nodded in return, her fan half open, signifying friendship. That reminded me of my own fan which I had closed in my hand- I knew that when Sir Radcliffe would look at me I would need to have to give a signal with my fan, for even having it closed or out of sight was a signal.
"Good evening, miss Elliot," I could hear him speak and I looked up, my mind still racing with thoughts of how I would welcome him. He stood towering over me, as usual, and as I looked up at him with a friendly smile I opened my fan wide.
"Good evening, sir," I replied and he looked around the dance floor. I then knew what he was going to ask before he even spoke.
"May I have the pleasure of dancing the next waltz with you?"
"You may," I agreed. I am confused as to why I consented to this dance- on one hand, Sir Radcliffe is a respectable man with a large fortune, but on the other, I feel no significant feelings towards him. Perhaps it is true that love only begins to bloom after marriage and alliances of two houses have been formed, but to me it seems too platonic and more like a task. Call me a romantic but I feel no affection towards the sir, however wealthy and respectable he may be.
Like many other pairings during dances, Sir Radcliffe and I had a private conversation as we glided across the ballroom. His form was stiff and strong, which allowed the dance to become less enjoying, much to my dismay. Our conversation was short and dull, which I'm sure our marriage would be, if I would be forced to accept his soon-to-be marriage proposal.
Let us all be honest here, dear diary- I will not have a choice in the matter. My husband will be dull and I shall fall into a pit of depression. I must go out and get some air. I do not care how late it is.
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Oh dearest diary I barely know what to write. There was rain, and darkness. But then suddenly light erupted from shadows. Oh how bright the light was. But I must explain that it was not an angel- it could not be! I am in a frenzy and must sleep, I shall explain the whole encounter in the morning.
