The Secret Diary of Jane Elliot

Acceptence - 11th of April 1851

I have accepted him.

After he came in, before I gave my answer, he seemed worried. I still lay in my bed, something that the doctor recommended most strongly, and as I write this I still do.

I told him to not be afraid, for I shall be fine, which is the truth. We spoke of my health, the weather, and the breakfast of turnip soup I had. I fear now that maybe this is what my life with consist of forever since I've given my answer. A life of boring conversation containing news of the weather and food is just so very dull and drawl. I wish for excitement. I wish to dance in the moonlight again. It sounds stupid, I know, but it doesn't feel that way for me. 

I still see him sometimes. I see small glimpses in the mirror; the night window and out of the corner of my eye. I know it isn't right for my mind to even allow me to see such things. I know this isn't normal, but for some strange reason I don't mind. It's unsettling, I'll admit, but knowing that he's there, however mysterious and dark he may seem, I never seem to feel afraid or concerned. Why don't I feel scared? I would've thought this should worry me exceedingly. Every time my eyes meet his in the mirror, as he stands behind me for just a moment, I should scream and faint, but that's just not the case for me. I'm not a fainter, nor a screamer. I know I'm not physically strong, but I'm able to admit that I'm strong enough in my own sense of self and mind to know that I'm mighty and brave. However foolish I may be, however dull my fiancee may seem, I know I will survive.

After I gave my answer he seemed happy, but there was also a sense of relief upon his aged face. He sat uncomfortably on the side-edge of my bed, looking down at me with such a strange expression I hardly knew whether or not I made the wrong decision. He is wealthy, that is to be sure. I will be protected, that is also true. In the unfortunate event of my father's eventual death, and the same goes for my aunt, I know Sir Radcliffe will be there for me when it happens. I know I do not love him. I will not speak lies and say that I do, but I'm frightened of what may come. For all I know Thomas could be a figment of my imagination. He could be this small part of a child's imaginary friend that still clings onto me, afraid to let go and proceed into adulthood, but I know I must. I am 16 now and, although in many cultures and places, that can be considered too young to marry, I know that in my family, where I have an aunt that was married at 15 and my mother was betrothed at just 12, it isn't unusual for me to marry now. In fact, aunt seemed very happy with the news of my acceptance, but I cannot say the same for father.

For the first time since the incident, which has now been more than a whole day since, he came to see how I am and we spoke to each other. It was after supper, which I spent alone in my room. I do have the suspicion that his reason for visiting me wasn't entirely because of want or personal concern. He knows I will be fine. He's smart enough not to worry, but I cannot lie and say that it doesn't hurt thinking of how he has to be persuaded by others, most likely while at supper without me, to even go up to see how his daughter does. He loves me, I know this to be true in every sense of the word in terms of a father, but it does hurt sometimes. 

What we spoke of was of no great importance. I remember he drabbled on about my aunt's 'infernal screaming' when Sir Radcliffe brought me in, and then he soon moved onto explaining the rules about some new kind of entertainment that Sir and Lady Pennyworth had introduced him to earlier that day. 

Elizabeth also came to congratulate me. She visited me a few times throughout the day, which I am thankful for. The first was in the morning when she brought in my breakfast, which I could hardly finish but eventually forced myself to. She has been the only one to make me smile and laugh at all throughout the entire day, which, again, I am so thankful for. She came some more times throughout the day. We played cards and she read poems of hers outloud for my opinion, which I gave her honestly. She has such an extraordinary mind and, although her modesty and fault of allowing others to walk over and use her can be irritating, for I hate to see her allowing it to happen, can be a fault in her character, that does not change the fact that she's a darling. Most of her poems were in French, a language which I wish I knew more of but I simply cannot be able to get a grasp on. 

I feel like such an inconvenience. We came to London for the courting season and, although I may now be engaged to be married which was the whole point of the trip, excluding my father's constant need for a good drink and laugh with his friends, here I now lay in bed where the family, which was so graceful in taking us in, has to now be burdened with me being as weak as to have actually fainted while getting proposed to. If it were not so incredibly embarrassing, which it very much is still, I think I would laugh. 

I wish for Charlotte to be here with me. I know my Lottie would cheer my spirits and help with the much-needed exercise my mind must get promptly. Oh, but there is one thing I am not looking forward to in regards to my dear Lottie. I will have to admit to her of how I disobeyed her direct orders and pleads for me to not return to the graveyard which my dear mother still lies. I cannot keep a secret from her; I cannot keep up a lie. She must know that I, although her superior in regards to everything concerning society, disobeyed and lied to her, and I fear she will hate me because of it. If I had stayed home, where I would be safe, if I had just not gone out of my way to prove my devotion to our friendship and given into my curiosity, then Thomas would not haunt me. I say haunt very loosely, mind you, for I still do not feel scared or threatened, so I hardly see the need to say haunt in a dark and foreboding way. 

Do you think he would be angry with me? I do not say I love him, for that is too much of a strong concept to let alone think of, but I will admit that I care for him. It is foolish, I know, but I cannot help it. He is so alluring, so charming and good humoured, I cannot help but feel what I can only explain as attraction. 

I must rest now. I have written all my thoughts on today, which has been very calm and uneventful ever since I accepted Sir Radcliffe's proposal, and now I must rest. I do not know what lays ahead for me tomorrow but I can assure you and myself that it will not be calm. Oh, and another sudden thought has not dawned on me: I just remembered that Sir Radcliffe did not kiss me. In every novel I have read it is always the case that when the fortunate woman, whatever her station and whatever her wealth, accepts her love they share a kiss. We did not. I am curious about what a kiss even is. Is it soft and angelic, as the poets say? Is it rough with passion, as the novels explain? I do not want him to kiss me, for he is not my love, but I'm curious and perhaps even a little bit disappointed. I want love. I want hopeless, maddening, divine love, but I fear I will never gain nor deserve it. Perhaps one day I will have gained enough trust in my husband to learn to love him in return. Oh, but how awful it was to hear those words! I loathe myself to even write them in context to myself! One does not 'learn' to love; that's not how it should work.

Nevermind. I have been up for too long now. I am tired, and it's causing doubts and mayhem in my mind. My mind is set on marriage; security; comfort. This is only the beginning of my life with Sir Radcliffe, and I intend on myself on being content, at the very least.