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It’s light in the bedroom - early morning peaking through the vertical blinds and Ella is curled beneath her knitted blanket, legs tucked under her body with her computer balanced on her lap.
On her bedside table the lamp is still glowing but the light is almost lost amongst the soft spread of the sun. Only an hour ago it had been dark outside, street lamps illuminating deserted roads and the air calm and cool. Every now and then Ella had blinked owlishly out her window, her tired eyes aching from watching the screen but unable to draw herself away from the videos – clicking the link to the next one after each had played through. Sometimes she’d found herself giggling breathlessly into her blanket – biting the soft wool between her teeth to stop the noise spreading beyond her walls; and other times she’d been so overwhelmed by the people before her – their complaints and their tears and their anguishes – that she’d sniffled messily, nose red and eyes wet until tears had trickled delicately down her cheeks.
The stars are hard to see in the city but she’d forced herself to take a break around three am and had sat by her window and tried to make them out – counted the few constellations her father had taught her and taken deep breaths to calm her rapid beating heart – it’s so strange watching people’s lives play out before you, she’d thought. So intrusive; so voyeuristic – but at the same time they’d known exactly what was happening; had welcomed thousands, nay millions, of viewers into their thoughts and hopes and lives.
She’s never stayed awake long enough to watch the sunrise but somewhere between episodes 87 and 90 she’d noticed the warm haze of purply-pink light start climbing up the yellow walls of her bedroom. Now people are probably rising for work, turning on their coffee makers and trundling to the shower – San Francisco is waking up whilst Ella is creeping steadily towards an exhausted, emotional mess; the end of episode 93 is complete and she’s tingly with nerves and excitement.
Her own parents will be up shortly she realises – she glances to the side and notices the bright neon numbers glaring 6:14 back at her. Dad will be up first with his early morning coffee and crossword, and Mom will follow half an hour later, still muzzy but trying to blink herself awake.
They murmur quietly between themselves in the morning lest their voices wake the rest of the house and Ella has always been amazed by their quiet communication – sometimes it’s a simple brush of Dad’s hand down Mom’s back, or a smile, or a glance – other times they’re loud and bordering on obnoxious. But they’re always beautifully quiet before nine.
On the screen before her a young woman, barely 25, is caught somewhere between complete denial and nervous excitement. She doesn’t know where her life is heading – what to do or who she’ll be – and Ella thinks she understands; or is at least able to sympathise. She’s spent the past 6 hours completely immersed in this young woman’s life; watched her grow from a bubbly but lost student into a somewhat more mature, open adult – watched her struggle and cry and laugh and fall in love. Learn to embrace herself and others; to trip and stumble and then get back up again.
Ella’s homework assignment had been to choose an example of interactive media – social websites, youtube; the list had been endless – and write about how the audience was invited to become part of the story being portrayed on screen.
She’d endeavoured to find her example in the evening, then shelve it for the weekend and return to watch on Sunday night – the assignment isn’t due for another three weeks and her aunt and uncle are coming over from New York with her cousins and there’s talk of visiting her grandparents on Saturday for lunch. She loves her family in a tight, crazy way – they’re all a little insane – loud and quirky and full of love – and she adores any chance to be wrapped up in them.
She’d shied away from asking her parents for help. She’s always been strong and stubborn and despite her parent’s intelligence, always been determined to do her own work. She’d briefly mentioned the assignment with a vague explanation and wave of her hand over dinner (Chicken Marsala and her youngest brother had spilt half his down his front and Dad had grumbled about cleaning) but beyond that she’d been resolute to find her own example of interactive media – had trawled through youtube and twitter and tumblr until she’d finally found a link to an older series of video blogs tucked away on a page.
It had startled her, the title – The Lizzie Bennet Diaries – and her heart had picked up at once at the possibility. She’d clicked the link and gasped loudly as the first page loaded and when the video had started playing – a young red head bouncing around before her between choppy editing and catchy music – she’d felt her heart beat wild and strong and her breath stutter. There was no chance that she wouldn't be spending her entire night watching all 100 hundred vlogs.
And now, early morning creeping across the Bay, and she’s seconds away from episode 98 – can feel the end coming and is sick to her stomach at the thought – wants to keep watching this young woman’s life continue (as stupid as that sounds) – wants to assure the sisters, the friends and family and lovers, that they will all find peace and happiness in their lives.
It’s so strange seeing them at that point in their life – uncertain and full of dreams and ideals; she’s watched almost an entire year of their life and can see the transformation; she feels drawn to them in a new underlying way.
At it’s heart the vlogs are a diary of one woman; a love story, really – but not just between her and a man. It’s about sisters and family and parents and best friends and working hard and over coming obstacles and realising that sometimes, sometimes you are wrong but those moments are the most important.
97 is drawing to a close and Ella has her hand pressed tight between her teeth and her eyes are dim slits through which she peaks at the screen; hardly able to watch; to breathe normally. She wonders what it must have been like, to follow this story week by week – to not know what was coming – to not see the bad guys from the good and instead be muddled up in the middle as everything played out.
She has the wonderful advantage of hindsight with her but even so she feels completely drawn in by Lizzie Bennet - she knows what has to happen soon – what must happen soon, surely, it has to – but at the same time there’s the horrid churning in her stomach because what happens if it doesn’t?
Lizzie is talking about second chances and Ella wants to hug her and hit her at the same time; her blanket is tossed over her body and curled around her head – she’s a blanket burrito, as her middle brother would tell her – and she rocks back and forth fretfully as Lizzie hears footsteps; a knock. Lizzie turns and ruffles through her bag and asks Charlotte about change for a tip and Ella’s heart stops.
When the voice comes it’s smooth but nervous and Ella can’t help but squeak and then cheer loudly; damned if her parents and brothers hear; because she’s waited 6 hours for this one, tiny moment; knows that voice like the back of her hand – has heard it a million times since she was born – and for the fifth time since starting to watch the vlogs feels tears trickle freely down her cheeks.
With the shaky hand of someone who knows exactly what comes next but is too excited to see it, she pulls the cursor along the page and hits episode 98.
The coffee maker is in dire need of restoration but her husband stubbornly refuses to have it checked. He insists that he’s perfectly capable of fixing it and Lizzie can only watch him move around the kitchen, one eyebrow raised perfectly, as he pulls hot bagels from the toaster and winces as the bread burns his finger tips.
“Promise?” she asks him, and he nods distractedly whilst blowing cool air on red hot skin.
He has a meeting scheduled for nine that morning and his tie is already slung around his neck, ready to be knotted. His shirt is a crisp white and his black blazer is hung by the door with his briefcase; but he’s wearing bone coloured slacks and Lizzie is completely distracted by this small anomaly.
He very rarely wears them to work and it’s the exact ensemble he’d worn over 15 years ago in one of her Pemberley videos – the one where he dressed up as Fitz, if she’s correct.
Every now and then he’ll do something like this to distract her; wear the tie he’d had on in that fateful birthday episode just to tease, despite the fact that he’s not worn a tie more than three years old the entire time she’s known him; or visit her at work, knock on her door but enter without asking, take a seat beside her when possible and knock his shoulder into her own to soak up her warmth.
She’s the playful one in their relationship and he’s the stable pragmatist – but every now and then they swap roles and Lizzie wishes she could explain it to people, help them see that beneath the cool, calm exterior is a teasing, witty, and sometimes daring imp of a man. He keeps her on her toes and meets her blow for blow on nearly everything – they’ve never shied from debating points of contention, and sometimes they make up disagreements just to have another round.
It’s The Lizzie v. Darcy Show (named by Lydia one afternoon before they were married when they’d spent ten minutes debating the merits of a Charles Dickens modernisation on television and the rest of their friends and family had merely sat back, equal parts terrified and amazed).
There’s a crash from the hallway and Lizzie glances away from her husband’s behind with a soft blush, eyes falling on their youngest son as he stumbles into the corner of the door and pouts fretfully. His glasses are held in his right fist and he’s rubbing his eye with the other. Lizzie tuts at him and holds out her arms and the little boy wanders dolefully towards her, crashing into her hip and wrapping his small arms around her waist.
He has curly dark hair and no one in the family has been able to figure out where the curls originate from, though Lizzie’s mother likes to claim it was her family’s side. Peter has had glasses since he was able to walk and is easily the clumsiest child in existence, or so it feels. He’s had more bumps and scraps and visits to hospital than both their other children combined and Lizzie can’t help but tuck him into her arms whenever she’s able to - he’s five years old now but he’ll always be her baby.
His wide blue eyes are unfocused until he sits his glasses across his nose and then he’s pressing a kiss to her side and shuffling away towards the fridge in search of apple juice. Will rubs a hand into his curls as he passes and Peter jerks away, but sends a quick grin to his father – Will and Peter are the most alike of anyone in the family and they’ve developed their own little means of communication – looks and touches and expressions that the rest of them can never understand.
The little boy pulls his juice cup from the bottom shelf of the fridge and Will picks him up without question to help him onto the stool at the bench; five minutes later and the three of them are sitting side by side munching on toast and muesli quietly. Lizzie can’t help but think that this little moment is almost perfect in it's simplicity.
Next down the stairs is James, their middle child – shocking with his head of dark hair that no one would describe as curls, just messy. Everytime Mrs. Bennet visits she spends a good five minutes fretting over her grandson’s hair.
James is loud and energetic and easily the most like his mother. Lizzie likes to claim he’s more like Lydia but everyone else just eyes her knowingly, as if they’re thinking – and you aren’t a ray of crazy energy, Lizzie?
The little bubble that Peter’s presence creates is shattered easily by James announcing himself to them all; he has a bright smile and sing’s, “Hello family,” as if he were part of some 50’s sitcom and Lizzie shares a look with Will that clearly asks, did we really create this one?
James is tall enough now to reach Lizzie’s cheek when she’s sat at the bench and he presses a kiss there before poking his little brother's side and then the two of them are arguing and Will is clearing his throat loudly, dark eyes shockingly expressive behind his own thick rimmed glasses.
(Perhaps Lizzie’s very favourite memory was the day Peter came home from preschool crying because the other children had teased him over his glasses; and whilst James had frowned and their daughter had hugged him and Lizzie had pressed kisses into his crazy curls, Will had left the room without comment, startling them all when he’d returned moments later with his own pair perched on his nose, and promised Peter that only very special, very unique minded people were lucky enough to own a pair. Of course Peter had been three years old and hardly understood a word his father was saying but the sight of the man he adored beyond breath also wearing glasses had been clear and precious – and to this day Will wears them nearly everywhere, sharing a wink with Peter whenever anyone comments).
He’s a good father; and Lizzie can’t quite find words to explain it beyond that. To do so she’d have to break apart the English language, create new words and assign them far greater meanings; to express the level of adoration she has for the man, and the calm, gentle manner he has with their children is beyond anything she’s ever come across in language or literature. He calls their daughter by her full name like it’s their secret and goes running in the park with James each Saturday morning and spends hours upon hours sifting through the library finding books about birds and space and trucks to satisfy Peter’s every whim and imagination. She thinks of Fitz all those years ago telling her Darcy was a loyal dude, and can’t help but laugh at the simple notion – he’s so much more than that and entirely hers to love.
Now, and he’s peering over James' shoulder and pointing out something in the book about dinosaurs that the nine year old has been carrying all week – somewhere amidst Lizzie’s reverie the three boys have started an animated discussion about Tyrannosaurus Rex and James is reading from the book whilst Will nods encouragingly and little Peter growls loudly and pretends to munch like a dinosaur at his toast.
It takes her a moment, wrapped as she is in the wonderful world of her children – to realise she’s missing one. Her eldest.
Dark hair that’s tried to turn itself red but could never quite muster the ability and instead is a rusty dark brown; clear blue eyes that are far too stubborn and intelligent; gentle hands that care for her little brothers and her friends and her family.
Lizzie thinks Ella is perhaps the greatest parts of her and Will combined and at 12 years old, already one of her greatest friends. She loves nothing more than nights curled beside her daughter, playing with her hair whilst they discuss movies and stories and those girls at school that Ella can’t help but be amused by.
Lizzie stands and pushes Peter back into his seat to stop him falling off it; presses a kiss to the back of James head and reminds him to pack his school bag with both his lunch and homework (for some reason the boy is incapable of remembering he needs both) and then runs a hand around Will’s waist to squeeze his hip. She leaves the three of them to finish their breakfast and wanders the long way down the hall to her daughter’s bedroom – the door is closed, and she can’t hear anything beyond the gentle sway of a curtain across an open window further down the hall. “Ella?” she calls softly, knocking.
There’s a shuffle and then a noise, half hiccup half sob, and Lizzie is pushing her way inside before she can think about it – walking the few steps towards her daughter's bed to find the twelve year old buried beneath blankets and sobbing into her knees.
She’s thrown by the image – and suddenly her heart aches and her bones rattle and she’s rushing to pull Ella into her arms because the sight of her children in pain is like living it ten times over.
Ella rocks into her body but she’s stiff in Lizzie’s arms and she squeezes tighter, tries to loosen her up enough to feel her relax. “Ella?” she whispers, and the young girl just pushes her computer into her mother’s abdomen, nudging it further and further until Lizzie takes the hint and sits back to glance at the screen.
What she sees catches in her throat – that logo and the sight of her own self, young and bright eyed and caught horribly mid-word. She winces; she’s always hated watching those videos back, and with sudden clarity realises Ella must have – the screen is frozen on episode 100 and she feels a shiver down her spine at the thought of Ella watching them all.
“Ella, please tell me you –“
“Did you really hate Dad that much?” the young girl asks, voice soft and hesitant but interrupting Lizzie midsentence.
And there’s a reason the Bennet’s decided as a family to not mention the video blogs to their children until they were older – for all that it brought them (Will and Bing and growth and strength) it doesn’t cast anyone (except maybe Jane, Lizzie has often pondered) in a particularly good light. At least not one you’d like your children to know about, ever.
It takes Lizzie a moment to realises Ella is talking and when she listens, the young girl is mumbling about school, and youtube and seeing the sunrise for the first time and how she didn’t expect it to be purple. She’s clearly exhausted and Lizzie hugs her tighter, tucks her legs across her lap and cradles her body like she did when Ella was a baby and wouldn’t stop crying through the night.
“I’m sorry,” the little girl finally whimpers, and Lizzie is so thrown by the statement that she rocks back, pulls Ella’s chin towards her to catch her glassy eyes.
“Ella, I’m sorry. I’m sorry we never told you about any of this,” and the little girl shrugs, as if she almost understands, “And I’m sorry you had to find them and watch them all without any explanation.”
Ella, wise beyond her years and with undercurrents of Jane’s resolute understanding, shrugs and nods; “It wasn’t so bad,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft and warm and so innocent; Lizzie can’t imagine what it must be like to watch your parents mock each other for 6 hours straight, but it feels oddly like those first few months with Will when she’d realised with dread that the man she loved had once sat and listened to hours of cruel words from her.
“Your father and I were both very young, and very stupid, and very blind,” she finally settles on. “We didn’t really know each other and we both made assumptions. We hurt each other.”
She pauses, but Ella picks up the story, “But then you fell in love?”
And Lizzie can’t help but laugh – “Exactly. Somehow.”
“It explains a lot,” Ella tells her minutes later – they’re still curled together on the bed and Lizzie’s pulled Ella’s head down into her lap, playing with the ends of her hair. The young girl is sleepy and her voice drifts but she sounds a little older, and Lizzie wonders if she’s had something to do with that. “It was so sad watching Aunt Lydia and Aunt Jane and Aunt Gigi upset; and at first it was funny when you were talking about Dad, but then I just wanted to yell at you...”
And Lizzie chuckles, drifting a finger across her daughter’s forehead. “I think lots of people wanted to do that.”
“I wish someone could have told you that everything would be okay.”
It’s such a simple statement; so like Ella to wish the best for people, to not want them to be hurt. Lizzie can imagine her watching those videos and aching to reach inside and hug her family, her aunts and uncles and parents – but at the same time she hopes, perhaps, that Ella might understand the world a little better for it.
“But that’s part of the journey,” she tells her, “Your Dad and I wouldn’t be here today – you wouldn’t be here today – if we hadn’t learnt from each other.” She pauses and tucks a loose strand of Ella’s hair behind her ear, “I think in the end it worked out okay,” she teases, and Ella laughs breathily – eyes closed and drifting to sleep.
She rests Ella’s head on her pillow and tucks her blanket across her body; brushes a kiss to her cheek. She’ll call her school later and tell them she’s sick and then might stay home herself, she ponders. They can have a girl’s day in and watch Sense and Sensibility and hopefully explain some more of those videos – there’s so much and Ella is still so young; still so innocent.
Lizzie wanders back towards the kitchen and Will is standing in the middle of the lounge room trying to convince Peter and James to get dressed for school whilst they battle with cardboard swords around his legs.
She leans against the door frame and presses a hand to her lips to stop her smile; her heart feels fit to burst and as Will finally lifts Peter up from under his arms and pulls the giggling, squirmy boy towards the lounge, she pushes herself forward and announces, “Come on, we have to go!”
Later that evening and Ella has slept through the day and then watched Sense and Sensibility and Mansfield Park with her mother. They’ve talked; her Mom hesitant and biting her lip and Ella had tried to find the words to express both her confusion and understanding. She feels older now, like she’s been introduced to another world – one where her parents aren’t invincible and all knowing, but instead young, uncertain and afraid; and so precious.
At the dinner table that night she watches her parents interact and thinks once upon a time there were so many different roads they could have gone down – but somehow, somewhere the stars aligned and it lead to this wonderful moment in this house with her family – thinks she’s lucky beyond words.
James and Peter go to bed and complain the entire way and it’s Dad’s turn to read Peter a story but Ella insists that they all join in – Lizzie and Will are hesitant, and even more so when Ella dives into the dress up box. She emerges with a crown and a ninja turtle mask and a fairy wand that’s missing a few gems and a wide brim, flowery hat.
She places the hat on her mothers head and can’t help but giggle at the image of her mother pretending to be her grandmother – hands Peter the mask and James the crown and holds the fairy wand herself before passing her father a bright red bow tie.
His cheeks go a startling shade of pink and her mother can’t help but snort helplessly – her father looks so stunned, eyes wide – and Ella merely purses her lips and tells him archly, “It’s not like it’s your first time,” before starting the fairytale without him.
And later that night after they’ve laughed themselves silly and Dad ends up with Mum in his lap whilst the three children re-enact the dying scenes of Beauty and the Beast, and Peter and James have finally been convinced to go to bed; after all that Ella tucks herself into her Dads side and whispers, “Thank you for never giving up on Mom.”
Because at the heart of everything is her parents love; strong and living but also fragile and dear.
And Dad holds her tightly and murmurs back, “Always, Ella Jane. I’ll always fight for her.”