About the Author

Kathleen McGurl lives near the sea in Bournemouth, UK, with her husband. She has two sons who are now grown-up and have left home. She began her writing career creating short stories, and sold dozens to women’s magazines in the UK and Australia. Then she got side-tracked onto family history research – which led eventually to writing novels with genealogy themes. She has always been fascinated by the past, and the ways in which the past can influence the present, and enjoys exploring these links in her novels.

After a thirty-one-year career in the IT industry she is now a full-time author, and very much enjoying the change of lifestyle. When not writing she likes to go out running. She also adores mountains and is never happier than when striding across the Lake District fells, following a route from a Wainwright guidebook.

You can find out more at her website: http://kathleenmcgurl.com/, or follow her on Twitter: @KathMcGurl.

Praise for Kathleen McGurl

‘A MUST READ in my book!!’

‘Utterly perfect … A timeslip tale that leaves you wanting more … I loved it’

‘I may have shed a tear or two! … A definite emotional rollercoaster of a read that will make you both cry and smile’

‘Oh my goodness … The pages turned increasingly quickly as my desperation to find out what happened steadily grew and grew’

‘Very special … I loved every minute of it’

‘Brilliant … Very highly recommended!!’

‘Touched my heart! A real page turner … The perfect read for cosying up. I can’t recommend this gorgeous book enough’

Also by Kathleen McGurl

The Secret of the Château

The Stationmaster’s Daughter

The Forgotten Secret

The Drowned Village

The Girl from Ballymor

The Daughters of Red Hill Hall

The Pearl Locket

The Emerald Comb

The Forgotten Gift
KATHLEEN MCGURL

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Kathleen McGurl

Kathleen McGurl asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008380496

Version: 2020-08-28

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Kathleen McGurl

Also by Kathleen McGurl

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: George Britten, 1874

Chapter 1: Cassie, present day

Chapter 2: George, 1861

Chapter 3: Cassie

Chapter 4: George

Chapter 5: Cassie

Chapter 6: George

Chapter 7: Cassie

Chapter 8: George

Chapter 9: Cassie

Chapter 10: George

Chapter 11: Cassie

Chapter 12: George

Chapter 13: Cassie

Chapter 14: George

Chapter 15: Cassie

Chapter 16: George

Chapter 17: Cassie

Chapter 18: George

Chapter 19: Cassie

Chapter 20: George

Chapter 21: Cassie

Chapter 22: George

Chapter 23: Cassie

Chapter 24: George

Chapter 25: Cassie

Chapter 26: George

Chapter 27: Cassie

Chapter 28: George

Chapter 29: Cassie

Chapter 30: George, 1871

Chapter 31: Cassie

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For my son Fionn, who always smiles when I send him a rough draft of each novel to read and comment on. Keep up the good work!

Prologue
George Britten, 1874
Extract from the last will and testament of George Thomas Britten

… and to Nathaniel Spring, Chaplain of Millbank Prison, I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds and to Emily the wife of the aforesaid Nathaniel Spring I give my hand mirror with the silver frame that is inlaid with sapphires and pearls in recognition of his friendship and support during my time of greatest need …

George Britten listened carefully as his solicitor read out the section of the will that he had just completed writing. ‘Does that cover it, sir?’

George nodded. ‘Yes, I think that will do. So I am repaying in a small way the kindnesses shown to me by Nathaniel Spring. It’s important to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The solicitor, Edmund Harris, frowned. ‘It’s not for me to comment, sir, but I can’t help but wonder about your connection with these people?’

George stood and paced around the room. ‘You are right. It is not for you to comment. Suffice it to say that without Nathaniel, I would not be here today. I owe him … my life.’

‘Very well, sir. As to the remains of your estate: after your other bequests it is to be passed to your wife, and then split evenly amongst your children after her demise. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that is right.’ George sat down again and leaned back in his chair as Mr Harris penned the next part of the will. It felt good to have this set down on paper. There’d been a time when he’d thought he would not need to write a will – he’d have nothing to leave to anyone. But now, at the age of thirty-three, he’d become well off, with a wife and family to provide for, and with personal debts to repay in whatever way he could. He’d come a long way since his youth, albeit by a roundabout route that he would never have imagined.

That mirror, expensive and beautifully made, which he’d bought so long ago as a gift that was never given – it was fitting that it should go to Nathaniel Spring’s wife. She would treasure it. It had lain forgotten in a drawer for many years; it had not felt right to give it to his own wife.

George thought back to the boy he’d been at nineteen – that naïve young man who’d begun a journal in which to capture his hopes and dreams, thoughts and desires. How innocent in the ways of the world he’d been then, and how little he could have anticipated what his future held in store for him!

Chapter 1
Cassie, present day

The staff room at the sports centre was tatty and tired, its furniture functional at best, but it was one of Cassie’s favourite places. That and the Red Lion pub where she and the other staff often adjourned to at the ends of their shifts. Today, Cassie was working the early shift. She’d started at seven a.m., acting as lifeguard to cover the early morning swim session. She was due to finish at four, and after a half hour in the gym and a relaxing swim, she’d be heading straight to the pub along with Toby and Shania, who’d worked the same shift.

Now, she was on her lunch break in the staff room, sitting on one of the plastic and steel chairs with her feet up on another.

‘Shift your feet,’ said Shania, arriving for her break. ‘God do I need to sit down or what?’

‘Tough class?’ Cassie asked. Shania ran many of the fitness and Zumba classes. A more energetic job than being a lifeguard and general centre attendant, Cassie had always thought.

‘Yeah.’ Shania twisted open a bottle of fruit juice and downed half the bottle in one. Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth she looked at Cassie. ‘Hey, did you see Who Do You Think You Are? last night?’

‘The one with the fella off the soap opera? Yes, I saw it.’ Of course Cassie had seen it. She was obsessed by genealogy – both watching the TV shows where experts traced celebrities’ ancestry, and investigating her own. It’s what she did on her days off. She didn’t have much of a social life beyond the sports centre.

‘His face, when they told him his great-great-grandfather, or whoever it was, had been convicted of murder! It was a picture!’ Shania looked thoughtful. ‘Wonder how it feels, though. I mean, what would you feel if you discovered one of your ancestors was a crook or a murderer?’

Cassie shrugged. ‘Don’t know. It’d be weird, knowing those genes are in you. But if the ancestor was distant enough, the genes would be watered down.’

‘I suppose it’s that old nurture or nature argument, isn’t it? What makes you who you are – your ancestors or the way you were brought up?’ Shania got up and went to retrieve her container of salad from the fridge. ‘Anyway, would you tell me if you found a bad boy or girl amongst your ancestors?’

‘Probably. You know I tell you everything, darling,’ Cassie replied with a wink. As she said it, she wondered about the will of her great-great-great-grandfather that she’d recently come across in her latest genealogical searches. He, George Britten, had apparently bequeathed a valuable item – a mirror set with sapphires and pearls – to the wife of a prison chaplain, as well as making the chaplain a generous financial payout. Why, she had no idea, as yet. Presumably the chaplain had been a good friend. But if so, why did the will specifically refer to him as ‘Chaplain of Millbank Prison’ and not just by name? And what did it mean in recognition of his friendship and support during my time of greatest need?

It was possible, she had to admit, that George Britten had been an inmate of that prison at some point. Finding out if that was true, and if so, what crime he had committed, was high on Cassie’s list of topics to research, when she had some spare time.

Shania laughed. ‘Great – I will look forward to the juicy gossip, then. Speaking of which, are you going to the pub tonight?’

‘Of course I am! I’m going to the gym and having a swim after work, then I’ll be in the Red Lion by about seven. See you there.’

It was a regular event – at least once a week after work Cassie would meet up with her colleagues in the pub. Who turned up depended on who was working the evening shift, but today it was all her favourite people. Shania, of course, there before Cassie and already installed at their favourite table with a large glass of Prosecco for herself and a pint of Theakston’s Old Peculier for Cassie.

‘Cheers, mate,’ said Cassie as she sat down and picked up her pint. You knew you had the best ever friends when they knew exactly what you liked to drink, and had the drink ready and waiting for you.

A few minutes later they were joined by Andy, the sports centre manager, who bought himself a pint of lager before pulling up a stool. ‘Hey, my favourite girls. How are we?’

‘Your favourite women are all good,’ Cassie replied. ‘Seriously, Andy, we are both in our thirties. Time to stop referring to us as girls.’

Andy grimaced. ‘Oops, sorry. Lost a few feminist points there, didn’t I?’

‘You did, yeah.’ Cassie put on a stern face. ‘But we will let you off, if you buy the next round.’

‘Sure. Want it now?’

‘Definitely. Before you forget and try to wriggle out of it.’

‘I’d never do that.’

As Andy got up and went to the bar to order the drinks, Shania turned to Cassie and laughed. ‘You twist that poor man around your little finger, Cass. He’ll do anything for you. It’s probably actually my round – he bought two rounds last week and I bought none.’

‘Ssh. Don’t ever turn down the offer of a drink from the boss,’ Cassie said, with a smile. She liked Andy – he was a friend and a good person to work for. Shania was probably right in that Cassie seemed to have a way with him. If she asked for a day off at short notice Andy would almost always grant her request, even if he had to work extra hours himself to cover her shift. Their previous manager had not been so accommodating and Cassie had been glad when he’d left and Andy, tall and skinny with a shock of black hair, had arrived in his place. Now, she had to admit, the sports centre was a great place to work, and that was largely down to the fun work ethic Andy had brought with him. Vicky, the assistant manager, was more strait-laced and never came to the pub, but was still a decent person to work with.

Occasionally Cassie wondered whether, at thirty-seven, she ought to look for a job with more prospects, greater responsibility and higher pay. Certainly her parents thought so. Cassie had tumbled into the sports centre job after dropping out of university, needing an easy job that would earn her enough to pay the rent and put food on the table. And there she’d stayed, for sixteen years now. Most of the other general centre attendants were part-timers – either students paying their way through university or older women working shifts during school hours or at the weekends. The other full-time staff were management – Andy, plus the assistant manager Vicky. And then there were the instructors like Shania, who taught classes at several sports centres, gyms and studios in the area, and topped up their income by doing a few general shifts at the sports centre. Cassie was the only full-timer with no teaching qualifications who only worked the general shifts, lifeguarding, setting up equipment, cleaning changing rooms and the like.

‘Here we are then, ladies,’ Andy said, putting their drinks in front of them, and earning himself a glare from Cassie. ‘What? What have I said now?’

‘We are women. Not ladies.’ Shania stifled a giggle as Cassie rolled her eyes.

‘Here we are then, women,’ Andy said. ‘Ah come on. That sounds ridiculous. If you were fellas I’d say, “here we are, gents,” so why can’t I say “ladies”?’

‘OK, you have a point there,’ Cassie conceded. ‘Once again I will let you off.’

‘My, you are magnanimous tonight,’ Andy said. ‘Anyway. How was your day, you two?’

Shania launched into a long story about a beginners’ Zumba class she’d run, in which two of the participants had kept bumping into each other, one going left and one going right when both should have gone left. ‘They’re supposed to mirror me, but one thought she needed to do the opposite, no matter how many times I explained it. They ended up in a heap on the floor at one point, thankfully not hurt but in fits of giggles. As was I.’

‘Ah the perils of a keep-fit class,’ Andy said. ‘And you, Cass? Anything fun happen to you today?’

‘Ah you know, the usual. Watched The Back swim ten lengths of butterfly in the lunchtime swim session.’

‘Ooh you should have said – I’d have come poolside to watch,’ Shania squealed. The Back was the name the female lifeguards had given to a regular customer, a fit young man in his twenties who swam several times a week, showing off his rippling back muscles to great effect as he practised his butterfly stroke.

Andy leaned back and folded his arms. ‘So I’m sexist and get told off if I refer to you two as “girls” or “ladies”, but you’re allowed to drool over a bloke’s back muscles when he comes in for a swim? You’d be furious with me if I commented on a woman’s body in her swimsuit. Doesn’t it work both ways?’

Cassie fixed him with a stare. ‘Yes it does, but women have been oppressed for so long. The pendulum has to swing back a little before it comes to rest in the middle, when full equality for all has finally been achieved.’

‘Hmm. Think I’ll put Toby and Ben poolside every lunchtime from now on.’

‘Toby’d probably appreciate The Back just as much as we do,’ Shania said.

‘What? You mean … no, really?’

Cassie laughed. ‘Yep. Didn’t you know he was gay?’

Andy stuck out his lower lip. ‘Perils of being a manager. No one tells me anything. I have to rely on you girls, whoops I mean women, to keep me up to date.’

‘Also, Shania’s an alien,’ Cassie said, her face deadpan.

They were still laughing a few minutes later when Toby, Ben and a couple of other staff arrived. It was a good evening – a few rounds were bought and drunk but not so many that Cassie would have a hangover. A lot of banter and laughter and warmth. This, she thought, was why she was still in the job after so many years. Good people, good fun. Her colleagues came and went but they were always the kind of people Cassie got on well with, on a night down the pub.

So what if she’d never become closer to any of them. So what if none of her friends had ever been to her flat, or she to theirs. So what if when people left the sports centre they never seemed to stay in touch after a few months. So what if she’d never had a boyfriend who lasted more than a couple of months, not since … not since university. She was happy, wasn’t she? Her life was good, wasn’t it?

Cassie had a day off the next day. She’d planned to do some food shopping and go for a run – she was supposed to be in training for a half-marathon along with some of her work colleagues. They were going to run in T-shirts advertising the sports centre, and were raising sponsorship money in aid of the local children’s hospice charity.

But the weather had other ideas. She liked to think of herself as not just a fair-weather runner, but she had her limits, and early autumnal torrential rain and gale-force winds were definitely beyond them.

‘Hmm, two fish fingers and some manky potatoes for dinner, then,’ she told herself, inspecting the contents of her fridge and freezer. ‘Plus daytime TV or genealogy research. What do you reckon, Griselda?’ She turned to address her elderly tabby cat who was rubbing herself around Cassie’s ankles, clearly hoping for some tidbit from the fridge.

‘Yeah, you’re right. Genealogy it is.’ She made herself a cup of tea then went through to her sitting room. She settled herself on a sofa, pulled the hand-knitted blanket her mother had made her over her legs and opened up her laptop. She had about thirty seconds of peace before Griselda jumped up and insisted on claiming some lap space between the computer and Cassie’s stomach. ‘For goodness’ sake, Gris, don’t you know how awkward it is to have to type around you?’ Cassie grumbled, as she gave the cat a stroke.

Once settled, with the laptop precariously balanced on her knees, Cassie reread the transcript she’d made of George Britten’s will. He’d been a solicitor and apparently quite well off, owning a large house overlooking Regent’s Park. Most of his estate had been left to his children, with a number of small bequests to various charities. But then there were the two odd bequests to the prison chaplain and another one, to someone whose name Cassie could not make out from the looped, old-fashioned handwriting. This one was for five hundred pounds a year.

She googled to find out how much five hundred pounds would have been worth in the late nineteenth century. ‘A good living, in those days. Whoever you were, you were important in some way to my great-great-great-grandfather. A lover, perhaps? Or an illegitimate child?’

The next job, of course, was to try to establish the link between George Britten and the chaplain, Nathaniel Spring, trying to work out what had made him so important to George Britten, and what his ‘time of greatest need’ referred to. Cassie opened up an ancestry website and began a search for Nathaniel Spring.

Chapter 2
George, 1861
30th January 1861

Why is it, having left the school room at long last, that now I feel inclined to start a journal? My tutor Mr Smythe was dismissed just last week, now that I am full grown and almost of age. I hated writing essays, practising handwriting and penning arguments whenever Mr Smythe asked me to do them, but with him gone I find I want to write, for myself. I want to put down on paper my thoughts about my childhood, my current situation, and my plans and dreams for the future, such as they are. This leather-bound, lined notebook is just the thing for it. Ironically, it was a parting gift to me from Mr Smythe.

I am ashamed to say I did not think to give him anything, despite his having lectured and harangued and cajoled me over the last ten years. I assume my father gave him a suitable bonus on leaving our employ. Or a good reference at the very least. Mr Smythe leaves our employment to take up a post in a school, in west London. Twickenham is the place I heard him mention. I believe he has a sweetheart there and may well marry her before too long.

Having begun in a rather odd way with my previous paragraph, I think it is time I started properly. As Mr Smythe was wont to say, begin at the beginning, carry on through the middle and stop when you reach the end. I don’t know what awaits me at the end of this journal, but I assume I will recognise it when I meet it, so for the moment I shall just begin, and see where it takes me.

My name is George Britten, and I am nineteen years of age, the second son of Albert and Augusta Britten, and younger brother to Charles Britten. There, that is the beginning and serves as a form of introduction, (though who will ever read this journal I do not know. I have no intention of ever showing it to anyone. Perhaps my future self might look back on these words one day, and smile in fond remembrance). I live in my father’s house in a village in the northern part of the county of Hampshire. It is a small estate but a comfortable one and serves us well. As well as my parents and I, the household consists of a cook who is also the housekeeper, a couple of house servants, a groom and his two lads. My elder brother Charles stays here sometimes when he is not travelling abroad.

I was born into sadness – my sister having died only days before my birth. She was just three years old. Mother said I came early. Her grief at Elizabeth’s death brought on premature labour, but I was a good weight, and survived. When I was two there was more sadness for our little family, as my other sister Isobel also died, at the tender age of ten. There were no more children after me.

You would think, perhaps, that I was spoilt, being the last born, the youngest child, surviving infancy while my sisters did not. You might think my parents doted on me, pandered to my every whim, wrapped me in the softest merino wools to ensure my safety. But I am afraid you would be wrong. Very wrong. When I look back on my childhood, I don’t see a happy time. I see a time when, try as I might, there was nothing I could do to gain my father’s attention or my mother’s love.

My father makes no secret of the fact that Charles is his favourite. As Charles is his first born I suppose that is to be expected. But he looks upon me as though I am vastly inferior, as though he barely counts me as his son at all. My mother is withdrawn, cold and unfeeling towards me. The loss of her daughters was more than she could really bear, I believe. Perhaps in fear of losing another child, she hardened her heart against those who were still living, though not to Charles, whom she too favoured.

Mother loves Charles. He left home last year, to set off on his Grand Tour of France and Italy. Mother wept as he left, clutching hold of him until the last possible moment. ‘You are leaving me all alone and childless,’ she’d said, and Charles had shaken his head. ‘You still have George, Mother. He will keep you company while I am away. Give him a chance – he is a fine young man.’

I’d preened a little at this compliment from Charles, and he’d smiled at me. But Mother just laughed. ‘He’s no substitute for you, dear Charles. Keep yourself safe, and return to me soon.’

‘I shall return to all of you,’ Charles had said, and then he’d bade us all farewell, his last and longest embrace being reserved for me.

An imaginary reader of this journal might think I exaggerate when I say my parents paid me no heed throughout my childhood, and indeed appeared to look upon me as one might consider a poor, distant relation. Someone to whom they had a duty to care and provide for, but for whom they held no love or affection. But I do not exaggerate. Just last week, I overheard a conversation after dinner, between my father and his friend the doctor Jonathan Moore. Let me set down here what happened and what it was that I heard. Perhaps in writing it down it might help me come to terms with it.

We had finished dinner – a small dinner party for just our family and the Moores. The ladies – my mother and Mrs Moore – had retired to the drawing room, while my father and Dr Moore lingered over the port. As a man, and almost of age, I wanted to stay too, but a stern look from my father told me I was not welcome. I pushed back my chair, nodded to Dr Moore and left the room.

In the hallway I dithered a while. The ladies wouldn’t want me with them either. I felt caught in the middle, not wanted anywhere. A metaphor for my life to date, I thought, as I lingered, trying to decide what to do with the rest of my evening. I became aware that the men were talking about me, and as the door to the dining room was not quite shut (I had failed to pull it firmly enough for it to latch) I could hear every word. It was as though I was rooted to the spot. I am not normally someone who would listen at keyholes, and indeed Mr Smythe would say it is an exceedingly low thing to do, but in my defence I would say that their voices were loud, and who would not stop to listen, on hearing their own name mentioned?

‘I don’t know what will become of George,’ my father said. ‘It is a shame we are not at war. If we were, I would buy him a commission. Fighting for his country would toughen him up. Lord knows he needs it. That tutor we employed – Smythe – was far too soft on the boy. Never thrashed him once, as far as I could tell.’

A commission! I suppressed a gasp at this. While I did not know what I wanted for my future, a commission in the army was certainly not it. I had no desire whatsoever to become a soldier.

‘Hmm. Not all boys need thrashing,’ Dr Moore answered. ‘He seems a pleasant lad, well informed and intelligent. I’d say Smythe was good for him, from what I’ve seen. You could still buy him a commission – we need an army whether or not we are at war. But is it the right thing for him?’

‘What do you mean, the right thing? Something needs to be done to make a man of him. He’s too soft and sensitive, always reading poetry and wandering about the countryside looking at flowers. Women’s pursuits.’ Father snorted, and there was a moment’s silence in which I imagined him taking a sip of his port and shaking his head sadly. It is true, though, I do love to read verse and seek out rare flowers in the hedgerows and meadows of our beautiful countryside.

‘The world needs all kinds of men, Albert old chap. Not just the tough soldier boys. There’ll be a place for him in this world. You just need to help him find it.’

‘He’ll get no help from me. The house and estate will go to Charles. There won’t be enough money to keep George for life. He’ll have to find some sort of profession I suppose. But he shows no interest in the clergy, or medicine. What else is there?’

‘Oh, there are plenty of professions beyond those, Albert. Law, or teaching, or business. Perhaps you should send him to Oxford or Cambridge. He’s bright enough.’ I raised my eyebrows at this. I had never considered a university career. I wondered whether I would enjoy life in academia. Perhaps I might. My musings were cut short by my father’s reply.

‘I can’t afford to send him to university, Jonathan. And I don’t see the point. I never went, so why should he? Yes, I suppose he will need to make his own way in business. I just don’t see how he’ll be any good at it. His head’s always too much in the clouds.’

‘What does Augusta think?’

‘Hmph. She has less time for him than I do. You know, she never got over losing the girls. If she hadn’t been heavily pregnant she might have been able to do more for Elizabeth. And George was sick with influenza just before Isobel died of that same disease. He survived it while she did not. I think poor Augusta never forgave him for that.’

‘Hardly the boy’s fault, though, was it?’ Dr Moore said. ‘There was nothing that could be done for either of your little girls, unfortunately, or for the other child. Don’t forget I tended to them all during their final days, the poor mites.’

‘I know. No one’s blaming you. I just think that Augusta blames George, illogical though that is. She wastes no love or time on him, I’m afraid.’

‘And yet you don’t try to make up for this?’

Father sighed and paused before answering. ‘I should, I suppose. But I find the boy hard to like. I will keep him until he is of age. I will pay him an allowance until he is established in some kind of profession. And then he will need to make his own way in life.’

‘Well, I suppose if you don’t like the boy, that’s as much as you can be expected to do. Parenting is a difficult task. I am glad Amelia and I never had any children. I’d have been no better at it.’

I raised my eyebrows again at this last statement from the doctor. I had never before considered that parents could be good or bad at parenting. I had always assumed I must be unlovable, and that is why my parents didn’t love me. Could the fault actually lie with them?

At that moment the drawing room door opened, and my mother came out, calling behind her to Amelia Moore that she was just fetching her latest bonnet to show her. She pulled up short on seeing me lurking in the hallway.

‘What are you doing here? I thought you were drinking port with the men?’

‘They didn’t want me. I was on my way upstairs to my room.’ I stepped on to the first step as though to prove myself.

‘Oh. Good.’ She pushed past me and climbed the stairs quickly, no doubt wanting to get back to the drawing room as fast as she could.

I followed her up, and spent the rest of the evening in my room, reading the poetry that my father sneered at.

That evening, as I said, occurred about a week ago. I have replayed what Father said many times, praying that he does not buy me a commission, for I know I would loathe being in the army. I know I will need to think of some kind of profession and find a way to build myself a career, but for the moment I have no idea what that should be. I should like to be a botanist but I cannot see how I can earn a living following that pursuit. For the time being, and until I am of age, I shall just have to remain here.

Now, at nineteen, and no longer under the tutelage of Mr Smythe, I can use this journal to explore my feelings and try to decide upon a desirable future course for myself, knowing that these pages will only ever be seen by my own eyes. Setting everything down in words may help me to look deep inside myself and determine whether I should harden my own heart against my parents and their apparent lack of regard for me, or whether I should continue to do what I can to impress my father and win the love of my mother.

It is late and I grow weary of writing by gaslight. I will continue tomorrow, for something important happened earlier today which I need to capture in my journal.

31st January

We have employed, as of yesterday, a new upstairs maidservant, to replace one my mother had found unsatisfactory in some way, although quite what was wrong with the previous girl whom I’d thought was pretty and personable, was unclear to me.

The new girl’s name is Lucy. She is the sweetest-looking girl one could ever hope to see. Her hair is a light brown, wavy tendrils of it escape her cap and curl about her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are wide, their colour is hard to describe – in some lights they look brown, in others blue, and in still others, green. Perhaps I shall call them hazel. They are intriguing, mystifying eyes like none I have ever had the fortune to gaze upon before. Her figure is slight, trim, neat and efficient. We call women the weaker sex, but Lucy’s bearing suggests a hidden, exciting strength. Were I a painter, I would ask her to sit for me; I would try to capture that elusive eye colour, that regal bearing, that aura of mystical beauty she carries with her.

She arrived mid-morning. I was on my way downstairs, considering taking my father’s bay mare Bella for a gallop across the bare fields. He rarely takes the poor creature out, and the groom and stable hands have enough work to do without needing to exercise his horse. I met Mother as she conducted Lucy upstairs to show her the duties that would be expected of her. I couldn’t help myself. Lucy’s face, her figure, her bearing – everything about her was mesmerising and I am ashamed to admit it, I stared as she approached and passed me on the stairs.

She noticed. A tiny smile played at the corner of her perfect mouth, and if I am not mistaken, she pulled herself a little more upright, her shoulders a little further back, her chin a little higher, as she ascended and I stood gaping.

Mother noticed too. While I was still sitting on a chair in the hall, pulling on my riding boots, she came back down, having presumably left Lucy in one of the rooms upstairs. She approached me and stood before me, her face clouded with anger.

‘I saw the way you looked at that girl. You steer clear of her, you hear me?’ Her voice was low and hissing. I supposed she did not want the other house servant, plain, simple Maggie, who was busy blacking the grate in the sitting room, to hear.

I was shocked but not surprised by the venom in her voice. It is not the first time she has spoken to me like this. I tried to appease her. ‘Of course, Mother. I was just struck by her beauty. I meant nothing by staring at her. What is her name, please?’

‘The girl’s name is Lucy Carter, though why you need to know that is beyond me. I am warning you, if you go getting her into trouble, I will throw you out, and make sure your father leaves you not a penny. Do you hear? Do you understand me?’

‘I hear you, Mother,’ I answered. ‘Please be assured I would never do anything to harm her, or any other servant we might employ.’ It’s not in my nature to harm another human. Did she not know that? My own mother? Did she not know my character?

‘You say that, but you’re a man, and I know what men are like and what they are capable of, when their heads are turned by a pretty face. She comes with good references and I don’t want to lose her. You’ll keep your hands to yourself and your eyes averted, my boy. Your brother would not have looked at her like that. He, at least, is an honourable man. You are too much like your father.’ She turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs.

I sighed. This was not the first time she had turned on me like that, for apparently no reason. But perhaps I had stared too much, too openly, and perhaps she was justified in her admonishment. I pulled on my riding boots and took Bella for the hardest gallop she’d ever had. We both came back sweating and exhausted, our thoughts only on refreshment and rest.

I was late for lunch, and it was already laid out in the dining room – a buffet of cold cuts, scones, pickles and pies. With no time to change or freshen up, I went straight in, pulled out a chair and sat down. Father was already seated at the head of the table, his plate piled high, his wine glass part-filled with a deep rusty claret. Mother was hovering at the sideboard, picking the choicest morsels of cold beef and ham. And Lucy, sweet-faced Lucy, was going around the table filling water glasses from a large ewer.

She smiled at me as I sat, and then she was there, beside me, her hip pressing slightly against my upper arm. ‘Water, sir?’

Her voice, in just those two words, was melodious, rich, and was I imagining it or did I detect a tiny hint of mischief in the way she raised her intonation at the end of the short sentence, as though she was offering more than a simple glass of water?

I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak, as my mother was glaring at me from across the table. What I was not imagining was the pressure of Lucy’s thigh against my arm, as she leaned across me to fill my glass.

And so this evening, as I write my journal, I find myself pondering the events of the day and the attractions of sweet Lucy, and wondering whether her pressure against me was accidental or intentional. I can reach no conclusion. I find myself half wishing Mr Smythe were still here to work through the puzzle with me, as though it were a mathematical problem or a philosophical question. But I am grown now, and the problem is my own, and only I can solve it. Why is this girl who I have set eyes on only thrice (the third time being at the dinner table where she once again waited on us) filling my mind so, and leaving no room for anything else?

10th February

Lucy is all I can think about. She fills my senses, my waking thoughts and my dreams with her presence. I find myself prowling through the house looking for her. I stand and watch her at her work, as she sets the dining table for the next meal, or crouches by a fireplace to black the grates, or passes a duster over a mantelpiece. I try to catch her on the stairs, and pass her, uttering what I hope is a cheery ‘good morning’ with a smile. She smiles back, and dips her head, and occasionally says to me, ‘good morning, sir,’ in her warm, melodious voice that seems to melt my insides.

And I have begun wondering, what would life be like if she and I could … I know our stations in life are vastly different but does that matter? If two people love each other, why does it matter that one is a gentleman and the other a servant? I think she does like me. We have had a few conversations – just a dozen snatched words as she goes about her work. Comments on the weather, on how well she has polished a sideboard, how hard it must be to keep all Mother’s ornaments dust-free. I speak and she responds and smiles at me, and my day is made. For the first time I have begun to dream of possible futures for myself, and, I confess, in many of those futures Lucy features.

But today, something more happened that I must write here. I came across her in the drawing room this morning, and stood by the door watching her as she bent to plump cushions and straighten antimacassars. Her slim figure stretching over the sofa back was something to behold. She spotted I was there, and stood straight, turning to me.

‘Come in, sir, please don’t let me stop you.’ She curtsied as she spoke, and tilted her pretty head on one side, and I felt my heart flutter. I entered the room, and sat on the sofa she had just finished straightening. To my surprise she didn’t continue working, but stood before me. ‘You like me, sir, don’t you?’ she said, and I blushed to my roots.

‘I-I think you are a very fine servant. And a most b-beautiful young woman,’ I stuttered.

She took a step forward and to my surprise and delight put a soft, white hand on my shoulder. ‘And I think you are a fine young man.’

I confess, my mouth flapped a little like a fish out of water, and then I managed to squeak out some words and bade her sit beside me. The door to the room was almost closed; no one would see us. My mother’s wrath would be fearsome indeed if she’d caught a glimpse of us together. Lucy sat, smoothing her skirts beneath her, placing herself close to me – so close that I could feel the warmth of her leg beside mine, and she turned to look at me, her mouth ever so slightly open, ever so slightly smiling at me. And I was lost for words. I wanted to lean in to her, breathe her scent, kiss her soft lips.

She tipped her head to one side, regarding me. ‘You are lonely, I think?’

‘I-I am. Yes.’

‘Your parents pay you little notice.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘You are right. Th – they don’t much care for me, I think.’

‘I understand. I have felt it too, in my own family. It is hard to feel unloved.’ And then she put her hand over mine, on my knee, and she leaned towards me and kissed me on the corner of my mouth. I confess, here in my journal, that I was too surprised to respond in any way, and so I just sat there, open-mouthed.

She smiled again and then stood, breaking the spell. ‘I must continue with my chores, sir. It has been nice to talk to you.’ She dipped in a small curtsy once more and then turned away to continue dusting, as I sat there mutely and wondering what it all meant and whether it would happen again and resolving if it did I should kiss her back. But just as I decided to call her back to sit with me again, the drawing room door was pushed open and my father walked in, a newspaper under his arm.

Lucy curtsied to him, gathered her cleaning cloths and brushes and hurried out of the room. My father, I noticed, kept his eyes on her the whole time, a smirk on his face and a calculating look in his eye. I left the room, hoping to find Lucy still in the hallway but she had gone. Perhaps tomorrow I will find her again and we will be able to interact some more, and maybe I will even kiss her properly …

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