Page 103 of Duke of Diamonds
Fiona handled each item with care, as though any sudden movement might disturb the stillness of what remained.
Then something else caught her eye.
In the far corner of the room, half hidden behind an old chest of drawers, lay a book. Its leather binding was cracked and dulled with age, the surface thick with dust and threaded with cobwebs.
She crouched, reached for it carefully, and wiped it clean with the corner of a linen cloth.
The cover creaked as she opened it. Slanted handwriting lined the first page, andMarywas written.
Is this her journal?
The ink had faded in places, the penmanship delicate, and slanted with youth and the sort of romantic hopefulness that was evident. Fiona turned the first page with care.
May 2nd.
Today, I met a gentleman during my walk along the west meadow. He was not as finely dressed as the others I’ve encountered, but there was something in his manner—quiet, observant—that made me feel... noticed. He called himself Mr. F. I did not ask more. I rather liked the mystery. His eyes are the color of moss after rain—green and deep and not easily forgotten. When he looks at me, I feel as though I am the most curious and delightful creature he has ever seen. It is absurd, and yet I believe him.
Fiona’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity already catching flame.Not finely dressed... who was he?she wondered, turning the page with more eagerness than she expected.
May 10th.
Mr. F met me again by the stream. He waited with a basket of fruit and bread, and we shared it beneath the hawthorn tree. The shade was gentle, and a breeze stirred the grass like a whisper. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does speak, his words are clever and kind, always touched with something soft. He told me he liked the sound of my laugh, then said nothing else for a long while, just looked at me with those green eyes of his, as though he were memorizing the lines of my face. He asked to see me again. I did not say yes. I did not say no either.
She glanced up briefly, the shadows of the room pressing quietly around her. A basket, a stream, a hawthorn tree—it sounded idyllic, innocent. Romantic.
May 19th.
I’ve never laughed so freely. He recited lines from Shakespeare, but mocked them too, and then made up his own verses that were both dreadful and perfect. He calls me ‘my nymph of the hedgerow.’ It is terrible poetry. I adore it. His smile is crooked and often too quick, but when it lingers, I feel warmed from the inside out. He told me today that no one has ever made him feel at ease the way I do. I did not know what to say. I only smiled and offered him another blackberry. I think he understood.
Fiona let out the faintest sound, a breath of something close to amusement.Terrible poetry,she thought.And yet she adored him for it.The affection in the words was palpable.
May 27th.
I think I love him. It frightens me. It thrills me. I have read novels that speak of love in sighs and sorrows, but this—this is a sort of quiet joy that catches in my throat when I see him waiting for me. I wonder what he sees in me, this man with thoughtful eyes and a careful smile. But when he takes my hand, I forget how to doubt. That must be love, mustn’t it?
Fiona paused.Love.The word had been underlined, but faintly—as though Mary had pressed the pen down and then changed her mind.
Fiona flipped further, reading fragments, little snapshots of secret meetings and growing devotion. There were walks beneath starlight, laughter over blackberries stolen from the hedge, kisses pressed between hedgerows. But alwaysMr. F.His name never appeared.
She was protecting him,Fiona thought.Even from the safety of her own diary.
The idea pierced her unexpectedly. This man—this Mr. F—had loved Mary, perhaps with the whole of his heart, and had lost her. Just as her family had. Just as Isaac had.
He must have been broken when she died.
The tragedy folded in on itself, each word Mary had written speaking of a life cut short just as it was beginning. A love that had no chance to grow old.
Fiona closed the journal carefully, cradling it in her lap. Perhaps Isaac had never found it. Perhaps it had been lost in the shuffle, hidden in a forgotten corner all this time.
She pressed her hand over the cover and whispered, “I’ll keep reading.”
And so she did.
Later that evening, Fiona took the journal with her, curling beneath the coverlet in her chamber. The candlelight beside her created dancing shadows across the pages as she read.
She did not even realize when sleep took her.
The following morning, the breakfast room was silent once again when she walked in.
