The journals were stacked neatly inside, just as I had remembered them—leather-bound, faded in places, but still intact. There were six volumes in all, neatly organized by date. I sat down, taking the first journal in my hands and running my fingers over the cover.
Her name, A. Darcy, was inscribed on the front in gold leaf, almost worn away from years of use.
I took a deep breath, turned the cover, and began to read.
June 12th, 1788
The roses in the garden have bloomed early this year, a welcome sight after the wet spring we’ve had. Fitzwilliam came to visit today, full of energyand curiosity. I had hardly finished my tea when I saw him climbing the oak tree in the garden, completely disregarding my warnings. He has such confidence for a boy of his age. His father would have laughed, I am sure, though I suspect George will have words with him about the state of his clothing.
He did not fall, thankfully, but he did manage to ruin his shirt in the process. When I suggested that perhaps his father might be displeased, he simply smiled that sly little smile of his, as if he already knew he would not be punished.
I smiled as I read, though the memory was hazy now. Climbing trees? I wondered what Mother and Father thought of that. They must have permitted it, surely, but I could hardly remember being given leave to indulge in such exploits. When Georgiana was born, all such permissiveness immediately became hers, while I was groomed for weightier duties. But it seems that when I was young—well, I had found trouble in the smallest of places. And grandmother had written about it with a certain level of loving exasperation.
December 23rd, 1788
The snow has fallen heavily, and it appears may not, after all, host the Fitzwilliam family this Christmas. Dear Anne will be terribly disappointed. But she came with Fitzwilliam to call this morning, and it is such a joy to have them here on these wintry mornings.
Fitzwilliam brought me a gift—a collection of pastoral poems. I suspect he chose it because it was the only book in the shop that was not on warfare or politics. What can a child of four comprehend of such things? I shall treasure it. He pretended to be uninterested when I opened it, but I could see the way his eyes darted over to watch my reaction.
I paused, feeling a lump form in my throat. Christmas at Pemberley had always been a grand affair, but the memories were distant now, clouded by time. I could almost hear Mother’s… and, later, Georgiana’s delicate fingers on the pianoforte, playing the soft melodies that filled the drawing room, her face flushed with the quiet pride of someone who loved to play but hated to be watched.
I closed my eyes, letting the sweetness of those memories linger for a moment before turning the page.
As I continued through the journals, the entries were full of small, personal moments—glimpses of my childhood, memories of family gatherings, Christmases at Pemberley. I had forgottenhow much time we spent at the dower house, how often we visited my grandmother, and how much those small, seemingly insignificant moments had shaped me.
But they were also mundane in a way that was beginning to annoy me. I had come looking for something specific, and I found myself growing impatient as I skimmed through pages that held nothing of real consequence.
But then I found her.
September 2nd, 1797
Today, a new companion arrived—a woman by the name of Isobel McLean. George found her through his brother-in-law, Matlock. I understand she was living in Edinburgh. I was quite cynical of her at first, but he said he was sure the woman would suit me well. She does have a very proper look about her, though she has a rather superstitious way of drinking her tea. Though she hails from Scotland, I suspect she has traveled more than she lets on.
She speaks little of her past, though there is a sadness in her eyes that she cannot quite hide. She said she once had a brother but now tells me she has no family left, which is hardly surprising. Too sad of a tale these last fifty years. I suppose that is why she has come so far to seek employment.
She is a little… odd, but she seems capable enough. I have given her quarters in the house, and she has taken to her duties well enough, though I have noticed that she tends to speak to herself when she thinks no one is listening.
That was her—Isobel, Ewan’s sister. I could feel a prickle of anticipation as I read. I turned the page, eager to find more, but what followed were several weeks’ worth of entries detailing nothing more than garden improvements and social calls. I kept reading, more intently now.
October 7th, 1797
Fitzwilliam visited today, and it was such a joy to see him growing into a fine young man. He has his father’s serious nature, but there is a lightness about him as well, a curiosity that keeps him asking questions and seeking answers. I find him thoughtful beyond his years, though I worry that he carries too much weight for someone so young. The loss of his mother last year, I fear, has quite taken the shine out of his eyes, but he dotes on little Georgiana. I daresay his father is quite proud of him.
Miss McLean was quite taken with him. She watched him closely throughout his visit, almost too closely. Several times, I caught her muttering to herself—something about “that’s the lad,” though I could not make out the full meaning of it. It was rather peculiar, and I wonder if perhaps she is not entirely well. I will speak to George about it if this behavior continues.
My heart stilled.
I remembered none of this. Grandmother always had a companion of sorts, but I never paid them any mind. Isobel McLean—Ewan’s sister—had been watching me even then? I turned another page, half-expecting some revelation, but the next entries were disappointingly mundane. There was nothing else about her peculiar behavior, nothing more about “the lad.”
Had Ewan been communicating with her even then? Had I somehow been part of Ewan’s plans since childhood?
The question gnawed at me as I flipped through the rest of the journal, scanning for any other mentions of Isobel. There were a few—passing comments about her competence, her occasional oddities—but nothing more of the sort that had been written on that strange October day.
May 20, 1799
Miss McLean has become more withdrawn in recent days. She speaks even less than usual, though her workremains impeccable. Today, as we sat for tea, she seemed distracted, her eyes constantly flicking to the window as if she were waiting for someone.
I asked her if something was amiss, but she only smiled politely and said that all was well. I do not believe her. There is something she is not telling me.
