Page 7 of Forgotten No More

Lady Haversham released her light hold on Harold’s arm and moved to her husband’s side. “I thought you had retired to the card room, my love.”

“I fear no games caught my interest this evening, and I wanted to see that you are feeling well. What were you two so deep in conversation about?”

“After we danced, I came to check on Ruby,” Vi said. “I had not seen her return to the ballroom and I became concerned.”

Harold agreed Lady Haversham should be concerned, but about something entirely different. “I was explaining that Miss Ruby was not feeling well, and I escorted her to your carriage.”

Brock’s brow pulled in concern. “I hadn’t even realized she was attending this evening. Should we return home to check on her? I can call for a physician, if needed.”

“No, no, that is not necessary,” Harold cut in. He had no idea if she was indeed headed back to the townhouse. “She said she was going to rest for the evening and see you both at morning meal. I believe it is only a headache that ails her.”

He saw little need to worry either Brock or Lady Haversham until he knew more. He sensed that something larger was going on, but with little evidence beyond the discovery of Ruby rummaging through Yorkton’s desk, he could not in good conscience sound the alarm. She could very well turn the tables on him and ask his purpose for lurking about the same room.

“Ah, well, that is settled. If you are not overly fatigued, may I have the next dance, my darling?” Brock asked.

“I fear my dancing skills are a bit rusty,” Harold said.

Brock and Vi laughed as they joined arms and moved back toward the ballroom as the strings of a waltz floated through the open doors.

“Do not wait up for me,” Harold called to the retreating pair.

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Brock said over his shoulder.

Harold longed to call Lady Haversham back to finish their conversation. To find out who Ruby was avoiding and if she was in trouble—or somehow the cause of trouble. She’d certainly appeared anxious in Lord Yorkton’s study and downright frazzled when, he assumed, she hadn’t found what she’d been searching for.

For the second time that evening, Harold was happy for the reprieve from his own worries and problems. He hadn’t had a spare second to dwell on his much-needed return to his father’s home or his dull future as a country vicar. His brothers, the lucky bastards, had escaped the family home and forged their own way in the world. Unfortunately, as the youngest son Harold would not be afforded the same luxury—and his father was running out of patience.

He sighed. His days about town, and his freedom, were coming to an end all too quickly. Responsibility knocked louder and more forceful each day.

His life was a mess—did he have the right to get involved in someone else’s? Part of him doubted his ability to weigh in on Ruby’s actions when he lacked the fortitude to deal with his own situation.

Time was fleeting and Harold would spend the remaining weeks—or possibly days—doing what made him happy before settling on what satisfied his father.

In his hand, his glass stood empty. He set it on a small table and went in search of his own dance partner.

Chapter 4

27 November 1783

My time is near, and while I should be ever grateful for the kindness shown to me by Sir St. Augustin, I fear I am a wretched wife and soon to be horrid mother. For you see, dear journal, I want naught to do with this child. Whether it be a male with his eyes and penchant for romance, or a girl with my dark hair and formidable stature, I worry I cannot love it. How can I be made to live every day with the reminder of his child about the estate?

It is with sadness that I write this, what is to be my last correspondence within these pages. It is time I find another outlet for my grief and anguish, as my obsession with these words cannot improve my countenance.

Life is full of hardships, and I have suffered more than most women must. I trust that one day I too can be happy…though I fear my happiness will never come to be with my husband and child. Perhaps one day I will be strong enough to escape it all and find my true destiny.

Ruby closed the journal and laid her hand flat upon its cover. She’d held the book, pored over the words within it so many times the binding was wearing more with each passing day. The image of her mother scribbling frantically or holding the journal close was always in her mind.

She closed her eyes tight, suppressing her emotions and focusing on her anger. Her resentment. Her need for validation.

Every day, she swore she would never open the cursed book again, but time after time she found herself needing the reminder of why she was doing what she was doing—risking all she was in search of the truth. And to achieve this, it was imperative she not allow her emotions to get the best of her, to ruin her concentration and motivation.

She pored over the pages written in her mother’s neat handwriting, looking for clues to her father’s identity. With every reading, she found no mention of a name. Not a single morsel of information as to who this mysterious cad might have been.

She was disheartened, but continued to push forward.

The want to burn the book, turn it to ashes, was overwhelming. It would be so easy to return to her room and toss the damning tome into her own fireplace, watch the flames lick up its bound sides and the pages catch blaze, all of her mother’s deceptions vanishing before her eyes. Not a soul could prove what she knew—all she’d read.

Instead, she slipped the journal into the pocket of her apron, not trusting it to sit in open sight for any and all to see.