CHAPTER TEN
Worried about Kitty, I knocked softly on her door.
She’d trained as a physiotherapist after leaving school, but she was in between jobs right now, having finished her contract with the local council just before Christmas.
She called for me to wait a minute and I could hear some opening and shutting of drawers from within. Then the door opened.
‘Hi, love. Your favourite show’s on TV tonight and I thought maybe we could all watch it together?’ I kept my tone deliberately light. No pressure. ‘There’s pizza in the freezer and I could break out a bottle of wine?’
‘Okay. I might.’ She smiled. ‘I’m . . . um . . . busy with something at the moment, but maybe I’ll come down later?’
‘What are doing, then?’ I asked cheerily, trying to see into the room behind her. But she was effectively blocking my view.
‘Oh, just a project.’
I grinned. ‘Ooh, very secretive.’
As long as her project didn’t involve vodka, I was all for it.
I’d been hoping she might elaborate. But all she said was, ‘Right. Well, maybe I’ll come down later.’ And she closed the door.
I sighed, feeling as if I’d got precisely nowhere.
Now that I’d promised to make food, I decided I’d better carry through just in case Kitty decided to join us.
So I knocked on Blaize’s door and she brightened up at the mention of pizza and wine.
Mum was planning to iron her outfit for the next day and top up her highlights, but she said she’d have time for some pizza.
‘Great! Maybe we could all eat at the kitchen table for a change,’ I suggested.
She shrugged. ‘If you like. I’m not bothered.’
I sighed inwardly. ‘I just thought it might be nice. You know? The four of us chatting about our day like we used to when Dad was . . ?’ I tailed off at the look on her face. ‘I could put some music on and maybe light a few candles.’
‘Candles?’ Blaize came into the sitting room at that point and flopped down on the sofa. ‘It all sounds very . . . cosy, Lizzie. But I think I’d rather eat pizza watching TV.’
‘I agree,’ said Mum waspishly. ‘Less chance of you having another go at me, Blaize, for – shock horror – putting furniture that I paid for up for sale.’
Blaize turned and glared at her. ‘That’s not the point and you know it. It’s not just any old furniture. It was where Dad wrote his stories.’
Mum sighed. ‘I know, I know. And actually, I’ve decided not to sell it, after all.’
‘Really?’ I looked at her, feeling quite relieved. Mainly for the sake of family relations.
‘Yes. It can go in the spare room.’
‘Brilliant.’ Blaize stood up, looking delighted to have won the argument. ‘Right, what kind of pizza are we having?’
I felt quite exhausted by the time I finally headed for bed.
I hated coming down to a messy kitchen in the morning and had been itching to clear up. But Blaize had declared it could wait till the morning and for once, she and Mum had agreed on something. So I’d made myself leave it on principle.
I’d made an effort tonight, cooking the pizza and trying to bring everyone together. It hadn’t worked and I was fed up with them all. I didn’t see why I should have to roll up my sleeves and start stacking the dishwasher as well!
Kitty hadn’t even shown her face, except to nip down and grab some pizza before heading back upstairs. It had all been for her in the first place, and I was left feeling empty and dispirited.
As I flumped gratefully into bed, my eyelids were drooping. With a regretful glance at Leonard’s wooden box on my bedside table, I put out the light and sank into sleep.
*****
Early next morning, while the house was still silent, I crept downstairs and made myself some tea. Then I took it back to my room and sat cross-legged on my bed in my dressing-gown with the wooden box in front of me.
My heart was beating that little bit faster as I examined the keepsakes – the scrap of lace was so delicate and beautifully made, and I stared for a long time at the tiny portrait of the woman. Was she the owner of the box? Or was she a loved one? Someone’s mother?
I had a feeling looking at the tiny handwriting on the front of the notebook that it had been a young woman who had stored her precious possessions away so carefully.
The lock of brown hair tied with a red ribbon was so intriguing.
Was it a keepsake to remember a relative who had died?
A sister or a brother? Or maybe the woman in the portrait?
Looking closer, squinting slightly to read the tiny writing, it seemed my hunch was correct.
In an elegant, curling hand was written the words:
A Journal
Begun the 23rd day of March, 1814
By Charlotte Farmer, aged 25
Opening the notebook, I was both surprised and charmed by the handwriting. It was so tiny, it was quite hard to read, especially since the sentences were so closely packed together on each page.
Squinting slightly, I started to read.
The writer, Charlotte, had attended the local church that day, and she mentioned various families she’d conversed with after the service: ‘the Wallaces, the St Johns and the widowed Mrs Clary and her poorly son, Thomas’.
I wondered what was wrong with Thomas. It must have been such a worry back then when your child was ill, because you’d have to rely on local doctors who would charge for their services and would employ techniques that would make our stomachs churn these days – like blood-letting, purging and the use of leeches.
I felt a pang of worry for poor Thomas. Maybe I’d find out his fate further on in the diary?
Charlotte’s description of the vicar did make me smile, though.
‘The Rev. Gunwalloe gave his usual dreary sermon, during which I endeavoured to keep an interested smile on my face. I was hugely entertained by noting that our ill-mannered landlord was nodding off to sleep at the end of the front pew. (Due to a surfeit of port after his dinner last night, I would imagine.) I thought he might topple over into the aisle. But the Rev. Gunwalloe’s loud announcement of the hymn awoke him in time! ’
When she mentioned that her cousins from London were travelling up ‘to stay with us in Hampshire’, I felt a little jolt of excitement. I knew now where this amusing young woman called Charlotte had lived! What else would I discover when I read on?
Mum popped her head round the door at that moment, wanting to show me her latest outfit.
‘What do you think, Lizzie? Do I look the part for a day at the races?’ She twisted this way and that, posing in a silky, lilac dress that she’d teamed with a navy blazer and navy shoes.
‘You look lovely,’ I told her honestly. ‘But, Mum, you’re going to freeze to death in that get-up!’
‘Don’t worry. I’m wearing my fake fur and I’ll just take it off for the photos.’ She frowned. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
I glanced at my phone in alarm. ‘Is that the time? I need to get ready!’
Leaping off the bed, I dashed for the shower. Mum hadn’t even noticed the wooden box so I didn’t have to waste time explaining what it was.
Doubling back, I put the notebook diary back in the box and closed the lid. Then I replaced it carefully in Leonard’s plastic bag.
In the shower, my mind drifted to what I’d just read, and I suddenly thought of something that made me forget I was in a hurry to get to work on time.
As I quickly lathered up, it had occurred to me that Jane Austen had lived in Hampshire during her later years, in the cottage at Chawton. And it boggled my mind to think that my young diarist Charlotte must have been alive at the same time, and living in the same county!