Chapter 2- Margaret #3
She’d found precisely the right one in the fourth shop they’d visited.
The book had a burgundy leather cover tooled with gold leaf at the edges.
It was a far cry from the plain, sturdy book she’d written in daily for the past three years, but Margaret’s dressing had improved with their change of fortune; it was only right that Ruth had a new dress, too.
Margaret was also determined not to write so densely upon the page in this new journal as she had in the last. Of course, that had been from pure necessity—there certainly hadn’t been money for stationery when there’d barely been enough coin for food.
Now, Margaret intended to use a page per day—a scandalous abuse of wealth by her previous standard of trying to fit three or four days onto one page.
Yet it cramped her hand to write that way and it made her dizzy trying to read what she’d written.
She reasoned that a page per day was as much for her health as anything.
Margaret sailed into her large room, barely noticing the silk-upholstered walls, the expensive furnishings, and the beautiful coverlet. It was true—with enough exposure, the most luxurious of surroundings became commonplace. Even when one was determined not to take anything for granted ever again.
At her desk, Margaret set down her stack and began unwrapping the parcels—pens and ink, the aforementioned journal, and some new wax and loose parchment for sending letters to her other sisters in Paris.
The youngest four had all begged the eldest to write often about the Season so they might know what to expect when their turn came.
Margaret set her new journal in the old one’s place. She gasped and jolted.
Where was it?
Her heart pounded. Her eyes went wide. Her fingers curled against the polished wood.
Her old journal wasn’t in the spot where it had been only this morning. Margaret had thought about taking it with her to compare its size to new ones as she shopped, but she’d decided against that idea. Hadn’t she?
But then where had she put it? Margaret sifted through her desk, pushing her purchases to the side and opening all the cubbies—even those far too small to contain her personal diary.
A sudden memory—a momentary image—flashed in her mind. Margaret distinctly remembered holding her much-beloved, worn journal up against a new brown one. Panic choked her throat and turned her thoughts into stuttering, foolish things that ran into one another.
Margaret stood, staggered back, and gaped in horror. There was no possible way she would have forgotten it somewhere—misplaced it during their shopping trip. It was impossible.
She had debated with herself at length as to the advisability of taking the journal from the safe confines of home in the first place.
Margaret rarely left the thing on her desktop, let alone took it from her bedroom.
It had too much information, too much honesty to ever let the thing from her sight.
Heaven forbid her sisters knew what she truly thought of all of them.
Heaven forbid they found out what she’d been up to all those years.
Heaven forbid it wasn’t her sisters at all who found out, but a complete stranger…
Margaret’s breathing grew shallow. Her knees shook until she nearly collapsed into her desk chair. She couldn’t have left it out there, could she? She wouldn’t have.
And yet, that image of her holding the old up next to the new wouldn’t leave her mind. That had happened. She’d brought her journal out and left it somewhere.
Margaret ran for the door. She told herself there was no possible way she could have. She wouldn’t have. Her journal was sitting on the plush seat of the carriage even now. She’d been the last to exit and she’d left it behind, that was all.
She’d meet a footman bringing it to her on her way down, surely. Except she didn’t meet anyone as she ran down the stairs. She ignored the curious glances of the servants in the kitchen as she barreled past them with wide, frightened eyes.
In the stables, she was met with the familiar scent of warm horse and hay and nearly ran directly into the groomsman who was still unhooking the last of the horses from their harness.
“Miss Margaret,” he said, nodding his head and yanking at the cap he wasn’t wearing. “Is everything all right?”
It took Margaret a moment to catch her breath and speak past the terror that burgeoned like sickness in her stomach. “I left something in the carriage. A book?”
The man frowned. “I didn’t see one when I removed the heating bricks, Miss, but I’m happy to check again.”
“No need,” she said. “I’ll look myself.”
“Certainly.”
He offered her a helping hand into the carriage, but even before Margaret hauled herself in the door, she could easily see that what he said was true—the compartment was completely empty. There was no journal on the plush seats, nor on the carpeted floor.
Margaret sat heavily on the padded seat and pressed a trembling hand to her midsection.
“Everything all right, Miss?”
“No. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I must ask you to reattach the horses. I need to go back to town, immediately.”