27. “Diamond Heart” - Alan Walker Sophia Somajo #2
“It was my grandmother’s,” she finally says, when she’s completed her assessment of me. If her slight lip curl is any indication, I didn’t pass the test. She must be Team William, which is ironic, considering she’s the reason the diary was discovered in the first place.
“Do you happen to know how she got it?” I add as much sugar to my voice as I can tolerate without gagging.
“She found it.”
Pulling my best poker face, I glance at Henry. He meets my gaze, then says in a bored tone, “Mrs. Schumann, tell me more about you. I think under different circumstances you and I would have been great friends.”
She positively simpers at him, and her skin becomes translucent in the sunlight.
She launches into a narrative of her past, both as a child and an adult.
Henry steers us toward a bed overflowing with early summer flowers—delphinium, irises, peonies—while asking questions and chuckling at her answers.
I’m clearly the third wheel, but it’s a position I’m willing to overlook, provided Mrs. Schumann tells us something that proves the diary is legitimate.
After the ten or fifteen minutes it takes to wander the entire path of the garden, all filled with anecdotes from her past, Mrs. Schumann slows her pace.
“I believe I need to sit down, Your Royal Highness.” The clouds are gathering in large quantities now, and the sun has to wrestle them for any small opening through which to shine.
Henry leads us to a small wrought iron bench nestled in the embrace of a giant oak tree. A squirrel scolds our disruption of his sanctuary as we sit down.
“I’ve certainly enjoyed our chat, sir. But I know you came for more than that, and I’m not going to waste your time.
You have a country to run.” Mrs. Schumann looks at me before returning her gaze to him.
“You want to know how I came to have the diary. Like I said, it was my grandmother’s, which is why I was so angry when that nitwit Caleb donated it.
He has no respect for history or family.
Can’t even come visit his own grandmother.
Always gallivanting around the globe somewhere. ” She waves her hand in frustration.
“But I’m getting sidetracked. My grandmother was a housemaid in the palace before she got married. Served under King William II. They had done some remodeling in the servants’ quarters, and her room must have been a lady’s maid’s before, or she’d never have found it.”
Henry and I stay silent, hoping she’ll continue.
“She said it was wedged in the fireplace, hidden behind a loose brick. She only found it because of a tumble she took one day. Fortunately, it was summertime and no fire was lit. But she tripped and stumbled backwards into the fireplace. When she went to pull herself out, she grabbed onto a brick, but it was loose. That’s when she discovered the book.
“Then I found it one day, in the attic of her cottage. I was young, no more than fifteen, enamored by everything about the royal family. I had dreams of working at the palace myself. So when I saw it belonged to the queen’s maid, I could hardly contain myself.
“I took it to my grandmother. She was on her deathbed, but her mind was still sharp. She told me the story I just told you, about finding it in the fireplace, and told me to keep the book safe. And I did, until that little twat Caleb got rid of it.” Mrs. Schumann scowls at him in belated reproach.
The garden is now bathed in silence but for the gentle breeze in the trees and the twittering of birds. I recognize the trill of a European robin calling its mate. I’m afraid if I speak, the woman will clam up again.
Finally, Henry says, “That’s an incredible story, Mrs. Schumann. Did you end up working at the palace?”
He couldn’t have pleased her more. “I certainly did. Served your great-grandfather, I did, as housemaid. Not for long, of course, because I fell in love and got married. But those were some of the best years of my life.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know if there were employment records kept back then, would you?” he asks. “Maybe a book or register of who was hired and their position?”
She waves her hand. “Oh, sure. The butler did all of the hiring in those days. I’m sure it’s quite different now. He had a big black book where he kept track of everything. I watched him write my name in it when I joined the staff.”
Where is Henry going with these questions? I look at him, but he keeps his eyes on Mrs. Schumann, and a smile tugs at one side of his mouth. “I don’t suppose you saw where he put it when he was done, did you?”
She laughs, a shrill cackle that startles the robins. “Of course I did. He had a shelf behind his desk with a whole bunch of books. Don’t know what they all were, but I doubt they’re still there. Everything’s gone to all those computers and whatnot these days.”
This seems to satisfy Henry, because he stands and says, “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Schumann. It’s been the highlight of my week. Now, let’s get you back inside.”
She titters and blushes at this, something I didn’t realize was still possible at her age. We say our goodbyes, and as I walk briskly to the car, I realize that this was my last hope, and now it’s gone. I’ve become society’s pariah, Henry’s practice target, and a stranger to the people I love.
For better or for worse, I’m stuck in this role I no longer have any desire to play.