not stop to listen, on hearing their own name mentioned?
‘I don’t know what will become of George,’ my father said. ‘It is a shame we are not at war. If we were, I would buy him a commission. Fighting for his country would toughen him up. Lord knows he needs it. That tutor we employed – Smythe – was far too soft on the boy. Never thrashed him once, as far as I could tell.’
A commission! I suppressed a gasp at this. While I did not know what I wanted for my future, a commission in the army was certainly not it. I had no desire whatsoever to become a soldier.
‘Hmm. Not all boys need thrashing,’ Dr Moore answered. ‘He seems a pleasant lad, well informed and intelligent. I’d say Smythe was good for him, from what I’ve seen. You could still buy him a commission – we need an army whether or not we are at war. But is it the right thing for him?’
‘What do you mean, the right thing? Something needs to be done to make a man of him. He’s too soft and sensitive, always reading poetry and wandering about the countryside looking at flowers. Women’s pursuits.’ Father snorted, and there was a moment’s silence in which I imagined him taking a sip of his port and shaking his head sadly. It is true, though, I do love to read verse and seek out rare flowers in the hedgerows and meadows of our beautiful countryside.
‘The world needs all kinds of men, Albert old chap. Not just the tough soldier boys. There’ll be a place for him in this world. You just need to help him find it.’
‘He’ll get no help from me. The house and estate will go to Charles. There won’t be enough money to keep George for life. He’ll have to find some sort of profession I suppose. But he shows no interest in the clergy, or medicine. What else is there?’
‘Oh, there are plenty of professions beyond those, Albert. Law, or teaching, or business. Perhaps you should send him to Oxford or Cambridge. He’s bright enough.’ I raised my eyebrows at this. I had never considered a university career. I wondered whether I would enjoy life in academia. Perhaps I might. My musings were cut short by my father’s reply.
‘I can’t afford to send him to university, Jonathan. And I don’t see the point. I never went, so why should he? Yes, I suppose he will need to make his own way in business. I just don’t see how he’ll be any good at it. His head’s always too much in the clouds.’
‘What does Augusta think?’
‘Hmph. She has less time for him than I do. You know, she never got over losing the girls. If she hadn’t been heavily pregnant she might have been able to do more for Elizabeth. And George was sick with influenza just before Isobel died of that same disease. He survived it while she did not. I think poor Augusta never forgave him for that.’
‘Hardly the boy’s fault, though, was it?’ Dr Moore said. ‘There was nothing that could be done for either of your little girls, unfortunately, or for the other child. Don’t forget I tended to them all during their final days, the poor mites.’
‘I know. No one’s blaming you. I just think that Augusta blames George, illogical though that is. She wastes no love or time on him, I’m afraid.’
‘And yet you don’t try to make up for this?’
Father sighed and paused before answering. ‘I should, I suppose. But I find the boy hard to like. I will keep him until he is of age. I will pay him an allowance until he is established in some kind of profession. And then he will need to make his own way in life.’
‘Well, I suppose if you don’t like the boy, that’s as much as you can be expected to do. Parenting is a difficult task. I am glad Amelia and I never had any children. I’d have been no better at it.’
I raised my eyebrows again at this last statement from the doctor. I had never before considered that parents could be good or bad at parenting. I had always assumed I must be unlovable, and that is why my parents didn’t love me. Could the fault actually lie with them?
At that moment the drawing room door opened, and my mother came out, calling behind her to Amelia Moore that she was just fetching her latest bonnet to show her. She pulled up short on seeing me lurking in the hallway.
‘What are you doing here? I thought you were drinking port with the men?’
‘They didn’t want me. I was on my way upstairs to my room.’ I stepped on to the first step as though to prove myself.
‘Oh. Good.’ She pushed past me and climbed the stairs quickly, no doubt wanting to get back to the drawing room as fast as she could.
I followed her up, and spent the rest of the evening in my room, reading the poetry that my father sneered at.
That evening, as I said, occurred about a week ago. I have replayed what Father said many times, praying that he does not buy me a commission, for I know I would loathe being in the army. I know I will need to think of some kind of profession and find a way to build myself a career, but for the moment I have no idea what that should be. I should like to be a botanist but I cannot see how I can earn a living following that pursuit. For the time being, and until I am of age, I shall just have to remain here.
Now, at nineteen, and no longer under the tutelage of Mr Smythe, I can use this journal to explore my feelings and try to decide upon a desirable future course for myself, knowing that these pages will only ever be seen by my own eyes. Setting everything down in words may help me to look deep inside myself and determine whether I should harden my own heart against my parents and their apparent lack of regard for me, or whether I should continue to do what I can to impress my father and win the love of my mother.
It is late and I grow weary of writing by gaslight. I will continue tomorrow, for something important happened earlier today which I need to capture in my journal.
31st January
We have employed, as of yesterday, a new upstairs maidservant, to replace one my mother had found unsatisfactory in some way, although quite what was wrong with the previous girl whom I’d thought was pretty and personable, was unclear to me.
The new girl’s name is Lucy. She is the sweetest-looking girl one could ever hope to see. Her hair is a light brown, wavy tendrils of it escape her cap and curl about her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are wide, their colour is hard to describe – in some lights they look brown, in others blue, and in still others, green. Perhaps I shall call them hazel. They are intriguing, mystifying eyes like none I have ever had the fortune to gaze upon before. Her figure is slight, trim, neat and efficient. We call women the weaker sex, but Lucy’s bearing suggests a hidden, exciting strength. Were I a painter, I would ask her to sit for me; I would try to capture that elusive eye colour, that regal bearing, that aura of mystical beauty she carries with her.
She arrived mid-morning. I was on my way downstairs, considering taking my father’s bay mare Bella for a gallop across the bare fields. He rarely takes the poor creature out, and the groom and stable hands have enough work to do without needing to exercise his horse. I met Mother as she conducted Lucy upstairs to show her the duties that would be expected of her. I couldn’t help myself. Lucy’s face, her figure, her bearing – everything about her was mesmerising and I am ashamed to admit it, I stared as she approached and passed me on the stairs.
She noticed. A tiny smile played at the corner of her perfect mouth, and if I am not mistaken, she pulled herself a little more upright, her shoulders a little further back, her
