After a minute, however, Hyacinth was confident that Lady D really had fallen asleep. So she continued reading to herself, laboriously translating each sentence in her head. The next entry was dated a few months later; Isabella expressed her relief that Anne had delivered a boy, who had been christened George. The baron was beside himself with pride, and had even given his wife the gift of a gold bracelet.
Hyacinth flipped a few pages ahead, trying to see how long it would be until Isabella reached 1797, the year of Gareth’s birth. One, two, three…She counted the pages, passing quickly through the years. Seven, eight, nine…Ah, 1796. Gareth had been born in March, so if Isabella had written about his conception, it would be here, not 1797.
Ten pages away, that was all.
And it occurred to her—
Why not skip ahead? There was no law requiring her to read the diary in perfect, chronological order. She could just peek ahead to 1796 and 1797 and see if there was anything relating to Gareth and his parentage. If not, she’d go right back to where she’d left off and start reading anew.
And wasn’t it Lady Danbury who’d said that patience most certainly was not a virtue?
Hyacinth glanced ruefully down at 1793, then, holding the five leaves of paper as one, shifted to 1796.
Back…forth…back…
Forth.
She turned to 1796, and planted her left hand down so that she wouldn’t turn back again.
Definitely forth.
“24 June 1796,” she read to herself. “I arrived at Clair House for a summer visit, only to be informed that my son had already left for London.”
Hyacinth quickly subtracted months in her head. Gareth was born in March of 1797. Three months took her back to December 1796, and another six to—
June.
And Gareth’s father was out of town.
Barely able to breathe, Hyacinth read on:
Anne seems contented that he is gone, and little George is such a treasure. Is it so terrible to admit that I am more happy when Richard isn’t here? It is such a joy to have all the persons I love so close…
Hyacinth scowled as she finished the entry. There was nothing out of the ordinary there. Nothing about a mysterious stranger, or an improper friend.
She glanced up at Lady Danbury, whose head was now tilted awkwardly back. Her mouth was hanging a bit open, too.
Hyacinth turned resolutely back to the diary, turning to the next entry, dated three months later.
She gasped.
Anne is carrying a child. And we all know it cannot be Richard’s. He has been away for two months. Two months. I am afraid for her. He is furious. But she will not reveal the truth.
“Reveal it,” Hyacinth ground out. “Reveal it.”
“Enh?”
Hyacinth slammed the book shut and looked up. Lady Danbury was stirring in her seat.
“Why did you stop reading?” Lady D asked groggily.
“I didn’t,” Hyacinth lied, her fingers holding the diary so tightly it was a wonder she didn’t burn holes through the binding. “You fell asleep.”
“Did I?” Lady Danbury murmured. “I must be getting old.”
Hyacinth smiled tightly.
“Very well,” Lady D said with a wave of her hand. She fidgeted a bit, moving first to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again. “I’m awake now. Let’s get back to Miss Butterworth.”