Note from K

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Sunday the 12th of April 1812

Today was not nearly as exciting as I had hoped it would be; however, I did suffer a less than a woman inflicted with no less than three mortal illness ought. A smallish triumph, then, I suppose.

As part of my self-examination, I will record my diet, exercise, ailments, aches, and sundry hallucinations. Furthermore, the daily happenings of this household will be documented. Should I elope with a rake and rob a string of counting houses, a constable may take pity upon me when he reads how dull my life has become.

Before breakfast I enjoyed two cups of tea not laced with herbs. Hidden under a loose board in an undisclosed location within the house, I keep a stash of unsullied leaves. As it was not mixed by comfrey or calendula, it tasted scrumptious.

After I dressed and “forgot” to apply several medicinal oils, I wrote a note to. . . no one. Women with delicate constitutions do not have friends, only forced acquaintances. I then descended to the breakfast room.

As a great deal of care has been given to my education, I shall put it to use to describe my home. Who knows? Perhaps one day my diary will inspire a novel or, even better yet, an opera.

Mother sat against a backdrop of walls as dark as midnight. The ornate plaster designs framed her distinctive silhouette—squared jaw, straight nose, assertive brow, encircled by a pressed frill collar. Morning light shone through the wall of windows to her right, throwing her face into stark contrast. She did not turn at my entry.

Pardon, did you ask a question, diary?

Oh yes, why did she not turn?

It was not because she was lost in thought nor was it because a dashing lord caught her eye. No, my mother, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, never notices anyone until it suits her—not even her own daughter.

Hester, my companion, had set out my “tea.” Unfortunately it had been ruined by the presence of medicinal herbs. A tincture of horse hair would have been preferential (which a physician has prescribed, twice). Unfortunately, cook frowns whenever I suggest it.

With as much rustling as one skirt can muster, I sat in my chair. Still, mother stared across the lawn just beyond the windows, lifting her cup to her lips without so much as a glance. A sliver of sunlight traced her profile, obscuring her features. Like a crescent moon, her face remained cloaked in darkness.

I knocked back the monstrosity they dared call tea without so much as a sputter. Nothing. Determined, I permitted my paper-thin cup to clatter against the saucer. No less than three droplets besmirched the maple tabletop. The corner of dear mummy’s mouth twitched. Success.

Satisfied, I resolved to put away such childish antics. I took up the paper, occasionally glancing at my mother. If you have heard that at sixty she is striking, you have been misinformed.

Among the staff, it is rumored she lacks substantial wrinkles because of a bargain she struck with the devil. Preposterous, her skin, like her will, refuses to buckle. Her chestnut hair has denied the admittance of its gray counterparts, permitting only a handful to gather at her temples for elegance sake. Her eyes are not clouded or watery, they are sharp. Their colour, hazel, is the one characteristic we share. We are antonyms in every other adjective.

While I perused the advertisements, the brush of door against the threshold announced Hester’s arrival. Her blush muslin dress swished across the floor as she approached. Its glassy surface reflected her rigid posture.

Though she is my companion, I did not feel the characteristic jolt of felicitation one usually experiences upon the return of a friend. In fact, I rather wished she had eloped with a barrister instead. We are not friends, not truly. She is pleasant enough, and she makes a welcome gardening companion. Nevertheless, she is mother’s employee, contracted to keep me company and guard my health.

“Good morning, your Ladyship.” She curtseyed, her observant, round eyes dancing with interest. They lingered on my empty cup and slovenly posture. Noiselessly, she slid into the chair opposite. After arranging her skirt and adjusting the angle of the millenary flower adorning her hair, she offered me a sliver of honey cake. “Good morning, Miss.”

“Good morning, Hester.” As the tea made me nauseous, I waved its away, indicating a slice of toast would suffice. “Do tell us about your adventure.”

Mother took up a letter.

“Though I would not call it an adventure, I had a lovely time.” She topped up mother’s tea before filling my cup then hers.

“You are tan.” Ah, her loftiness has deigned to honour us mere mortals with her voice. She refolded the letter, careful to crease it flat.

“Yes, your ladyship, I—”

“Drink vinegar. It will prevent freckles.” Mother’s eye flickered in my direction. Since I did not appear as though I would collapse at the breakfast table, she permitted her gaze to linger. “You look well today. It is the oils I recommended.”

It was not. I had not used them in a fortnight.

“Yes, Mother. Of course.” I nibbled on the toast. It reminded me of last Sunday’s sermon—dry and tasteless.

The three of us, then, slipped into a comfortable silence. When Mother read the newspaper, a book of poetry was slid across the table. I glanced up. Hester caught my eye before returning to her letter. Pressed between the pages were flowers, leaves, and moss, souvenirs from her travels. Later, outside of Mother’s kestrel gaze, I would thank her.

My afternoon was filled with feigning illness, so I could enjoy a proper cup of tea, a visit to the green house, and a walk. With my tea, I took purloined buns and a wedge of cheese, as well as a few strawberries.

As I had been well for nearly a month, I had begun to venture out of doors on sunny afternoons. On such days, I behaved quite unladylike, traipsing along disused garden lanes and secreting myself behind bushes to hide or overhear gossip.

The cool grass spurred me onward, drawing me ever further from the house. I walked barefoot. Doubtless, even you find my lack of footwear appalling, diary. Do forgive the caprice of an invalid. I often feel as though my existence is but a shadow. The sensation of cool grass against my skin reminds me I am indeed alive.

Enough of that.

While on my walk, I did overhear a heated exchange between cook and an unknown adversary. Though I did not catch the drift of the conversation, I did hear Fanny, our cook of two decades, nearly shout, “And what’re you insinuating?”

“Nothing. Only that . . .”

Unfortunately, I had to flee at the approach of the groundskeeper. The man is loyalist and would report me to Mother if he had caught me out of doors in my bare feet.

Oh, and the footman continues to meet the upstairs maid for “conversation” twice a week; however, that is old news.

For dinner, I took soup, a bit of beef, carrots, and potatoes. Mother thought it best I not “indulge” on dessert, yet permitted me two glasses of wine.

Until tomorrow, should I not die of the bloody pox.

Anne.