Perhaps I should be careful what I write in it but what is the sense of having a journal if one does not write exactly what one feels at the time?
To my great joy I found it. It was where I had put it at the back of the drawer which seems to be a good place for it, behind the gloves and scarves, well hidden away.
It is some time now since they came back. I was there to greet them. I studied Papa carefully. He looked very happy. Miss Gilmour— I must remember to call her my stepmother—looked radiant. She had new clothes, very smart, "Continental" they call them in the kitchen. 'That Frenchy touch." Though they hadn't been to France, of course.
I have begun to think that I may be mistaken about my stepmother. Everyone says what a good match it is and how pleased they are for Papa to have "found happiness again." He had been a widower too long, they all agree, and people have to learn not to mourn forever.
The same cliches are brought out over and over again and I have been thinking what a boon they are for they roll off the tongue in such an easy manner and people can always feel they have said the "right thing."
My stepmother has set about changing the house. There are new
furnishings in several of the rooms. She does not interfere much with the servants and that makes her quite popular although there are certain members of the domestic staff who think it is not quite proper that one who had been more or less a servant in the house should now be elevated to the role of mistress.
However, they seem to be forgetting that and it is clear that my stepmother is enjoying her new position.
It has been decided that I could very well do without a new governess, though my stepmother has suggested that I do a certain amount of reading every day which she will supervise. My father listened to all this with approval and I have to admit that he seems more like a father than he has done since the death of my mother.
The supervising of my reading is dwindling and I believe that in due course it will cease. I am pleased about that.
There has been a little controversy about what I should call her. There have been one or two occasions when I have forgotten and the name Miss Gilmour has slipped out. That did not please her... nor my father.
It is amazing how one can manage for a long time without calling people anything—and that was what I did. One day, just as we were leaving the dining room, she put her arm round me and said in that cosy little voice which she uses now and then: "Wouldn't it be nice if you could call me Mother... or Mama... or something like that?"
"Oh ... I couldn't," I blurted out.
"Why not?" Her voice was sharp and I could see that my father looked pained.
"Well," I stammered. "I remember my mother so well. There couldn't be anyone..."
My father looked impatient but she said, soothing now, "Of course ... of course ..." She sighed a little and then smiled sweetly. "Perhaps, Stepmamma. Could you manage that?"
"Yes, I suppose so," I said.
So I am to call her Stepmamma.
But I know that for quite a lot of the time I shall succeed in calling her nothing at all.
June 1st
Mr. Featherstone is still here. He waylays me just the same as ever, and I still avoid him when I can. I have decided not to be polite any more, and there are certain verbal battles between us which I find easier to handle than all that forced politeness.
When he said: "You were hoping to dodge me, weren't you?" I replied: "Yes, I was."
"Why?" he demanded.
"Because I want to be alone."
"A clash of wills! I want to be with you."
"I can't think why."
"I find you beautiful and stimulating. How do you find me?"
"Neither beautiful nor stimulating."
"I asked for that, did I not?"
"Indeed you did."
"What a forthright young lady you are!"
"I hope so."
"Very truthful."
"I try to be."
"Unkind."
"No, I don't agree."
"You cut me to the quick."
"You should not lay yourself open to cutting."
"What can a lovelorn fellow do?"
"Take himself off to more fruitful ground."
"But where would I find such beauty and wit?"
"Almost anywhere on Earth," I retorted.
"You are wrong. It is here ... only here ... and this is where my heart is."
I could laugh at him now. I was losing my fear of him. Everything seemed a little better since the return of my father and his wife. The pursuit of me was not quite so intense. I could ride out some days and never see him.
I wondered sometimes about the future. I was now seventeen. My stepmother said we should entertain more. "Don't forget," she told my father, "you have a marriageable daughter."
"I was lax in my duties until you came to look after me, my dear," he said.
"We have to think of Ann Alice," she insisted. "I'll invite people."
Desmond Featherstone came to the house to dine this evening. I was dreading it. I always hate to think of his being in the house. It is an odd creepy feeling, which is quite unaccountable, for what harm could he do? I wondered if I could plead a headache and not appear for dinner. I supposed that would be too obvious. Moreover it would not be so bad with others present.
I was right. It was not. I was aware when he looked at me across the table that it was different. He was now indulgent ... as he would be to a very young person. He carefully addressed me as Miss Ann Alice, and he made it sound as though he thought I was just out of the schoolroom. I could hardly believe that this was the same man who
had been trying to convince me that I was the young woman with whom he was in love. I could easily have convinced myself that he had been playing a game all the time.
I had the feeling that it was something to do with my stepmother and a strange quirk of fate enabled me to confirm this.
After the meal when they went into the drawing room, I said I would go up to bed. I often did this because they would drink port wine and usually stay up until very late, and although I dined with them as an adult, this part of the evening was considered to be a little unsuitable for my years.
I was very glad to escape so I came up to my room to write in my journal and to think about the strange behaviour of Desmond Featherstone and how different he seemed at some times when compared with others.
As I sat writing I heard sounds from below—the clopping of a horse's hoofs coming from the stables.
I went to my window and looked out. It was Desmond Featherstone coming from the stables on his way to his lodging. I dodged back quickly. I did not want him to see me.
Then I heard a voice and I recognized my stepmother's.
She spoke sharply and her voice was quite distinct.
"It has to stop," she said. "I won't have it."
Then his: "It is nothing ... Only a game."
"I won't have it. You shall go straight back."
"I tell you it's a game. She is only a child."
"Sharper than you'd think. In any case, it is going to stop."
"Jealous?"
"You had better not forget ..."
Their voices faded. I turned swiftly to the window. He was riding away and my stepmother was looking after him. He turned to wave and she waved back.
What did it mean? I knew they had been talking about me. So she was aware of his attempts at flirtation and she did not approve of them. She was warning him that it had to stop.
She had sounded angry.
I was glad.
But I think it is very strange that she should know and be so vehement.
When I have finished writing I shall put my journal away very carefully in future. I am glad I started it. It is so interesting to look back and remember.