“I’ll leave you alone,” Ceinwen said, handing the diary to Michael. Their fingers brushed lightly.
“Stay,” he asked, but Ceinwen shook her head, her eyes filled with concern.
“As much as I'd like to be here with you, the diary, the words Jane writes … I think you’ll want to be alone as you read them.” She kissed him softly. “But I hope you’ll join me later.”
His eyes followed her as she left the turret room. When she closed the door behind her, the warmth she'd brought into the space dissipated. The temperature seemed to drop a good ten degrees.
He stared at the book in his hands, thinking of the warning in Ceinwen’s words, of her advice that he not read it. But he needed to know.
He opened the diary, noting the date. The entries began when he was seven, and his mother could no longer put off sending him to boarding school.
His heart ached as he read of the many tears she had shed over his leaving. After he left home, she was unable to rid herself of her depression. Finally, knowing how much she liked ancient Greek mythology and literature, after the Christmas and New Year holidays ended, Claude sent her away to a Greek island where she could spend the long months until the boys returned again for summer vacation.
As he read the heartfelt pages, he quickly realized he could get through them only by distancing himself, by thinking of her only as “Jane.”
April 8th -
Today is Michael’s eighth birthday. I should be with him, but Claude refused to allow him home for such an “unimportant” occasion, so I decided to remain here, thousands of miles away.
I was sitting on the beach, tears streaming from my eyes at the thought of my boy, when a kind fisherman came by. He asked me if I was hurt. When I said, “Only my heart,” he sat down and talked to me. His name is Constantin, and he is originally from Romania, now living in Greece, on the mainland. He was quite nice and, I’ll admit, very handsome. It did me good to talk to him.
April 9th -
I went back to the beach where I sat yesterday, and again, today, Constantin came by. He brought me some cascaval, a Romanian yellow hard cheese, and some bread with which to eat it. I was quite taken by the man’s thoughtfulness. He told the story of how he and his wife managed to sneak out of Romania last year, and how he now made a living as a fisherman, traveling between the various Greek islands. His story was thrilling, and I can’t believe how brave he must have been to flee the military in his home country.
April 15th -
Constantin is back! He was far from here fishing for a few days. Fortunately, he doesn’t smell fishy at all. He brought some dried fish, bread, and cascaval cheese. It was like a picnic. I felt bad because I had brought food for him for a couple of days, but then stopped, assuming I’d never see him again. I must ask him to give me some idea of his schedule.
The diary entries continued in that vein for the rest of April and deep into May. Michael noticed how much more cheerful Jane’s entries became whenever Constantin entered the picture.
May 20 -
I told Constantin that I must go home to Massachusetts tomorrow. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him any earlier. I’m stunned at how hard it is to leave him, even though I’m going for the best of all possible reasons. He is a married man, and I know I’m finding his company far, far too agreeable. I must think of the bright side, that I will be home when Michael returns for the summer. How I miss my dear boy.
But to my surprise and shame, tears came to my eyes as I said goodbye. They shouldn’t have. I’m sure Constantin never suspected my feelings because I’ve done all I could to hide them from him, and he knows I’m also married. He looked stricken and gave my hand a quick squeeze before he hurried away.
What must he think of me, other than I’m a silly, lonely woman in a bad marriage? It’s not as if we’re having an affair or anything. We’re simply lunchtime friends. Actually, making such a spectacle of myself has made it easier for me to leave Greece.
The diary was almost embarrassing for Michael to read as Jane told of the joy seeing him brought her, and that he made everything else worthwhile.
When summer ended, Jane returned to Greece and bought a home on the island she had visited the year before. She shipped a number of her books there, and loved the freedom that went with life in the area. She even began studying the Greek language, but classical, not colloquial. She returned home for Christmas, and then went back, once more, to Greece.
March 28 -
Yesterday, I found a spot on the beach and was reading one of Longfellow’s poems, “Evangeline,” when a shadow came over the pages. I looked up and saw Constantin. I don’t even know how it happened, but in the next moment I was in his arms and he was kissing me. I have never known such pure ecstasy. We came back to my house. Loving him was more I had ever imagined. I’ve spent a lifetime reading the Romantic poets and never knew, until this afternoon, what they were truly writing about.
When he left, he said he would be gone for three days. I smiled as he left, but when he was gone, all I could think of was one of my favorite poems by Caroline Norton:
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
Michael read of her liaison with Constantin through that spring.
It was clear she had fallen head over heels in love with the fisherman, even as she marveled at how unlike they were, and often quoted from the Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies.
But none of that mattered to her. She found his oneness with nature and the sea, his courage, his sheer earthiness as something to cherish. With him, she discovered she could still laugh.
Her only dread was that someone would tell William Claude, but it seemed no one did.
She was sad when the time came to leave, but once back at Wintersgate, she happily wrote of her summer with Michael and Lionel.
When they returned to school, the time came for her to return to Greece.
It was the third year she had gone there.
April 19 -
A month has passed, and although other fishermen are here, Constantin is not. Although I’m sure others know about our secret, I have never spoken of him to anyone on this island, nor have they talked to me about him. It has been almost as if everyone is in on our illicit secret, and none of them care. Some of the women eye me strangely. But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that Constantin return.
April 28 –
I’ve begun taking the poem “Evangeline” with me to the water’s edge, praying for a repeat of the day we first acknowledged our love. But it hasn’t happened.
At the mention of “Evangeline,” a sense of foreboding wrapped around Michael. His very flesh tingled, as if surrounded by a presence, but it had to be his imagination … perhaps because his mother's diary made her feel so close, so close that he was compelled to keep reading, no matter what.
May 2 -
As I stood by the piers today, I saw a fishing boat that Constantin had worked on. I went to the captain and firmly asked if Constantin Petrescu was working for him this year.
Michael stared at the page. This was the first time Jane had mentioned the last name of the man she loved. Petrescu was Irina’s family name. His mouth went dry, and he quickly read on.
The captain looked at me sadly, and then he spoke the words that ended my life. “I’m sorry, but Constantin is dead.”
Somehow I managed to remain standing as I calmly asked how it happened. He had heard that Constantin was attacked late one night—probably a robbery—and he was stabbed to death. It had happened in February, and no one was ever caught. No charges were brought. Nothing was done.
And my love, my life, is no more.
I came back home and began to pack to return to Wintersgate. I don’t know how I can live there, but I can’t bear staying here where everything reminds me of happiness, of love. At least there, no joyful memories will ever plague me.
She scarcely wrote about her return to Wintersgate, except that it happened. But then …
June 3 -
He knew. That is the only conclusion I can reach, and with it comes the terrible suspicion that Claude had something to do with Constantin’s death.
Suspicion? I wish it were mere suspicion. No, I know it in the depth of my soul.
I can scarcely write what has transpired, but I’ll never forget the look he gave me as he told me about our new housekeeper and her child.
“I’ve done a good thing,” he announced when I entered the breakfast room this morning. “I’ve hired an immigrant to our country to help with the housework. Manuela is too old to do it anymore. I’ve given her a good severance pay and sent her on her way. The new housekeeper has a young daughter, but I’ve been assured the girl is very quiet and well-mannered.”
I was shocked that he would send off Manuela so easily. She had seemed like family to me. But as he continued talking, it all became clear. “The woman has been recently widowed. She and her daughter are from a poor village in Greece and are looking for a new life. I heard about them and, knowing how much you love everything Greek, I decided we could use some fresh blood around here, especially someone willing to work hard. And her child might be nice to have around. The girl is five years old, and should be a good playmate for Michael.”
In late afternoon, the woman arrived. Her name is Magda Petrescu, and her daughter is named Irina. Claude brought Constantin’s wife and child here, to my house, to remind me every day that Constantin hadn’t belonged to me alone. From the way Magda spoke of her deceased husband, it’s clear his marriage wasn’t as “over” as he had told me it was. Every day, I’m forced to look into Irina’s eyes and see the eyes of the only man I have ever truly loved. And to be reminded of his lies … to his wife, and to his lover.
There the diary ended, but even if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have had the strength to read further.
He shut the book, sick at heart.
He could scarcely imagine how Jane had felt when William Claude brought Constantin’s widow and child into his home. Such cruelty to his wife was unimaginable. Of course, there were probably those who would side with him. After all, Jane was having an adulterous affair. But having read the diary—having lived in this house with her and William Claude—Michael understood why.
He’d never been given any details about his mother’s life. But now he learned more than he had ever dreamed. He couldn’t help but wonder if she hadn’t hidden the diary away in a drawer William Claude would never look in as a way, possibly, for Michael or someone else to find it. And then, by reading her words, to understand her.
He was glad, actually, that the diary ended when it did. He was old enough to remember what came next—his mother’s descent into a black depression. It was bad enough to witness; he didn’t know if he could bear to read about it.
And then one afternoon while supposedly alone in the tower, she fell to the stone patio below and died. No one knew for certain if the fall was an accident, if she was pushed, or if she jumped.
He stood up. He had to leave the turret. Being here was all but unbearable.
He needed to find Ceinwen. She was warm and caring—why, he had no idea. But he was not only glad to have her with him, he was grateful for the way she put up with him and the madness that seemed to follow wherever he went.
But before leaving here, he ran his hands over the journal. His mother was always too much of a romantic, and the harshness of the world—of her own husband—had crushed her. Less than a month after the last entry, she was dead. He had spent hours with her that month, often in the very room he sat in now.
He had never imagined she would have taken her own life … never, until now.