I have been making a list of all the places in the house that I have not yet explored. I believe I have seen everything there is to see in the park, though I shall go round again to make sure. I have also made up my mind to force Rosalind to see me first thing tomorrow morning. No matter what the situation, it was wrong of me to say what I did. I have remembered that one of Mama’s strongest rules is never to interfere between a husband and wife. Last summer, I overheard her telling Aunt Hattie about her friend Anna, who had come to her and endlessly complained about her husband, even once coming to stay with Mama for three days when they had quarreled. And Mama had tried to help with advice and a little money. Then, the woman went home again, and, the next time she saw Mama, she cut her dead! Mama was certain it was because she did not wish to associate with anyone who reminded her of unhappy times. I wish I had remembered that story yesterday!
Not that it is exactly the same. Rosalind is not complaining (when she should be!), but she is certainly cutting me and I am miserable while she is so angry. Whatever is going on will come out when Alan and I have finished our investigation, and then Rosalind must see for herself and decide what to do. I think Papa would be proud of me for behaving in such a responsible manner. (I also remembered his story about the Greeks killing the messenger who brought bad news.)
I must have patience, which is not a thing I am good at. Miss Lidsey, my old governess, used to make me write out lists of my virtues and faults every Saturday afternoon, at the end of our week of lessons, and contemplate them to “stimulate the desire to change.” The faults always took more space (she added to that list, but never the other!), and some of them never disappeared—like impatience. Will it ever, I wonder?
It was such a triumph to cross a fault off my list. I remember when nail biting went, and forgetting to practice the pianoforte. It took me nearly a year to be rid of “impertinence to my governess and to Mr. Phelps, the dancing master.” I don’t think Miss Lidsey ever realized that I was still vastly impertinent inside my head. But then, perhaps, she did not care, as long as I kept it to myself. She once said (when she had had rather too much of Cook’s special sherry) that silence was the chief virtue of a woman and also her chief defense. She was not very happy, I think. Indeed, she…
I don’t wish to go on and on about my old governess in my journal. Besides, she found a new position with the five young daughters of an earl, and she was in raptures all the last weeks she was with us. I am sure they are all patient and sweet-natured and never speak unless asked a direct question, and that Miss Lidsey is utterly content now.
I must keep my mind on the reason I am writing. I shall put in a copy of my map when it is done, with all the places I have examined, marked, and annotated. (That is a fine word; I learned it from James just before he went up to Oxford.) When it is done, I shall show it to Alan as well.
I find that I think about Alan a good deal. Of course, that is only natural, since we are working together. He really has the most extraordinary eyes—such a bright blue and so very penetrating. He seems to miss nothing that passes. I suppose that comes of being in the army and in battle. I think he is rather handsome, too. Not so handsome as Philip, of course, which is ironic considering Philip’s unhandsome temperament. But the shape of Alan’s face is pleasing, and there is something about the way he cocks one eyebrow and smiles just slightly that makes me feel quite flustered. And then, when he really smiles—which is not often—well!
I do believe he likes me a little. It is unfortunate, in one way, that we did not meet in London next year, when I am out, for then I will have all sorts of fashionable new clothes and, I’m sure, a great deal more polish. On the other hand, we could not have become nearly so well acquainted at evening parties and such. (I do look forward to being out! I don’t expect I shall be a belle, since I am not really beautiful, but look at Miss Sperling, who made a hit the year Portia was presented. She had more wit than beauty. Everyone said so. And I truly believe I can be very witty if I try. I often make Mama and Papa laugh.)
In any event, I am very glad Alan came here. I wonder, could he not be my very first flirtation? (I suppose this is what Miss Lidsey would call an unworthy thought.) I don’t mean anything by it, but it seems to me that one should practice things one will be called upon to do later, like the pianoforte. During the Season, everyone flirts. Why should I not try it out a little?
That does not mean I would neglect my efforts to help Rosalind. That must, of course, be my major object. But there couldn’t be any harm in the other, could there?
* * *
Jane Jenkins just came in with the ironing, looking so sour you would have thought she had read what I was writing. Wouldn’t she be shocked? I don’t suppose she has ever flirted in her life, not even when she was young. Imagine flirting with that dried-up stick Henry Jenkins? I think they must have agreed to marry like merchants striking a bargain. Or, perhaps, they were drawn together by a tract. Perhaps she gave him one of her dreary leaflets on eternal damnation, and he pulled its mate from his pocket, and their eyes met… It is too ridiculous. I must return to my map.