Chapter Text
What is left for a third son after a father’s premature death? No title, no estate – not the obligation nor privilege of running it. My father had to impart certain lessons to Anthony and even Benedict as the heir and the spare. What it means to be a Viscount. How to exert influence for righteousness in the House of Lords, in society at large. The duty of maintaining and growing the estate for the family. How to lead – and love – a family.
My father was such a natural teacher, I feel certain he would have had lessons for me, too. Even a third son must learn how to be a man. How to make his way in the world and find his purpose. (Whistledown would have everyone in the ton save perhaps one loyal friend believe that I am nothing more than face and form and charm. I want to be more. There must be more…) But my father was taken from me a dozen years ago when I was still very much a young lad.
I suppose that is why I am writing in this journal of his. I like to spend time in his study when Anthony is away. It still smells as it did when Father was alive. It makes it easier to recall how he looked, sitting tall behind the desk, examining ledgers or engaging in correspondence. I discovered this journal in the very back of the top drawer of his desk, its worn brown leather calling to me, soft under my fingertips. I confess my heart leapt when I recognized his hand.
The first entries were all his, his own musings as a young man. What a precious discovery that was for me. An opportunity to connect with Father when he was the age I am now. A way to feel like I might find guidance from him that I thought was forever out of my grasp. Imagine my delight to find that he had wanted to travel! Before he met Mother, that is. And that he, too, found comfort in writing out his private thoughts. That writing for him was not just an obligation for his role as Viscount, but a way to record his experiences and personal musings.
And then the writing transitioned, became an exchange of words between Father and Mother. At times, I wonder if it is an invasion for me to read their letters. But it is such a gift to me to see this side of him – a man courting a woman, cherishing her, trusting her with his open heart – I cannot bear to stop. I have to believe these are confidences he would have shared with me someday when I was ready – now.
And so I suppose that what is left for me, as a third son, is to savour what is naturally mine from my father. A drive to learn and explore, to fulfil purpose. A compulsion to fill these pages – that he never got the chance to finish – with my own life, with what I might have shared with him, man to man, if only I could.
⟷
Erm, hello,
Let me begin by admitting that, as I am neither your father nor your mother, perhaps it is not my place to sully the pages of what is clearly a very dear, precious item. But I simply could not help myself from desiring to respond as I read your words.
I cannot say how these words of yours found their way to me—much as you were shocked at the discovery of this journal in your late father’s study, I, too, was shocked to discover it lying on my dressing table when I returned to my room.
Perhaps it came in with Eloise’s stack of books
You may well ask yourself how, upon finding a book of unknown origin amidst my things, a well-bred young lady such as myself ended up at the last page. Well, you were likely not wondering that, as you did not know I was a well-bred young lady, but now that I have revealed it to be true, you may wonder. Perhaps now you question the validity of my statement, as what well-bred young lady could be so nosy? (Far more than society would have you believe.)
Likely I would have ended up here regardless, as I have a tendency to skip to the last page of a book, but if you will believe this, the journal was lying open to your entry when I found it. It is as though it were inviting me to look. And upon reading the first few lines, purely out of genuine inquiry and confusion, I found that I could not put it down, confound my endlessly curious nature. (Need I remind you, though, that you freely admitted to reading someone else’s entries and letters not intended for your eyes—we are not so different in that respect.)
Perchance I should apologise regardless—a slight unintended but felt is a slight nonetheless. So for that, for however unintentionally disturbing the sanctity of your privacy and the intimacy of the thoughts you poured onto the page, I beg your forgiveness.
It seems too coincidental to believe, but I, too, am a third-born child, well-acquainted with the plight of determining what is left for you—to do, to be, to have—once your elder siblings have had their fill. Unlike you, though, a daughter has very few options no matter her place in the familial line. May the possibilities the world has lain at your feet give you some measure of comfort.
If I may be so bold—and honestly by this point, I see no reason why I should not—it is very clear to me, having read even just these few words, that you were meant to be a writer. You mentioned the love of writing down your thoughts that you shared with your father and your desire to find a purpose of your own. Might these two things not converge in a profession such as that? One that is perhaps only made accessible to you by the nature of your being third born, neither the heir nor the spare, but someone with a bit more freedom? That seems, to me, the birthright he left for you, your way to carry on his legacy. I know I, for one, would devour any other words you put to the page.
I suppose by now I have breached any and all boundaries of propriety made available to me, and so I will leave you with that last recommendation.
If this has brought you neither comfort nor entertainment, please forgive this
— curious young miss
⟷
My curious young miss,
I have so much to say to you, I hardly know where to begin.
When I discovered your delicate penmanship in this journal, I confess my immediate reaction was confusion… and outrage. I believed one of my younger sisters, of which there are many, had invaded my privacy and was having a bit of fun at my expense.
But when your words came into focus, my ire melted away. You are unlike any of my sisters – except perhaps in nosiness, which I say with a smile on my face as I think of your penchant for reading the last page first (how positively rebellious of you) – for no one in my own family has ever made me feel quite so understood. It was a bit unnerving, to be honest. How could someone see me, know me, from only a few paragraphs?
Then, I wondered— do you know me? How else did my journal end up in your hands and how did you return it? I was certain I had left my journal tucked inside the drawer of the desk in my room but there it was right on top, open to your script.
As I turned that question over and over in my mind, it sparked a memory of something I had read in my parents’ initial correspondence. A brief mention of confusion over how they came to be writing in the same journal. I made inquiry with my mother and
you may not believe what she told me
I now have a theory that this journal connects us, in a way that transcends time and space.
Could you believe such a thing, curious young miss? Would your mind accept something so extraordinary? That we might be linked by some magic of the stars or universe, some power greater than we know or understand?
That we might even be soulmates?
I admit it took me some time to grapple with the gravity of it, but I could not — can not — deny the pull I feel to write here. To write to you.
So you will see that I must forgive you for reading and writing here, as I believe this journal came to you with purpose. What a relief to find oneself connected to someone with a bright spirit and quick wit — for I, too, feel able to know things about you from even a few paragraphs. Indeed, I found your writing both comforting and entertaining, but I find I want
to know everything about you
more. Now that I know we are connected in this inexplicable way, I must know who you are. Will you indulge my desire?
I am leaving soon. It is time for me to see what more the world has to offer beyond the confines of England. Can we meet before I go?
With your encouragement, whether deserved or not, I will keep writing as I travel.
Yours