A Disappearing Rose

We have now transcribed the second entry from Alfred’s diary.

The text is available to read below and as always, please use the comments section if you wish to discuss your thoughts on the diary. We are especially interested in hearing your opinions on Alfred’s relationship with the lady’s maid, Rose. Keep checking the blog and the Facebook page for updates, as we now begin to restore the third diary entry.

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15 August 1890

I awoke last night to the sound of horses.

It startled me as I slumbered and was quite frankly aggravating, as I was fairly tired from working in this understaffed estate. As I peered through the window, I saw the lady and an unknown coachman; obviously it was not Peter, our resident coachman. I also thought I may had saw a third figure, but the darkness hindered my vision and I could not tell for certain. 

            
Despite the noisy occurrence during the night, the servant’s hall was filled with a certain glee that was quite refreshing. Jack, the gardener of the estate, was at the piano playing Dream Land Op. 59 by the wonderful American composer George Frederick Bristow, which filled the air with a joyfulness that was only raised further once I had caught sight of my Rose. Over these last few days we have become more acquainted, and I do believe my affection for her has grown considerable over this time. Unfortunately, as I am the butler of Barwick Park, it was my duty to stop the music and ensure that everyone was back on track and achieving their daily tasks. I did, however, manage to have a quick word with Rose, which resulted in us agreeing to meet at the hilltop overlooking Yeovil for a small picnic and a spot of painting, whilst the lady visited her relatives at Newton Surmaville.

            
Even my morning duties seemed to have a positive outcome, as while I was serving breakfast and waiting upon the lady, I attempted to engage her with a conversation regarding the current staff predicament. This often does not go very well, yet, the lady seemed strikingly cheery today and assured me that she would look into the matter later in the week. It was pleasant to see her in such a positive mood and to see a smile, on a far too often saddened face. Seeing this positivity, I made another attempt and asked the lady about the events of the night. She did not take kindly to this question, glaring at me through eyes that swelled with both anger and panic. Instead of answering my query, she stood and began to exit the room, but before she did so, she stopped next to me and told me that the top floor is out of bounds. Before I could reply, she was gone.

            
My breakfast duties were unsettling to say the least. So I was quite relieved when the lady left for Newton Surmaville, and I could make my way to Rose who was waiting at the hilltop. Upon arriving, I could see that she had changed into a simple, yet elegant white dress. She stood, overlooking the small town below, the wind blowing the dress in such a way that one could swear she had wings and the glaring sun was her halo – indeed an angel, waiting just for me.

            
We spent a few hours on that hilltop. Me painting her appearance - a fair complexion contrasting the deepness of those blue eyes, and the light streaming through golden hair, like the pure white sand on a tropical beach. Whilst she read The Trumpet-Major by Thomas Hardy, mentioning at numerous moments that she would very much like to take a train to Weymouth at some point in the future.

I promised her I would do so.

Once we had finished our activities, and our picnic that was simple but appeasing, we began to walk back to the estate. Before we reached the house, Rose grabbed me by the arm and drew her face close to mine. Unfortunately, this was only to whisper in my ear. She told me that she had seen something peculiar last night and would tell me more about it later tonight, as the lady had returned to the house and would be needing her assistance. Before she left, her hand touched mine, leaving behind a small pocket watch bearing a Landseer design. When the small hand reached the eight, I would find her in the servant’s hall, she said as she walked away. Her smile was the final parting gift.

             
I was ecstatic that a woman I held with such high esteem had given a gift to me. Whilst serving tea to the lady, my hand would constantly slip into my pocket just to caress the deer that adorned the cover, only stopping when the lady’s eyes lifted from the table. Her graceful smile from the beginning of the day, was gone, all I could notice now were watery eyes and a vacant expression.

            
As I walked to the servant’s hall, I tried to dislodge the memory of the lady’s pained appearance, and instead thought about the meeting that was about to occur with Rose. I was both curious as to what she had to say, and eager to thank her properly for the gift she bestowed upon me.

            
When I arrived at our meeting location, Rose was not there. Instead a note was left on the centre table that simply read:

Goodbye

R.B.   

           
As I stood motionless, the sound of the piano reached my ears as Jack played The Wind Demon Op. 11 by Charles Jerome Hopkins. It echoed through the corridors and through my heart - a heart that now beats an empty tune.

             

Alfred's Walk

The drawings below were found tucked away in the diary, on the same page as the entry posted a few days ago. After cleaning them up and analysing the subject matter in each one, we have determined that these sketches were made during Alfred's walk from Newton Surmaville to Barwick Park. This conclusion was made after we realised that the picture showing the mansion, was of course Newton Surmaville, drawn from the end of the driveway. The field with the fence we believe was drawn on Two Towers Lane, looking across the fields in front of Barwick Park. And the image of the rabbit must have simply caught Alfred's eye as he was travelling.

Map of Alfred's Walk

Here is a map of the route we believe Alfred may have taken to walk from Newton Surmaville to Barwick Park. If you live in the area or are visiting Yeovil soon, why not walk it yourself and imagine what may have been going through Alfred's head as he went to take over his father's position.

The Transition

Here is the transcript of Alfred's first diary entry.

 Do you have any thoughts on Alfred or what may happen next in his life? If you do, or if you'd like to discuss the document with other readers, please use the comments section to express your views. In the meantime, we will be working on the second diary entry and our progress will be trackable using the Facebook page.

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10 August 1890

‘Loyalty is a butler’s best tool’, my father once said.

These words have helped me greatly when serving as the butler of Newton Surmaville. A truly breathtaking estate, especially for a man who can appreciate the finer things in life. It houses paintings by artists such as Edward Armitage and Paul Cézanne, and features a library filled with first editions from esteemed authors like Thomas Carlyle and Henry James. So as you can imagine, I am going to miss the house greatly, for I have been requested to serve the Wolfthorn family at Barwick Park, which is just a short walk away. The reason for this transition is because of the recent departure of my dear father who passed away earlier this week. A fine butler himself, I owe much to his teachings and guidance. Unfortunately, we never spent much time together during his later years, due to our professions, but we still spoke through letters whenever possible.

I shall miss him dearly.

Upon arriving at the estate, I spoke to Lady Margaret Wolfthorn, a widowed woman who lives alone, which is a little unorthodox but it is not my place to pass judgement. She seems to be a stern woman, who treasured the service of my late father. Apparently, it was a personal request that I take his position, which was rather touching I must say. As I left to attend to my father’s belongings, she gave a slight smile, yet in her eyes I could sense a type of sorrow one feels when they have lost a loved one. A look I know all too well.

My father did not have many belongings when he passed on. A simple man in many regards, but one who was greatly respected wherever he went. I sorted through his documents and personal effects, a task that was quite difficult I must admit. Whilst organising these items, my eye caught hold of a small box on a shelf above the desk. Quite captivating to look at, it was decorated with carvings that were exotic in nature, yet was seemingly impossible to open. I cannot recall my father having such an item when I last saw him, so as you can imagine I was extremely keen to have a peek inside. Yet, I could not work out how to open it, for there was no latch or lock of any kind, a truly baffling contraption.

I decided to put the box aside for the time being, and as I did so, I saw a figure standing in the doorway. A woman with golden blonde hair and eyes that were reminiscent of Van Gough’s Starry Night - vibrant and enchanting. She smiled and told me that the lady herself gave the box to my father as a present for his unrelenting service to the Wolfthorn family. She also told me how to open it. Her name was Rose Burns, and she was the lady's maid. I thanked her for her assistance in the matter and watched as she gracefully exited the room and walked down the stairs, like a pure white swan submerging into a still lake.

When I was alone again with the box, I decided to have another attempt. Rose told me that the key was to slide the midsection to the right, and that would unlatch the lid. This seemed to do the trick, and I was pleasantly surprised with what I found within. It was a small silver ring, the ring my father gave to my mother on their wedding day. Simple and refined, much like himself, the ring is not worth much money, nevertheless my father believed it was priceless, as it was the only tie he had with mother after her passing. Seeing the ring again reminded me of their affections for each other, and gave me solace to think that they are now reunited once more.

With my father’s belongings sorted and my own possessions moved in, I began to look through the house logs to see how the house was being kept and the amount of staff we have employed. I was rather shocked to discover that aside from myself, the only staff working for the Wolfthorn family were: 3 housemaids, a cook, a scullery maid, Rose (the lady's maid), 2 gardeners, a groom and a coachman. Seriously understaffed for a house of this size. With there being no footman, it would seem that I would have to perform these duties, and discuss the issue with the lady herself. It is fortunate that her brother, who owns the illustrious Newton Surmaville, an estate that I fully regret leaving, supports her.

Having so many duties must have been a heavy burden on my father and I can now see why he was struck with ill health. I think of him now as I prepare to secure the house and check on the fires. His words of loyalty lingering on my mind, alongside the porcelain face of Rose, the lady's maid.