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.
******************
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.
