Everything To Gain

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  "Diary? Do you mean it's handwritten?"

  "Aye, it is, Mrs. Andrew."

  "Could you bring it, Joe, along with the other two, please? The two ledgers. I'd like to take a look at them."

  "Right-oh, Mrs. Andrew."

  There was a long refectory table in front of the big mullioned window, with a porcelain bowl of flowers in the center and, at either end, a high-backed chair covered in green cut velvet.

  I went over to this table, pulled one of the chairs closer to it, and sat down.

  Joe brought me the books and put them in front of me.

  "Thanks, Joe," I said.

  "I'll leave the ladder, shall I, Mrs. Andrew?"

  "Yes, do. You can put the books back for me later. After I've studied them. I'll come and find you when I'm ready."

  He nodded and went to the door, where he stopped abruptly and swung around to face me.

  "Don't start climbing up that there ladder! If you want summat else, another book brought down, come and get me, Mrs. Andrew."

  "I will, Joe. I promise."

  I looked inside the two ledgers first and quickly laid these on one side. There was nothing much of interest in either of them. But the diary intrigued me, and now I opened this book with its tan leather binding, torn and a bit frayed on the spine. The endpapers were of a feather design, a kind of paisley pattern in shades of brown and ochre, rust and beige, with just the merest hint of blue.

  Turning the first few pages, which were blank, I came to a handwritten frontispiece.

  Slowly I began to read, filled with growing anticipation and excitement.

  I, Clarissa Keswick, wife of Robin Keswick and Mistress of Kilgram Chase, discovered this day the diary and private household book penned by my dear Husband's ancestor, one Lettice, born 1640 died 1683. Fortuitously I stumbled upon her private book in the library here at Kilgram Chase, when my dear Husband asked me to fetch for him a copy of that great tragedy Hamlet by William Shakespeare. The words of Lettice Keswick were interesting to me and so I bethought myself to copy them in order to preserve them. This is done for the future generations of this family who will follow me and mine.

  I started my work on this tenth day of August in the year 1893 in the glorious and prosperous reign of our great Queen and Empress of India Victoria Regina. God Bless Her Gracious Majesty and Long May She Reign.

  Clarissa was a Keswick family name, one we had chosen for our own daughter, and there had been several Clarissas before ours was born six years ago. The Victorian Clarissa whose elegant copperplate handwriting I was now reading had been one of the earlier ones.

  Elated by my discovery and eager to read more, I turned the first page, and once again I was staring at a frontispiece, the words set out in the center.

  Lettice Keswick

  Her Book

  Kilgram Chase

  Yorkshire

  Flipping this page, I read the first words of Lettice's diary, so carefully copied by the Victorian Clarissa nearly a hundred years ago.

  I, Lettice Keswick, begin this diary on the twenty-fifth day of May in the Year of Our Lord 1660 A.D. On this very day all England rejoices and is glad and light of heart. Our Sovereign, Charles Stuart, returned from Exile and at Dover his feet have trod again on English soil this day.

  The Monarchy will be restored forthwith. He will be crowned King'Charles II and the foul and bloody execution of his father is avenged in part.

  Death to the traitors who led his father to the block.

  On this day in Yorkshire and o'er all the land did cathedral and church bells ring forth in praise of our gracious Sovereign, restored to us as if by a great Miracle. And bonfires burned tonight and messengers rode the length and breadth of England to spread the good and glorious news.

  My dear Husband, Lord and Master Francis, did lead us all in prayer this day, servants and family together, in the blue tower and we gave our grateful thanks to the dear Lord Our Cod for His Goodness and Mercy. Our true Monarch is safe. We are all reborn.

  I write my words late this night, well nigh past midnight, by the light of my tallow candle. It was this night that my beloved Husband Francis came to me and took me to him in bodily love and we loved each other well. Perhaps this joyful night I have conceived, God willing, and from our great happiness and love will be born another child. So does my Lord and Husband pray, as do I, and God willing it will be a son and a male heir at last, to carry on the pride of the Keswicks. I pray that it is. I pray.

  It is growing late. My candle splutters. My Husband sleeps. Outside the May moon rides high across a dark shy. It is very late. I hear my Husband stir. I must put down my pen and snuff my candle, step over to the bed to sleep, to share his dreams. This I will do. I will pick up my pen tomorrow and I will continue.

  I went on reading avidly, my eyes moving swiftly across page after page. I was eager to know more, fascinated by Lettice Keswick's jottings about her life in Yorkshire in the seventeenth century.

  There were several more short sections, dated the end of June; then she moved on to cover a few days in July and August. Once more she was writing about her everyday life and her doings. She wrote of her two little daughters, Rachel and Viola, her life as a country squire's wife and the lady of the manor. The last entry for August was a joyful notation that she was at last pregnant and hopeful it was with a son.

  I paused for a moment and gazed out the window reflectively. Nothing has changed since time immemorial. We all harbor the same dreams and hopes and desires as those who have gone before us. Here I was, reading about Lettice's desire for another child in 1660, and this was mine and Andrew's dream at the moment, now in 1988. I smiled to myself thinking how very little really changed in life, and, dropping my eyes, I continued to read.

  The diary as such stopped quite abruptly. I experienced a genuine sense of disappointment, even irritation, so taken was I by Lettice Keswick's words.

  But she had digressed, writing pages of household hints, which I merely glanced at, then listing all sorts of recipes-recipes for making potpourri and pomanders from dried flowers, herbs, and certain fruits and spices. There were instructions on how to make beeswax candles and soap; copious notes about herbs-sweet-smelling herbs for freshening rooms and closets, others for making ointments to treat various ailments, still others to add flavor to the cooking pot.

  Her next section was devoted to preserves. Now came Lettice's recipes for rhubarb-and-gooseberry jam, quince jelly, bilberry jelly, lemon curd, mincemeat and sweet apple chutney. Once again I simply scanned these and moved on.

  Finally the diary of her daily life began anew, the dates of entry running through October to December. I was completely engrossed as I read about winter life at Kilgram Chase, the various family activities, her needlework and embroidery, her husband's hunting and shooting skills, his expertise with horses. She wrote about the winter solstice, the weather, and her difficult pregnancy.

  But before she continued with her daily doings into the new year of 1661, she had indulged in another domestic diversion, writing endless pages about the making of pies, puddings, and pastries, elderberry and nettle wine, even ale.

  The diary was a veritable treasure trove, in a variety of ways. Unfortunately, I did not have time to read it scrupulously and in its entirety. At least not now. So I scanned, speed-read the rest of it, still admiring Clarissa's wonderful copperplate handwriting. Not once did it falter; her script was impeccable, a work of art.

  As I swiftly turned the pages, I saw that Lettice Keswick's diary covered the early months of 1661 and finished in the spring. She spoke of the birth of her son, Miles, in the April of that year, after a long and difficult labor, and she wrote about her husband's birthday in May.

  The very last page was dated May 29. There were no more entries, because there were no more pages left in the book. She had filled it.

  Again, I found myself feeling disappointed. Until it struck me that the diary had only ended because the book she was writing in was full.
Surely Lettice had continued her diary, for she was a natural writer with an easy, flowing style, almost conversational, and a great eye for detail. There must be another volume somewhere here in this library, and Clarissa must have found it and copied it. Just as I wanted to know more, so must she have been riddled with curiosity.

  Jumping up, I headed for the ladder, in my anxiety totally ignoring Joe's warnings about climbing it. I did just that, in fact, until I came to the second-to-last step from the top. I did not dare climb higher, for fear of having an accident.

  But I was quite high enough, it seemed. I stood immediately below the shelf from which Joe had taken the ledgers and the diary, and it was easy for me to read the titles of the books which remained. There were two novels by Thomas Hardy, three by the Brontes, and six by Charles Dickens, as well as a volume of sonnets by Shakespeare. But nothing else, just a gap on the shelf where the ledgers and Clarissa's copy of the diary had been.

  Liking the look of the book of sonnets, which had a gorgeous red binding with gold lettering, I took this off the shelf. It was then that I saw it. A small, thick book with a black leather cover, which lay just behind the Bronte novels against the back of the shelf. For a moment I thought it was a Bible, but when I looked at it I saw that it had a totally plain front. Certainly no gold lettering proclaimed its title.

  Balancing myself carefully at the top of the stepladder, I opened the black book. With a little thrill and a rush of excitement, I recognized it at once. It was the original Lettice diary, written in her own hand, the one Clarissa had so carefully copied in 1893. I poked around behind the Bronte, Hardy, and Dickens volumes, but there was nothing else there.

  Holding the diary tightly in one hand, I edged my way down the stepladder and hurried over to the table in front of the window. Sitting down, I opened Lettice Keswick's original diary.

  I stared at it in awe, turning the pages slowly, carefully, afraid that I might damage it if I handled it roughly.

  The diary was over three hundred years old, but to my amazement it was undamaged. Some pages felt slightly brittle, but not very many, and there were tiny worm-holes here and there. But for the most part, it was wonderfully intact.

  What a miracle it was that it had lasted all this time. But then, no one had known of its existence, and so no one had handled it. Except for Clarissa, of course, who had found it, copied it, and presumably put it back for safety's sake. Then again, the temperature in the library remained the same, year in, year out, exactly as it had for centuries, I was certain. It was always cool and dry; there was no dampness, and certainly the heat from the fire would not cause any damage to any of the old books. It barely warmed the room. No wonder, then, that the seventeenth-century diary had been so well preserved.

  The original, written by Lettice herself, was penned in a spidery, rather elaborate script, typical of the century in which she had lived, but her writing was clear and legible. And I discovered, to my delight, that the original diary contained something unique: exquisite little pen-and-ink drawings and watercolors of flowers, fruit, and herbs, and vignettes of Lettice's gardens here at Kilgram Chase, which illustrated the diary throughout.

  It was obvious to me that I had stumbled upon a small treasure. Of course, it was of no real value and probably of little interest to anyone except the Keswicks, and I couldn't wait to show it to Diana and Andrew.

  Glancing at my watch, I realized that the last hour and a half had sped by. It was almost four o'clock.

  Rising, I left the library and went down the corridor to Diana's office. I peeked in. Andrew's grim expression as he spoke on the phone registered most forcibly. He was no doubt talking to Jack Underwood in New York. He sounded angry in that quiet, controlled way of his, and he wasn't even aware that I had cracked open the door. I closed it softly, deeming it wiser to leave him in peace to attend to his business.

  I really did need a breath of fresh air now, having been in the house since our arrival that morning, and after the long drive north in the car. In the nearby mud-room I sat down on the bench, took off my shoes, pulled on a pair of Diana's green Wellington boots, and lifted a barbor off the peg. I loved these fleece-lined waterproof jackets that are so snug and can be worn in all kinds of weather. In each pocket I found a woolen glove. After putting these on, I took a red wool scarf off the coat stand, threw it around my neck, and went out through the side door.

  It was chilly. The morning sun had long ago disappeared, leaving a sky that was a faded, pale blue, almost without color.

  The smell of autumn assailed me: dampness, rotting leaves, and wood smoke, acrid on the air. Somewhere, not far away, one of the gardeners had a bonfire going. It was that time of year, when dead plants and roots, dried leaves, and garden debris in general went into the flames; I had just had my own winter bonfire last weekend at Indian Meadows.

  As I turned the corner of the house, I practically stumbled over Wilf, the gardener, who was shoveling dead leaves and roots into a pile, obviously fodder for the fire.

  He glanced up when he heard my sharp exclamation.

  "Aw, it's you, Mrs. Andrew." He touched his cloth cap and grinned at me. "How you be doing then?" He rested his filthy hands on top of the shovel and stood gaping at me, staring right through me.

  "Fine, thank you. And how are you feeling these days, Wilf?"

  "Can't complain. Me rheumatism's a bit of a bother, but there's nowt much else wrong with me. I don't expect to be kicking up t'daisies in yon cemetry for a long time." He laughed. It sounded like a cackle.

  "I'm glad to hear it." I nodded and hurried away, heading for the pond. There was something odd about Wilf Broadbent. He always seemed to have a baleful glint in his eye when he talked to me. I thought he might be a bit touched. Andrew said he was just gormless, using the Yorkshire word for dumb, stupid. Diana laughed at us when we discussed Wilf. She believed him to be the salt of the earth.

  Four brown ducks swam away as I approached the water.

  I stood watching them paddling as fast as they could to the far bank, absently wondering if it would freeze by Christmas. The twins so longed to skate on this pond, just as their father had done when he was a little boy. But I didn't think it would be cold enough to freeze; it was a decent-sized body of water.

  I set off to walk around the pond, my mind focusing on Lettice and Clarissa, those two other Keswick women who had been the brides of Keswick men, and who had lived out their entire lives here. If only walls could talk to me, what marvelous secrets they would reveal, what tales they could tell.

  On the other hand, the diary had talked, hadn't it? Only for a short while, but still, it had spoken to me of a time past, given me a bit of the family history.

  Even Clarissa's frontispiece, short as it was, and her act of copying it so meticulously had told me quite a lot about her. She must have been a good woman, conscientious, God-fearing, a typical Victorian, but obviously an intelligent and caring person. Certainly she had cared about the diary, had understood what it meant to the family. Also, she had had the foresight to realize that the original might not survive the passage of time; and she had considered it important enough to preserve it for posterity. Of course she lacked artistic talent because she had not copied the drawings or watercolors, but that wasn't so important.

  And what did the diary tell me about the diarist herself?

  First and foremost that Lettice was a born writer, articulate and with a thorough knowledge of the language and an understanding of its beauty. It was at her fingertips, and she had made excellent use of it. The illustrations indicated that she had been artistically inclined, the household hints and recipes proclaimed her to have been a good housekeeper and cook, not to mention an excellent herbalist and wine-maker. Her many references to her husband and children revealed that she had been a loving wife and mother, and lastly, I decided that she had had a political turn of mind. There were innumerable references to Parliament in her diary, and acerbic comments, and certainly she had been a dyed-in-the-
wool royalist, elated, no, overjoyed when Charles II returned to England to accept the throne.

  It struck me again that there must be another volume of her diary somewhere in that vast library. A truly natural writer such as Lettice Keswick would not stop just like that, with such terrible abruptness. But how to find it amongst those thousands of books lining the hundreds of shelves?

  There was no time for me to look for it now, not today or tomorrow. Perhaps when we came back for Christmas I could have a stab at it. The effort would be worth it. After all, in my opinion the diary was a little jewel. I knew Diana would be intrigued by it and so would Andrew, if I could ever tear him away from that briefcase and those wretched papers. I couldn't imagine what that awful Malcolm Stainley had done, unless he had been cooking the books, God forbid. If he had, Andrew would go for the jugular, and Jack wouldn't be far behind, wielding a very sharp knife, figuratively speaking.

  As I walked up the wide path carved out between the expanse of green lawns, I saw a car approaching the house. It was moving at a snail's pace up the driveway between the giant oaks, and it was not Diana returning, I knew that. This was not her car.

  Within a few seconds the car and I had drawn closer. I saw that it was a pale blue Jaguar.

  Was Diana expecting a visitor? It was odd that she hadn't mentioned it, if she were. She usually told us if someone was coming to tea, warned us, really, in case we felt we had to escape. Usually Andrew did, since her guests for this truly English ritual were people like the woman who ran the church institute, the vicar and his wife, the head of the garden club, or some such local character.

  The car slowed, then came to a standstill at the bottom of the stone steps. I strode across the terrace to the top of the steps and stood looking down expectantly.

  The door of the Jaguar finally opened. A woman alighted.

  She was tall and slender, with a mass of dark, wavy hair that tumbled around a rather narrow but attractive face. Her eyes were dark, intense, and her generous mouth was a slash of bright red lipstick.