Page 13 of The Tartan Trap

“The start of the Season. The first ball.”

“You might go to a museum or see something at the theatre. Or improve your mind with some reading. We have an excellent library.”

Ellis made a rude noise. “All of that sounds dreadfully boring.”

“So you’ve only come to town to peruse the female set, is that right?”

“On the contrary. I’ve come at your behest to protect you from the female set. I’m the third son of a baron. I wouldn’t want any lady who’d put the effort in to chase me.”

Callum laughed. “If you’ve come to protect me, you should have come shopping with me this afternoon.”

“Shopping sounds even worse than reading, forgive me for saying so.”

Callum thought of the mysterious journal tucked into his pocket and found he couldn’t agree with his cousin’s sentiment.

For the next few days, Callum did little except shut himself inside his room and pore over the journal. Three hours in that first evening, Callum had developed a pounding headache. The following morning, as early as the shops would possibly be open, he sent a footman out on an errand, and the man returned with a large magnifying glass—meant, presumably, for the elderly—that one could set upon the page.

It was a curious thing, to have such an unabridged view into someone else’s mind—especially that of a lady. Almost as much interest to Callum as the words were the lengths to which the writer had gone to prevent anyone from identifying her from the pages.

From several off-hand remarks, he could tell she was young. And from the dates on the pages, he could surmise that she was still young, as the dates covered the span of time from three years prior to—he skipped to the end with a thrill of anticipation—only this past week.

She had several sisters, but curiously, each was denoted by a small symbol instead of an initial. So far there were six of them mentioned—an ampersand, an exclamation point, an x-mark, a forward slash, a star, and a circle.

Callum had started the journal with the same casual interest as one who’d purchased a novel they’d heard good word about. Soon, however, his interest went far deeper than that. Soon, he began numbering the pages and taking notes.

He wondered when the mad idea had first started in his mind.

Perhaps it began as quickly as page three, when the authoress casually wrote:

Of course Mother and Father would be dismayed to know what our brother has done. I go back and forth in wondering whether it would not have been better for them to live longer, in the hopes that perhaps they could have taught him more and guided him longer, in order to prevent any of it from happening. Then I chastise myself—isn’t it far better to bear the brunt of hardships if you know it has prevented others from bearing the weight, as well? I am strong and sturdy—certainly it’s better that Mother and Father never saw such a day as this...

Or maybe it was when she wrote thus on page seventeen:

It is the responsibility of the older siblings to shield the younger as much as possible. Though I am in the middle of the family, it still falls to me to shelter my younger sisters, to do all I can to provide for them in such dark times, to kindle joy wherever possible, to encourage and exhort them to higher ways of thinking, and to add to their education so that they aren’t deprived of any of the good knowledge they should have to live upright lives.

He’d laughed out loud when she’d added:

This all would be far easier if x and / weren’t such absolute dunderheads before they’ve had breakfast.

The idea was firmly planted by page thirty-six, when he read:

Of course my hands are chapped, of course my back hurts, and I’m deeply weary. But that is no excuse for how I snapped at & this morning. Apologies are never fun—never. Even less so when I know I’ve truly done wrong. I went to her and apologized as soon as I regretted my words. It only costs a bit of self-pride, an apology, and it can do much to heal small wounds that, given enough time, can turn into a gaping scar of relational distance. Listen to me—so proud and self-satisfied of an apology that shouldn’t have had to been given in the first place! Yes—well done, me. I sound so pompous I might as well be that loathsome Sarah Hughes. I declare that one of the things I am grateful for in our newfound poverty is never having to hear one of her dreadful essays read aloud again!

Callum had jerked when he read the words—it was the first time the author had used an actual name, other than the opening Dear Ruth, which he thought was a name the writer had plucked from the ether on a whim. He’d written it down, Sarah Hughes, and determined to ask Ellis if he knew anyone by the name.

As tiny and closely written as the words were, it took Callum three whole days of nearly relentless study to read the journal carefully, jotting down notes as he went. And even when he was obliged to leave the house—mostly to entertain Ellis, lest he become debauched by the wine in the sideboard before the Season even started—Callum thought of little else. He found himself unable to leave the journal behind, lest there be a trifling mishap—like a raging house fire—that kept him from finishing the tome.

The closer Callum got to the end, the more he was convinced of the mad plan that had been brewing in his mind for many pages.

He was determined to find the author, for she had exactly the qualities he was looking for in a wife.

Indeed, Callum felt as if he was half in love with the lady already. He could tell by her honest way of writing that this journal had been for her own personal use, and that it was not some sort of assignment given and checked over by a governess. The writer was far too honest on some days to have ever thought another soul would have read the pages.

For instance, on page twelve, she wrote:

Can I confess that if I never eat porridge again, it will be too soon? I hate the stuff and can barely stand the smell or sight of it. Especially as we have it now—overwatered with nothing added. I’m an ungrateful wretch for saying so—I’ve seen for myself how many have nothing to eat at all—and yet I hate it, hate it, HATE IT!!!!

She hadn’t even apologized for the sentiment the following day, as she might have done if she’d thought her words would ever be looked over.