The Personal Diary of One Marie Pascal

(Personal means keep out Charlotte. I know how you love to pry)

July 19th, 1863

    Charlotte is a wicked woman, honestly. You'd think I'd have to padlock my door simply to keep her out. Which is something you would know, had I not lost your predecessor somewhere in the midst of the move into my new room. It's a bit of a mystery where in blazes I put the thing. I have checked, as many times as I was able before Lady Margaret had the room cleared out. We, evidently, are to have a guest in the house in the near future. This means I am relocated back to the attic with the rest of the servants, instead of next to the nursery. Lady Margaret's cousin, or some such, is coming out to the city for the winter. She's newly one and twenty, and from my understanding her mother is in a dreadful hurry to marry her off. Unfortunately, that's all I've been able to gleam from overheard conversations. I cannot ask Lady Margaret directly, that should earn me quite an earful on 'propriety' and how 'naturally, French girls like you would not understand the complexities of British society', as though I am somehow feeble-minded simply because of my accent. I should  laugh, if it wasn't so infuriating. 

    This is where Charlotte comes in. The children are with their eldest brother today, so I could have the chance to  finish moving my things. Mostly I took the small things, trinkets and what I have left from my childhood in Domfront. Simon, bless him, did most of the heavy lifting. For a man with such small arms he is remarkably strong. Once everything was settled I was in the process of making myself at home, and in strides Charlotte with a cheeky grin. I knew, instantly, that trouble was coming. 

    Lady Margaret has been complaining for weeks about chocolate missing from the kitchen. And, in a matter of minutes, that mystery was solved. "A room-warming gift," Charlotte said, handing my a piece.

     I could lie and say it's been forever since I've had a treat, but since no one other than Charlotte enjoys prying into my deepest thoughts (honestly, Charlotte - go away), I will tell the truth. Thomas sometimes gets a piece of chocolate as dessert after dinner, and the child always forgets it on his nightstand. On those nights, under the guise of 'checking on the children', I steal away into their room and ferret some away from my own enjoyment. Thomas has yet to notice, Elizabeth is too young. Or, she too is stealing some and won't mention it. With the girls fondness for food I would not be too surprised to hear she'd be sneaking treats. 

    "You would be in a lot of trouble if Lady Margaret found out," I told her, accepting the piece regardless. Charlotte had tossed herself onto my bed already. She has such a way of making herself as ease in a room, I almost envy it. I can never get comfortable, and stand there stiff as a candelabra. Put a lit candle in my hand and I'm sure I could do a convincing enough impersonation of one. 

    Charlotte placed a finger over her lips. "Well, then I suppose it's best our Lady Margaret never finds out. Further, I imagine she'd be rather displeased to find you'd so willing accepted my gift. We, my dear, are in cahoots."

    I suppose I must not have looked particularly reassured, because Charlotte continued: "But you frown! Please don't be worried on my account!"

    "It's not your account I'm worried for," I retorted, "It's my job. But, I have intention of ruining any opportunity to enjoy chocolate so your secret is safe with me."

    Stealing. My goodness, that girl is going to wind up in trouble.  However, she did leave me with a nice little block of my own enjoyment (currently tucked safely away inside a handkerchief inside of my nightstand), and an interesting piece of information.

    "This room is my absolute favourite in the house." Charlotte told me. And when I inquired why, she raised a finger to the air and simply said, "Listen."

    Turns out, my room is the hot spot for eavesdropping. If one speaks loud enough I can even hear as far below as the parlour, but mostly I can hear the disgruntled sounds of Lord Eddings as he putters about his study.  As I write this, he is complaining most vigorously about a Mr. Reynolds, and something about a heist. I am unsure of what to do with this current information, as Lord Eddings hardly seems the type to be involved in a heist of any sort. I shall have to keep listening, I suppose. I say, as if this pains me in any way.

       Madame - Lady Margaret has decided the best use of my time is to repair Mr. Eddings and Thomas's torn clothes. For such a respectable pair of men they make quite a mess of their clothing. Thomas, I understand. The child is seven, I expect the occasional torn trouser. Mr. Eddings, however, is a grown man. I am not sure of what trouble there is to get into at Oxford, but Mr. Eddings seems to get into quite a lot of it. I am told he is studying law, but I admit that I do not entirely believe he is doing much studying there. His clothes, if we should so generous as to call it that, reek of alcohol. It's noxious, honestly. I've tossed them into the corner for the time being.

    Thomas's, at least, are simply covered in dirt.  Dirt that can be easily washed off the next time Bernice does laundry. Mr. Eddings stains, I worry, will not be so easy to remove. What sort of trouble must that man get into, I wonder. I cannot imagine how terribly cracked and dry her hands must be, and I can't say I'm eager to add to her workload. Perhaps the next laundry day I'll offer to lend her a hand. The children can help hang the clothes to dry, at the very least that should run of some of their energy. It is a shame the children are not yet old enough to help with the sewing. It is the most time-consuming of my tasks, but that may have more to do with my clumsy fingers than the actual job.Lord Eddings is, at least, of the belief that hard work will benefit his children. Thus I am not alone in my day to day chores, and the house seems to run much smoother. Many hands do indeed make light work.

     Of course, today I am in the company of only myself. The children's doting Uncle has come for a visit, I suspect to assess the house before his eldest daughter is sent here. This new room has proved most advantageous in my attempts to learn more about this cousin. Her name is Jane, and I was correct in assuming that she is here to find a husband. The goal is either to marry her to Mr. Eddings, or to find a proper match amoung his peers. I find the idea of marriage somewhat odd. Or, in the very least, going someplace in the goal of finding a spouse. It all seems very strange. Jane is leaving the rolling, lovely, countryside to come to this foggy, cramped city. All in search of a man. Some, myself included, do come to this city in search of work. Even that, I have found, is a questionable choice. I was lucky, finding Miss Bennet as early as I did. She still writes me every now and again. Her eldest, Margaret, has just turned nineteen, and I am told she has just gotten a job as a seamstress in a shop. She was always such a wonderful girl, I am glad to hear she is doing well. Perhaps I shall bring her the clothing I am to fix, and tell her she owes me after how hard I worked for their family. 

    Ha!