Page 18 of The Knight (Endgame 2)
I kneel beside one and find Christmas decorations, an angel’s wings chewed through by some long-dead rodent. Another box has pictures, and I smile at the sight of my father. Tears prick my eyes. I visited him in the hospital two days ago, after his heart attack. He was barely conscious, still recovering and heavily medicated, which was almost a relief.
When he wakes up, he’ll have questions. I’m not sure how to tell him that I lost the house, that I auctioned my virginity to get it back.
Not sure how to tell him that it was all for nothing.
If I win the auction today, I won’t have to tell him anything. He’ll be able to return home, to live out his final days in the only place that reminds him of my mother.
Dust-coated brocade drapes pile on top of a box in the corner. I shove them aside, sneezing at the cloud that rises. The window shines a purple hue on stacks of yellowed paper. Invitations to coming-out balls and engagement parties. Correspondence with my father’s friends from his alma mater.
From a sheath of newspaper clippings, a book slips out. A thud on the floor resounds in the musty air. I pick up the book made of old leather, soft to the touch, wrapped with a long strip of the same material. There’s nothing marking the cover. I open it, revealing thin pages hand stitched. The first page has only one thing scrawled in perfect, looping penmanship: Helen Avery Lancaster. My mother’s maiden name.
My knees weaken, and I sink onto the nearest closed trunk.
A turn of the page reveals more of her handwriting in straight lines across.
Since my debut is in one week, it seems fitting to begin a new journal. This is my new life as an adult, eligible to be married—and to hear Mother tell it, as quickly as possible. I understand what’s at stake. Although Mother refuses to speak about such uncouth matters as money, Father isn’t nearly so circumspect.
Still, I won’t say yes to the first boy who offers for me.
No matter how rich he is.
A diary, from before my mother married my father. Maybe even before she met him. My heart expands, filling my chest and pressing against my ribs. I’ve seen a hundred pictures, spoken to her husband, her friends, but I’ve never heard her words. Never imagined I would get to see through her eyes.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
I whirl to face Gabriel Miller, my heart beating too fast from my discovery. He’s wearing an overcoat still dappled with rain, hair dampened, eyes glinting gold. I’m breathless and a little bit wary. Somehow the diary ends up tucked behind me, hiding it before I’ve fully decided to.
He notices, of course. Stepping over an embroidered ottoman, he crosses the slats to me. “Let’s see what you’ve found.”
The discovery feels too powerful to hold inside. I ache to share my excitement, my awe, but it’s still too fresh. Too private, especially for the eyes of my sworn enemy. He waits with excruciating patience. Slowly, reluctantly, I pull the diary from behind my back. The brown leather cover doesn’t reveal anything. “Nothing much. Just an old notebook.”
One eyebrow rises. “Is that right? You won’t mind if I look at it, then?”
Without waiting for me to answer, he plucks the diary from my hands.
“How dare you.” I move to snatch it back, but he’s already heading deeper into the attic, toward the stained-glass window where the light is better.
He reads from a page in the middle. “My mother insists that I accept Geoffrey’s offer. The St. James fortune is unmatched in Tanglewood society.” He pauses to glance at me. “How mercenary. I suppose it runs in the family.”
Rage burns through my veins. “You don’t know anything about my mother. Give that back to me. Right now.”
He’s too tall, holding the diary out of reach as he reads further. “She would accept Landon Moore, even though his family has fallen in society recently, but I can’t. I just can’t.” He makes a tsk sound. “Poor old Uncle Landon.”
My fists beat his back, fueled by righteous fury. “That’s not yours.”
“Isn’t it?” He cocks his head to the side, considering. “I own the holding company. And the holding company owns the house and everything inside.”
I grow still. “You’re going to keep it?”
“What a dilemma,” he says with faux sympathy, turning back to the page, reading again. “And the man I truly want has no money, no family name. No chance of winning my father’s approval. We both know that it’s impossible, but the heart doesn’t believe in boundaries.”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears. My righteous indignation toward Gabriel is eclipsed by the realization that my mother loved another man. At least she did once.
I know from archeological mythology that history isn’t about facts—it’s a story told by the survivors. The victors, both literal and figurative. I know that she married Geoffrey St. James, my father. They were wed until her death. Theirs was a happy marriage, a loving one, or so I thought. What if there’s another side to the story? Hers.
