Only saying I was having the time of my life enjoying a short weekend in the country for horseback riding and to have a look at Ivan’s lovely art collection. That’s it. I didn’t say there were hundreds of paintings on the walls or mention the wine cellar crammed with sealed crates of contents unknown. I certainly didn’t allude to anything intimate between the two of us, or that we’d been going at it nonstop with the sex since I’d arrived. I didn’t indicate I was going to be working here for at least the next year, dividing my time between Donadea and London for the foreseeable future. Not today, at least. If they were to be in the know, then Ivan would tell them, and it would be okay. I wasn’t going to be the idiot who spilled the beans and put a priceless collection of paintings at great risk.

That person would not be me.

I noticed the signed contracts were gone from the desk. They’d been retrieved at some point and probably already on their way to his lawyers for filing.

It’s a done deal now. There was no turning back, I decided as I reached inside the glass cabinet and removed Imogene’s first journal, dated 1812. With my glasses returned to me, I could now start reading. I couldn’t wait to delve into the pages upon pages of her private writings. I had no idea what her words would be like, though. Because individuals had different styles and methods of sharing their thoughts two hundred years ago than they did now. Some journals read like carefully curated lists of the weather, who visited, contents of the mail, and the food served at meals. I hoped Lady Imogene would share things about her life and relationships with her family, but mostly anything at all about the many portraits Tristan Mallerton had painted of her. But I couldn’t know for sure I would find such descriptions of the art inside of her journals. They could be five volumes of weather reporting, menus, livestock births, or the egg count gathered per day. It was a crapshoot, and people did have weird obsessions about keeping track of what would seem to be useless information to us today. But then they didn’t have an app on a phone or software on a computer to keep their records for them; to know when the last calf was born, or when the baby chicks would be hatching, or when the wheat harvesting should begin, or when to plant the potatoes. People had to write it all down.

I sneaked a peek to the first page with writing on it. It was dated 25th December 1811.

The lovely journals were a gift on Christmas Day from her beloved Graham, and husband-to-be, whom she would marry in one month’s time.

I had chills all down my back from reading just the first few lines of Imogene’s journal. I had to close it, replacing it carefully back into its spot on the shelf. It was private and special, but that’s not why I stopped reading. If I didn’t stop now, I wouldn’t put it down until the last page had been turned. A read-a-thon was not on my agenda for today. Her journals were going to be a treasure to read. I knew it way down in my bones. But they would have to wait for the moment.