Miss Lister may not see me as highborn enough for her. She has aristocratic friends, not nouveau riche as she calls us Walkers. I do not imagine that the friends she always gushes about would appreciate my acquaintance. I’m not sure how they even tolerate Miss Lister’s, but at least she has some heritage and education. She probably provides better company than I ever could.

Perhaps she is attracted by my money? Is that part of my appeal? Perhaps she is no better than a money-seeking male suitor. She will lure me in with her charms and embraces and then have me sign a document and she will move into Crow Nest and I will be helpless to stop her.

Perhaps I judge too unfairly. She cannot be as cruel as a man, surely?

Perhaps she will love me because I am so different from her. I think about how we could be long-term companions to each other. Ward off any suitors, or all men altogether, and hide ourselves away at Crow Nest. My heart seems taken with Miss Lister.

I wonder how many relationships she has really had, how many broken hearts she has left in her wake. She is older than me, worldlier, more experienced in so many things, but regardless of our age, backgrounds, dreams and fears, when we are together and our mouths touch and we push ourselves against each other, we are no longer ruled by our minds but by our hearts which beat as one. Is she truly my last chance for happiness?

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Autumn, 1832: A proposal to Miss Walker and the writing of a diary

Miss Lister

Another kiss with Miss Walker. She tells me I am on her mind and I confess that she is on mine too. I record our encounters in my diary, like a confessional that only I can access. To be able to freely expound my innermost thoughts to paper and confine them to a volume to be reflected upon or forgotten and lost to time. I thank God for it. For in my lonely life, it has given me the companion that I long for.

Some days, I almost wish the day to be over before it has begun so I can retire to my small study and write my diary. Writing can give me more pleasure than the day itself sometimes. I find myself undertaking tasks for the reward not of the task itself, but the writing of it.