The Forgotten Gift. Kathleen McGurl

no love or time on him, I’m afraid.’

      ‘And yet you don’t try to make up for this?’

      Father sighed and paused before answering. ‘I should, I suppose. But I find the boy hard to like. I will keep him until he is of age. I will pay him an allowance until he is established in some kind of profession. And then he will need to make his own way in life.’

      ‘Well, I suppose if you don’t like the boy, that’s as much as you can be expected to do. Parenting is a difficult task. I am glad Amelia and I never had any children. I’d have been no better at it.’

      I raised my eyebrows again at this last statement from the doctor. I had never before considered that parents could be good or bad at parenting. I had always assumed I must be unlovable, and that is why my parents didn’t love me. Could the fault actually lie with them?

      At that moment the drawing room door opened, and my mother came out, calling behind her to Amelia Moore that she was just fetching her latest bonnet to show her. She pulled up short on seeing me lurking in the hallway.

      ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were drinking port with the men?’

      ‘They didn’t want me. I was on my way upstairs to my room.’ I stepped on to the first step as though to prove myself.

      ‘Oh. Good.’ She pushed past me and climbed the stairs quickly, no doubt wanting to get back to the drawing room as fast as she could.

      I followed her up, and spent the rest of the evening in my room, reading the poetry that my father sneered at.

      That evening, as I said, occurred about a week ago. I have replayed what Father said many times, praying that he does not buy me a commission, for I know I would loathe being in the army. I know I will need to think of some kind of profession and find a way to build myself a career, but for the moment I have no idea what that should be. I should like to be a botanist but I cannot see how I can earn a living following that pursuit. For the time being, and until I am of age, I shall just have to remain here.

      Now, at nineteen, and no longer under the tutelage of Mr Smythe, I can use this journal to explore my feelings and try to decide upon a desirable future course for myself, knowing that these pages will only ever be seen by my own eyes. Setting everything down in words may help me to look deep inside myself and determine whether I should harden my own heart against my parents and their apparent lack of regard for me, or whether I should continue to do what I can to impress my father and win the love of my mother.

      It is late and I grow weary of writing by gaslight. I will continue tomorrow, for something important happened earlier today which I need to capture in my journal.

       31st January

      We have employed, as of yesterday, a new upstairs maidservant, to replace one my mother had found unsatisfactory in some way, although quite what was wrong with the previous girl whom I’d thought was pretty and personable, was unclear to me.

      The new girl’s name is Lucy. She is the sweetest-looking girl one could ever hope to see. Her hair is a light brown, wavy tendrils of it escape her cap and curl about her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are wide, their colour is hard to describe – in some lights they look brown, in others blue, and in still others, green. Perhaps I shall call them hazel. They are intriguing, mystifying eyes like none I have ever had the fortune to gaze upon before. Her figure is slight, trim, neat and efficient. We call women the weaker sex, but Lucy’s bearing suggests a hidden, exciting strength. Were I a painter, I would ask her to sit for me; I would try to capture that elusive eye colour, that regal bearing, that aura of mystical beauty she carries with her.

      She arrived mid-morning. I was on my way downstairs, considering taking my father’s bay mare Bella for a gallop across the bare fields. He rarely takes the poor creature out, and the groom and stable hands have enough work to do without needing to exercise his horse. I met Mother as she conducted Lucy upstairs to show her the duties that would be expected of her. I couldn’t help myself. Lucy’s face, her figure, her bearing – everything about her was mesmerising and I am ashamed to admit it, I stared as she approached and passed me on the stairs.

      She noticed. A tiny smile played at the corner of her perfect mouth, and if I am not mistaken, she pulled herself a little more upright, her shoulders a little further back, her chin a little higher, as she ascended and I stood gaping.

      Mother noticed too. While I was still sitting on a chair in the hall, pulling on my riding boots, she came back down, having presumably left Lucy in one of the rooms upstairs. She approached me and stood before me, her face clouded with anger.

      ‘I saw the way you looked at that girl. You steer clear of her, you hear me?’ Her voice was low and hissing. I supposed she did not want the other house servant, plain, simple Maggie, who was busy blacking the grate in the sitting room, to hear.

      I was shocked but not surprised by the venom in her voice. It is not the first time she has spoken to me like this. I tried to appease her. ‘Of course, Mother. I was just struck by her beauty. I meant nothing by staring at her. What is her name, please?’

      ‘The girl’s name is Lucy Carter, though why you need to know that is beyond me. I am warning you, if you go getting her into trouble, I will throw you out, and make sure your father leaves you not a penny. Do you hear? Do you understand me?’

      ‘I hear you, Mother,’ I answered. ‘Please be assured I would never do anything to harm her, or any other servant we might employ.’ It’s not in my nature to harm another human. Did she not know that? My own mother? Did she not know my character?

      ‘You say that, but you’re a man, and I know what men are like and what they are capable of, when their heads are turned by a pretty face. She comes with good references and I don’t want to lose her. You’ll keep your hands to yourself and your eyes averted, my boy. Your brother would not have looked at her like that. He, at least, is an honourable man. You are too much like your father.’ She turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs.

      I sighed. This was not the first time she had turned on me like that, for apparently no reason. But perhaps I had stared too much, too openly, and perhaps she was justified in her admonishment. I pulled on my riding boots and took Bella for the hardest gallop she’d ever had. We both came back sweating and exhausted, our thoughts only on refreshment and rest.

      I was late for lunch, and it was already laid out in the dining room – a buffet of cold cuts, scones, pickles and pies. With no time to change or freshen up, I went straight in, pulled out a chair and sat down. Father was already seated at the head of the table, his plate piled high, his wine glass part-filled with a deep rusty claret. Mother was hovering at the sideboard, picking the choicest morsels of cold beef and ham. And Lucy, sweet-faced Lucy, was going around the table filling water glasses from a large ewer.

      She smiled at me as I sat, and then she was there, beside me, her hip pressing slightly against my upper arm. ‘Water, sir?’

      Her voice, in just those two words, was melodious, rich, and was I imagining it or did I detect a tiny hint of mischief in the way she raised her intonation at the end of the short sentence, as though she was offering more than a simple glass of water?

      I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak, as my mother was glaring at me from across the table. What I was not imagining was the pressure of Lucy’s thigh against my arm, as she leaned across me to fill my glass.

      And so this evening, as I write my journal, I find myself pondering the events of the day and the attractions of sweet Lucy, and wondering whether her pressure against me was accidental or intentional. I can reach no conclusion. I find myself half wishing Mr Smythe were still here to work through the puzzle with me, as though it were a mathematical problem or a philosophical question. But I am grown now, and the problem is my own, and only I can solve it. Why is this girl who I have set eyes on only thrice (the third time being at the dinner table where she once again waited on us) filling my mind so, and leaving no room for anything else?