she added, as she watched while Mistress Jamieson began to move about the room with Frisque an ever-bouncing bundle at the hemline of her gown.
“Indeed,” Mistress Jamieson said as she trailed a hand over the spines of the books on one shelf, “so few women write anything, that when one does it can never be deemed unimportant.”
“Truly, it was nothing more than my own private thoughts.”
“Then pray, don’t let me keep you from them.”
Mary wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an invitation or a firm command, but since the answer either way was to reclaim her chair and carry on where she’d left off within her journal, she decided it was best to do exactly that. It was a great relief, in fact, to bend her head and hide her reddened cheeks as she took up her pen again and dipped it in the ink while she read over what she’d so far written for her first attempt for this new year beneath the simple heading “January”:
Upon the 22nd came my eldest brother Nicolas to my uncle’s home at Chanteloup-les-Vignes, and after dinner we began our journey to his home—and my new one—at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, he having hired a splendid chaise for the occasion with a driver and two bay mares matched in all but that the near one had white forelegs and the other had no white at all upon her. Though the day was cold my heart was made the warmer knowing all my years of praying for such a reunion had at last been heard and answered, and with my brother as companion and so many fine and strange things to be seen within the woods through which we passed, I was well satisfied, the only complication rising from a wagon overturned upon the road that made it necessary for our driver to divert some several leagues around the obstacle, and causing us to break our journey at Chatou, where lives a noble gentleman of Irish birth who knows my brother well. Sir Redmond Everard, for so his name is, seemed not in the least put out to have us thus descend upon him. He and his good lady made us welcome and installed us in fine chambers, and a maid was sent to help me dress for supper, and a better supper I have never had, set out so cleverly and with so little notice, and a wine Sir Redmond told us he’d had sent him from Bordeaux, which we agreed with him was very fine, though privately I would confess I’d hold my uncle’s wine to be superior. Supper being done we then amused ourselves at play upon the cards. There being three of us (for Lady Everard declined to play but chose instead to sit apart and so be entertained) we played the Renegado with Sir Redmond and myself aligned against my brother, though he, with great skill, confounded both of us and left us all in laughter. So to bed, and up the morning of the 23rd at sunrise to attend to Frisque. I thought to walk some little way along the river, but the freezing wind defeated us and drove us back indoors where I—
The narrative broke off there, where she’d risen to help Frisque retrieve his ball. She tried now to retrieve the thread of it, without including the embarrassing details of what had happened in the meantime:
—made the acquaintance of a fellow guest of our good host: a woman by the name of Mistress Jamieson who carried to Sir Redmond correspondence of a secret nature, which she carried hidden on her person. I suspect the name she gave him may be false, she having earlier declined to give a name at all and only acquiescing when his lady entered in the room and wanted introduction, but Sir Redmond, if he does suspect the same, seems yet well satisfied. I do perceive, from having seen him toast King James’s health last night at supper, that Sir Redmond is himself a Jacobite, and so this woman’s errand doubtless serves that same king who has long been favored with the love and loyalty of my own father and my brothers, and in whose lost palace I am soon to take up residence.
“Where did he lose it, then?” asked Mistress Jamieson.
Mary looked up, startled,
“Indeed,” Mistress Jamieson said as she trailed a hand over the spines of the books on one shelf, “so few women write anything, that when one does it can never be deemed unimportant.”
“Truly, it was nothing more than my own private thoughts.”
“Then pray, don’t let me keep you from them.”
Mary wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an invitation or a firm command, but since the answer either way was to reclaim her chair and carry on where she’d left off within her journal, she decided it was best to do exactly that. It was a great relief, in fact, to bend her head and hide her reddened cheeks as she took up her pen again and dipped it in the ink while she read over what she’d so far written for her first attempt for this new year beneath the simple heading “January”:
Upon the 22nd came my eldest brother Nicolas to my uncle’s home at Chanteloup-les-Vignes, and after dinner we began our journey to his home—and my new one—at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, he having hired a splendid chaise for the occasion with a driver and two bay mares matched in all but that the near one had white forelegs and the other had no white at all upon her. Though the day was cold my heart was made the warmer knowing all my years of praying for such a reunion had at last been heard and answered, and with my brother as companion and so many fine and strange things to be seen within the woods through which we passed, I was well satisfied, the only complication rising from a wagon overturned upon the road that made it necessary for our driver to divert some several leagues around the obstacle, and causing us to break our journey at Chatou, where lives a noble gentleman of Irish birth who knows my brother well. Sir Redmond Everard, for so his name is, seemed not in the least put out to have us thus descend upon him. He and his good lady made us welcome and installed us in fine chambers, and a maid was sent to help me dress for supper, and a better supper I have never had, set out so cleverly and with so little notice, and a wine Sir Redmond told us he’d had sent him from Bordeaux, which we agreed with him was very fine, though privately I would confess I’d hold my uncle’s wine to be superior. Supper being done we then amused ourselves at play upon the cards. There being three of us (for Lady Everard declined to play but chose instead to sit apart and so be entertained) we played the Renegado with Sir Redmond and myself aligned against my brother, though he, with great skill, confounded both of us and left us all in laughter. So to bed, and up the morning of the 23rd at sunrise to attend to Frisque. I thought to walk some little way along the river, but the freezing wind defeated us and drove us back indoors where I—
The narrative broke off there, where she’d risen to help Frisque retrieve his ball. She tried now to retrieve the thread of it, without including the embarrassing details of what had happened in the meantime:
—made the acquaintance of a fellow guest of our good host: a woman by the name of Mistress Jamieson who carried to Sir Redmond correspondence of a secret nature, which she carried hidden on her person. I suspect the name she gave him may be false, she having earlier declined to give a name at all and only acquiescing when his lady entered in the room and wanted introduction, but Sir Redmond, if he does suspect the same, seems yet well satisfied. I do perceive, from having seen him toast King James’s health last night at supper, that Sir Redmond is himself a Jacobite, and so this woman’s errand doubtless serves that same king who has long been favored with the love and loyalty of my own father and my brothers, and in whose lost palace I am soon to take up residence.
“Where did he lose it, then?” asked Mistress Jamieson.
Mary looked up, startled,
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