Mr. Picton has informed me the that a proper journal should begin with the date. I have informed Mr. Picton that this is a diary, not a journal, and that if he glances at it while I write again I shall smack him on the head with it. But in honor of the candid old fellow, we’ll call today…

Monday.

Dear Diary,

Thank the heavens the butler is not about to read this now. I scarce know how to recount it. I didn’t mean to do it, I swear! But heavens, the way he writes… I really didn’t mean to read it at all, and now that I have-

It was only a few words caught my eye by the candlelight as I was tidying the study. It was late, far too late for the family to be about- so I knew well that the fellow must have left his notebook and his work for the next day and gone off to bed. But what a state that godson leaves things in, papers and books scattered all about – I only thought I’d stack them up nice for him. I’ll own that I hoped when he woke and saw his things straightened he might spare a kind thought for the maid on night duty – if indeed he remembered there was a maid. (It’s those blue eyes, I’m sure of it – they’ve put some kind of spell on me and have really made my thoughts a might silly.)

Whatever the case, when I scooped up the notebook a loose page fell out from the corner. Of course I’m no meddler, I know when as to leave well enough alone- but I glanced at those sentences, just a glance- and they had me. The lad writes the strangest things, odd and wonderful, like the sort of words you’d expect from a fairytale. Dramatic and flowery and needlessly woeful it may all be, but surely there’s heart in it. I’ll not forget those words- I think something of the lilt in his voice has soaked into them. I followed about the fine loops of his pen, all enchanted, but I soon felt my heart sink (They do say eavesdroppers never hear good news.) It was not only a letter, but a love letter.

I’d never taken the godson for an amorous type, but sakes! You can’t imagine the pining that bloke’s been up to. I found then that he has some lady friend who he takes as sheer perfection, and dazzling as stars. But as I was never one to let my fancies run away with me, I did my best to be cheered by the thought that I now could stop from my childish wishing after him. I kept on with the letter, if for nothing more than to cheer myself with the intrigue of it all. Truth is, I just had to know what fine lady our lovelorn young hero was pining for. I read to the finish - but that's where my heart near stopped. There at the bottom of the page- the name, my name!

Of course it must be to some other Anna, it must be – but no, he speaks of a maid, a maid in this house… I read it again, this time from the beginning, and still I cannot drive myself to believe. The woman in this note is a goddess, she’s the sun and stars he says! Why far as I know I’m about as dazzling as a jam tart.  Could he be having a go? A laugh at my expense?  Well I’d not give him the satisfaction of a joke, I'd hide the evidence and never speak of it again. That's when just the absolute worst of things - yes the worst thing I've ever heard in my life - I can't tell you my horror at the rustle of fabric behind me, only the slightest of sounds. I whirl about, clutching the letter...

And there I am, face to face with the most mortified lad who ever lived. Aye, the baron's godson, all wide-eyed, clutching a glass of water (curse those authors and their midnight hours), fingers pale as ever in the firelight, and scarlet up to his ears. A more desperately miserable pair of blue eyes I've not before seen.

Well, we stood staring for the most excruciating few seconds that two mortals ever endured, til I finally found myself able to stutter out an apology- But the bloke cut me short by shouting out an apology himself then, or something like one, as far as I could gather. It was more a string of frantic half-sentences. I can't much recall how I answered him, but the short of it is that the lad soon found himself unable to speak further, and instead made a hasty retreat backwards for the door (stumbling into an end table and about smashing the porcelain lamp) before disappearing into the night.

I don’t know whether to laugh about it, or cry – my feelings are too many. Do the others know? Perhaps I'll be sacked for this in the morning. But those words... those strange words he wrote won't leave my head.  And if he really meant the things he wrote- but of course he could not, it can't really be love on his part, only a fancy – I’m sure when he knows me better he will realize this is all foolishness. But diary, know me better he shall, for I've determined to ask him just what he means by this letter.