Oh, Lord, I can’t seem to make my pen form the word!
My cheeks are burning.
I’ll just jot it very fast: Erotic.
My ever-tolerant friend, I shan’t sully your pages with the sordid details! But suffice it to say Jonathan was not as he used to be. Not a reserved and gentlemanly sort of lover, but an aggressive, demanding, almost wild one. Where the real Jonathan seemed always content to follow my lead, this Jonathan knew what he wanted, and he took it—for he knew I wanted it, too.
And all I can say of the experience is: Horsefeathers! Though it was only a dream, my body is still humming in unmentionable places.
(Which I pray will soon cease, or how am I to meet Jonathan’s eyes over the breakfast table?)
At any rate, I do have one bit of hopeful news to report: last night’s storm has blown itself out. Hallelujah! I fancy dawn shall break clear, though it’s still too dark to tell. I’m crossing all my fingers (except the ones I’m using to write).
I suppose nobody else will be stirring for a while yet. Which suits me just fine; I can use the time to write out my directives and save myself the trouble of rushing about to give them in person. Let me see how many there are…
M. Laurent: His Grace no longer to require special diet (cancel calf’s foot jelly, dry burnt toast, etc)
Mr. Evans: Footmen to disregard cold bath order from Ruby Room (send hot water instead)
Mrs. O’Connor: Ruby Room to require fresh bedclothes (warn maids about smell)
John the Stableman: Upon further consideration, do please put Serenity to harness in place of Chaos
Elizabeth: Where are trousers???
La, what a sad waste of my sister’s ingenuity. Poor Elizabeth will be sorely disappointed. To be sure, the entire operation was childish, petty, and mean, but it was also great fun.
How I hate when Jonathan is right!
A quarter to seven in the morning. — And yet, was I not just as right about his childish behavior as he was about mine? Is he not acting awfully naive by pretending his mother into a ghost?
But perhaps I would overstep (even were I his wife) to concern myself with the matter. And heaven knows I haven’t any right to scold him in my new capacity as a friend.
I must dwell no more upon it. Especially since I ought to be writing my directives.
Ten minutes to seven. — Though mustn’t it be said that, regardless of whether his wife concerns herself with the matter, the matter will certainly concern itself with her?
For she, too, will be obliged to live next door to a ghost—and accept her share in all the attendant nonsense. When word goes round the neighborhood, how will she hold her head up? What will she tell her neighbors? What will she tell her children? What if they wish to know their grandmother?
And if Jonathan cannot face a quarrel, what of the quarrels that inevitably arise in marriage? Will he shut his eyes to all my her little foibles and mistakes until the day she goes too far—and becomes a ghost herself?
Five after seven. — And by-the-by, what did he mean about hearing a hint of my “softening” toward him?
Did Noah write him that I was softening?
I suppose it does not signify, given said softening never occurred.
Ten after. — Though if Noah did write something of the kind, I cannot but take it as further proof that he’s never cared a whit for me.
What motive could prompt him to tell such a lie? Merely desiring a reunion with his friend? Or was he perhaps, in the loss of a high-ranking connection, feeling the blow to his own consequence? Whatever its basis, I can scarcely conceive a more egregious betrayal. It boils my blood!
But I really must get on with writing these notes. Others will soon be stirring.
A quarter after. — How I long to confront Noah and learn the truth! Yet I dare not risk a scene with the house full of company. So long as this dratted party continues, I must play the gracious hostess and keep my mouth shut.
Come the end of Christmas, however, he shall have much to answer for!!!
Half past. — Men are a plague. Every last one of them. Hang Noah and his lies, Lord M and his proposal, Jonathan and his…well, existence.
