March 7, 1918
Arthur leaves tomorrow. The war calls him back, and I am left with nothing but a memory of his touch, the way he whispered my name as we swayed to the music. It is unbearable, this ache in my chest. I never imagined love could bloom so quickly, nor did I know how deeply it would root itself within me.
April 10, 1918
Puffin Island is quiet today. The sea is restless, waves battering the shore, much like my own heart. The café is coming together, but my thoughts stray only to Arthur. His letters are sparse, but I clutch each one as if it were my lifeline. He is fighting, and I am waiting.
May 14, 1918
I have been feeling unwell for weeks. Fatigue, dizziness, a sense of unease I cannot shake. Henry visited today– he always seems to know when I need company. He is troubled, I can tell. He confided in me that he will tell the Queen his relationship with Princess Alexandra is over. I was stunned. To give up all that he has known. But when I saw the sorrow in his eyes, I understood.
May 18, 1918
Henry arrived unannounced tonight. He asked if he could stay the night, and I saw the weight he carried. He told me everything. About Étienne. About the love that would never be accepted by the world he was born into. I watched his hands tremble as he spoke, his voice raw with grief and frustration. They’d spent last night at Royalwood Cottage where they celebrated in private their relationship and Étienne’s birthday. Love should not have to be hidden.
Clemmie chipped in, ‘I should have noticed the date in the visitors’ book at the cottage was the seventeenthof May… 1705.’
June 3, 1918
I am with child. My hands shake even as I write the words. Arthur’s child. The realisation fills me with equal parts joy and terror. How will I raise a child alone? Will Arthur return to me? I have told no one, not even Henry.
July 9, 1918
Étienne is dead. Murdered at war, just moments after Henry met with the Queen and decided to step away from public life. I have never seen Henry so broken. He weeps without shame, crumbling before me. I wish I could take his pain, as he has comforted mine. The world is cruel to love, it seems.
August 1, 1918
Henry has taken refuge here. We do not speak much of our grief, but it lingers in the air between us. He knows nowabout the baby. He held my hand as I cried, whispering reassurances I am too numb to believe. I am lost.
August 20, 1918
The telegram came today. Arthur is dead. My heart has shattered, and there is no mending it. I screamed until my voice broke, until Henry wrapped his arms around me and held me through the storm of my grief. I will never love again. I know that now.
Henry says he understands. That there will never be another Étienne for him, just as there will never be another Arthur for me. He looks at my growing belly and makes a choice. He will take Arthur’s name. He will be my family.
September 10, 1918
Henry Aberford is gone. In his place stands Arthur Rose, my Arthur. We will make this work, for the child who will never know their true father, and for the love that could not be but will always remain.
September 13, 1918
Henry and I have set a date. I need to remember to call him Arthur. We will be married before the baby arrives. It is not the love story I once dreamed of, but it is a new kind of love, built on trust and understanding. Puffin Island has always been our sanctuary, and its people our family.
December 14, 1918
Emily is here. My beautiful daughter. When I hold her, I see Arthur in her eyes, but I also see hope. Henry was there for her birth, and he held her as if she were his own. In that moment, I knew we would be all right.
December 20, 1918
Everyone on Puffin Island has embraced us. They know Henry’s truth, the islanders are privy to Henry’s secret and they have accepted it without question. They welcome him as Arthur Rose, the man who has chosen to stand by my side. We have found peace, at last, in our quiet corner of the world. Our family is not conventional, but it is ours, and it is enough.
The room fell silent as the weight of the words on the fragile, yellowed pages settled over them like a thick mist. Betty, Clemmie and Oliver sat around the counter, the diary resting between them, its secrets laid bare.
Clemmie was the first to speak. She exhaled shakily and wiped her eyes, ‘Henry Aberford… and Étienne.’
Oliver let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. ‘And Arthur Rose wasn’t Arthur Rose. He was Henry. He took on the name of the man she loved so her child would have a father. That’s… that’s devotion.’
Betty’s hands rested on her heart. ‘My heart aches for them both. For the love lost, for the sacrifices made. They created a life together out of grief and necessity, but also out of love, in their own way and the world never knew.’
