'She was beautiful. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. Her hair was black, like a rook's feathers and cascaded down her back almost to her waist. Her eyes were black too and seemed to flash. Her costume was exotic, the finest, shimmering silk of blues and golds and whites. She took my breath away. I felt that we were destined, intended.'
"I think, Polly, we have a murder."
"What makes you think that?" So, I told her. The secret messages I'd found in that little, locked book. "Well, it still doesn't mean it's murder. It could be that she was truly mad."
"Yes," I conceded, "it could. But suppose, just suppose, AF, whoever he is, and Isabella were lovers. Maybe, if Harry found out and feared a right royal scandal, not forgetting his being the laughing stock of friends and business people alike, maybe he decided to protect his reputation and business. Don't forget how he coerced and threatened Dr Martin.
"Then there's 'Truth - buried - under - cot,' and I find a loose flagstone."
"Which you still haven't managed to get up yet. Let me have a go, weakling." She kissed me as she took my place.
I guided the light as she dropped to her knees and began levering the stone. Eventually, it seemed to yield to her, and I leant in to help her. Together we finally managed to lift the stone. Dust, nothing but dust. No! It cant let me down like this. I reached down and scooped out handfuls of dust until, oh my God, I felt something.
I retrieved the something. It was a filthy, oilskin packet, like the one my grandfather used to keep his pipe tobacco in. Shaking, I stood up and opened the packet on the bedstead. More papers, some with jagged edges as if they had been torn from a book, THE book. With the papers were two small pencils, chewed at their ends, and a knife, like the sort used for peeling apples all those years ago. My heart lurched.
I sat down on the bedstead, unaware of the harsh bare springs and tried to sort the papers into order, easy, since they were all numbered. It wasn't a journal, it was a story. I began to read out loud.
"Harry discovered my affaire. I feel no shame. If someone finds this when I am gone, then let this be a testament of the truth and love between two human beings."
"My name is Isabella Gurnard. I was born Isabella Louisa Larkin. My father was a mid-ranking diplomat, my mother Italian, the daughter of a similarly ranked Italian diplomat, resident when they met, at Italy's London embassy. She passed away when I was six years old and my father, a dear, kind man, raised me alone although I had a governess called Miss Percy who was also kind. I never felt unloved or unwanted but I know in my heart that I held my father's career back.
"Miss Percy educated me to some extent but my true education came from my father's library, in which I discovered countries about which I knew nothing, literature that opened my eyes. That would never have been, but for Percy's teaching me to read and I am forever grateful.
"My father was a very liberal man who did not conform, privately, to all the establishment's rules and customs. He despised the church. He thought it scandalous that women were undervalued, treated as brood mares and denied education and, consequently, the opportunity to contribute to society. He paid, though how he managed I know not, for me to be educated further in France and Italy, where I met and lived with some of my poor mother's family. Those two years were, perhaps, the happiest of my life."
Polly gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "Let's go upstairs and you can continue to read it to me while we have a drink?"
"What? Oh. Okay."
"Come on, Indiana Jones, let's go."
I was trembling. I had no idea what her story was going to be but this felt like a momentous discovery. I followed Polly up the stairs and we went into the kitchen where I sat at the table while she opened a bottle.
"While I was in Italy, I met a woman who taught at my college there. She taught me Italian language and history. Her name was Maria Giovanna and she was the most beautiful thing, human or otherwise, I had ever seen. She had alabaster skin, a neck like a swan's.. Her figure could not be concealed by the dresses she wore. If it sounds as if I were in love, that is because I was. I was totally enamoured. She made me laugh, made me see, made me feel things in literature that I'd never felt before.
"She was beautiful. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. Her hair was black, like a rook's feathers, and cascaded down her back almost to her waist. Her eyes were black too and seemed to flash. Her costume was exotic, the finest, shimmering silk of blues and golds and whites. She took my breath away. I felt that we were destined, intended.
"Maria Giovanna was the first woman with whom I made love. It began one evening, in her apartment. We'd been talking over a simple supper and the conversation turned to my family. For the first time, and it must have been 15 years after the event, I cried over my mother's death. She comforted me, held me, and kissed me. That kiss turned from comforting to passionate. I can still feel her lips on mine, her hand holding mine. Until then, I had never felt lust. I had never so much as touched my private parts, nor had anyone else except perhaps my mother when bathing me. I'd never felt aroused. I had no idea what was happening to my body. My nipples became engorged, and rubbed against my chemise. Between my legs, unfamiliar, alarming sensations developed and at one point I felt I might have wet myself.
"I was shocked, somewhat ashamed and embarrassed. I broke away from Maria and stood.
"She was gentle. Standing, she took me back into her arms. 'Don't be alarmed or ashamed. I know what you're feeling.' She then described precisely how my body had reacted to her touch. "I feel the same. There is no shame in physical love, only joy.'
