What I hoped to find was something of a personal nature, a family Bible or maybe a handwritten account of events. Unlike in later generations, when every young lady was encouraged to regurgitate her day on paper in nightly journal entries, detailing the most trivial of happenings to make her life seem more eventful, journal-keeping was not a common practice in the seventeenth century. In part, the diarist would have had to account for the cost of paper and ink, but also, many people were illiterate, and those who weren’t might not feel safe putting their thoughts and feelings on paper for fear of giving ammunition to those who might seek to penalize them for their opinions. This would particularly apply to women, who were not encouraged to have a voice independent of their male guardian, be it their father or husband.
But the Lockwoods would have been both educated and wealthy, so it was possible that something had survived. I started with the top shelf of every unit and worked my way down, scanning the spines. Most of the books were old and looked like they hadn’t been touched in years, but they weren’t old enough to have been published in the seventeenth century. I came across many familiar titles, everything from Charles Dickens to Georgette Heyer, but there was nothing that looked like it might be a personal account.
Discouraged with my lack of progress, I took a five-minute break to drink a bottle of mineral water I found on a side table, then continued to search, moving deeper into the room. As I got closer to the back wall, the books got older, the spines cracked, and the smell of dust and mold making me wrinkle my nose in disgust. A number of these books were probably worth a great deal and were collector’s items, but no one seemed overly interested in preserving them.
It was in the last three bookcases that I found several slender volumes without lettering on the spine. I pulled them all out and took them over to the hearth, where I’d have more light to read by. The back of the room was lost in shadow, the electric lights not reaching into the furthest recesses of the library.
I settled in a chair, turned on a conveniently placed reading lamp, and reverently opened the first book. Bound in calf leather, it was a ledger of some sort. I flipped through the brittle pages, finding nothing but lists and sums, which were of no interest to me. The next two books were much the same, but the dates did indicate that they had survived from the early sixteen hundreds, so it was possible that there were more documents from that era.
The fourth volume was smaller and much slimmer, more of a notebook than a ledger. I opened it carefully, peering at the curling, yellowed paper. My breath caught in my throat. Lines of writing covered the pages, the spidery handwriting probably belonging to a woman. I turned on the torch app on my phone, illuminating the first page. The ink was faded to light brown, the words spelled in unfamiliar ways and many of them capitalized for emphasis. I wished I had a magnifying glass, but the best I could do was photograph the pages, upload them to my laptop, and then try to increase the resolution and magnify the writing until it was easier to read. I did, however, manage to decipher the first few lines. They read:
I am to be wed. Father arranged the Marriage before his passing and I must honor his wishes, but I fear this Union and cannot find it in my heart to either admire or respect my intended. His faith wavers like the flame of a flickering candle and he holds no strong political convictions in a time when our country is on the brink of war and every man must search his Conscience and take a stand. I fear his weak character and devotion to frippery will infect this house like a pestilence and undermine the morality of our future children.
Father cared only to secure a grand title for his only daughter, but all I wished for was to be given to an Honorable, Devout man of my own Puritan persuasion who could improve and guide me in the ways of the Lord.
There was an empty space, then another short entry.
There’s an outbreak of smallpox in the village. The wedding has been postponed. Dare I hope indefinitely?
My heart hammered against my ribs as I finished reading the first two entries. Was it possible that this journal belonged to Marjorie Ashcombe? I was so excited, I could barely breathe, but the next few entries were written in such a cramped hand, I had no hope of deciphering them tonight. I took several photos of every page and returned the books to their spots on the shelves before turning out the lights and climbing the stairs to my room. I couldn’t wait to read the rest of the journal, sure I was on the right track. Several references in the brief entry had convinced me that the journal had been written right around the time of Alys’s execution.
Chapter 26
Alys
“Bring this to the master. He’s in the study,” Mistress Helmsley said, handing Alys a laden tray. There was a bowl of stew, bread, cheese, and a mug of ale. “He’s missed his dinner,” she added.
The stew smelled good, and Alys
