When he put the diary in her hand, she saw that same expression of gloom in David’s choirboy features. “It’s written as a novel,” he said, “but I’ll warn you, it’s still difficult to get through—messy handwriting, shewed instead of showed, that kind of thing.”
“But why would Elizabeth write her diary as a novel?”
“Perhaps you’ll know by the time I get back.”
“You’re leaving?” she asked.
“I must go to meet Mr. Collins, I’m afraid. You’re welcome to go through my books while I’m gone, and if you need anything, just find Kathryn. I should be home about ten o’clock.”
With a parting wave, he backed out the door.
Ravenna glanced at the book in her hand. Pocket-sized, covered in old, black leather and marked by a ribbon halfway through, it seemed less than intimidating, and yet she was fearful when she scanned the first page. Killiney’s eyes had been so unfeeling; the tone of James’s voice still rung in her ears, and what would happen if she welcomed these things? Would she awaken from her visions in a psychiatric ward?