Lena’s Life – The reason for these writings

Dearest,

I awoke this morning to the sound of awful starlings out my window. They have built a nest above the pane, and I have not succeeded in convincing Henry the stable hand to remove it yet. It was to be my mission of the day.

My bed is always perfectly warm in the mornings, but I never loath to leave it behind for the view out my window ( starlings and all). The glass offers a lovely look out over the rolling hills to the stream at the bottom of the track. A horse usually drinks there, or sheep, depending on what our neighbour, Farmer Arthur, likes. Today there was neither, and so I simply enjoyed the summery oak and ash trees, and the way the chomped grass showed signs of rocks beneath. Then it was enough view for one morning, and breakfast awaited me. I chose the simple blue lawn dress, and hastened down to tea and bread.

Fancifully enough, I found Henry in the passageway, on his way to steal things from the kitchen. Sliding in front of the kitchen door I smiled at him,

“Remove those starlings, won’t you?” I said. He responded with a most awful scowl and simply pushed me aside. I will never like him properly I don’t think. He is such a rough and irritating boy. Especially about the starlings.

My crossness could not last very long, for Aunt Cora was at the table. She is a beautiful woman of twenty nine, and is not afraid at all of being thirty. Her figure is so far elevated from my own skinny little body that I, at times, am bereaved. But my appearance has never been my most comely point, and I decided long ago that it was of no matter. Having thin, dark, straight hair and a drawn out complexion is not the most of my worries.

Anyway, back to Aunt Cora. She is my aunt by way of mother’s sister. My mother died when I was born, and so my aunt promised to come look after me, her own fiance running away to Italy. So she has been my greatest guardian for as long as I can remember…with those comforting hazel eyes, and soft pink cheeks. She also has strong hands, and can knit and sew, play piano and sing like an angel. She would be my idol, if God did not forbid such things.

“Morning Birdy.” she greets me the same every morning, with her very own nick name for me. It is inspired by my love of trees. Mostly my love of being in them. I do not let anyone else call me it, not even Father, who wouldn’t anyway. He is quite the opposite of Aunt Cora: serious, going grey, and rather uninterested in anything to do with me.

We ate our bread with butter and jam, and Aunt Cora made me have the awful tea that she claims will make me not catch cold when winter comes. I believe her of course, but see no need for it when summer is in full bloom. What is fresh air and climbing trees going to do to a person?

Speaking of trees, after breakfast I proceeded to climb my very favourite tree. It is a giant beech with the most gloriously wide branches. I went up and sat on one with my legs swinging for some time, trying to remember the lyrics to the folk song Aunt Cora had taught me yesterday.

An hour later found me sitting on the ground at said Aunt’s feet as she picked twigs and leaves out of my hair. She did not call me “outrageous” or “unladylike” as other people would have.

But we are getting very carried away with these superfluous descriptions. My reason for writing this afternoon is to tell you of why I am writing in here at all. It is a new journal from my Aunt Cora (a birthday present). I turned 17, and have decided that this must be the year something happens. My entire childhood has been spent in this same cottage, with Aunt Cora and my Father: John Digby. I have never been abroad as some of the other young ladies in the area, and haven’t spend a season in London either.

In short, nothing of much interest has happened to me. I intend to remedy that this year, by finding some excitement and newness in life. Who knows where it will take me…Italian coasts, London ballrooms, Scottish moors? So long as I am not stuck forever in this little town as my father has been his whole life. I simply must get out, dearest reader.

Accompany me as I find my remedy and escape the mundane life I have lived thus far.

Yours truly,

Lena Digby