I am confident. Until then, keep them safe.”
Vambéry turned to Thornley. “You mentioned a book? Our reason for gathering?”
Bram retrieved the book they had found in Patrick O’Cuiv’s bodiless coffin, placed it in front of Vambéry, and turned to the first page. “Look at this date. The entire book is written in Ellen’s hand.”
“The twelfth of October 1654.” He raised the book to his nose and sniffed the pages, then inspected the binding. “The construction is correct for that period, so the book is at least that old, but there is no way to determine when she actually wrote in it.”
“Can you read it?” Matilda asked.
“Of course; this is written in my native Hungarian. Was your nanny from Hungary?”
“I always assumed she was Irish,” I replied, and as I looked to my brother and sister, it was clear they knew as little about Ellen’s history as I did.
Our blank stares gave Vambéry his answer. “If she was not from Hungary, it is an unusual choice of language for one’s diary. Most would default to German or a tongue closer to their own. Unless, of course, she wanted to keep these writings hidden from someone. Then employing such a language makes perfect sense.”
“Is that what this is?” Matilda asked. “A diary?”
Vambéry pulled a pair of spectacles from his right breast pocket, secured them to the bridge of his nose, and returned his attention to the pages in front of him, reading silently for nearly three minutes before speaking again; when he did speak, he placed his palm upon the book. “This is far more than a diary, my friends—I must read it to you.”
* * *
? ? ?
AT THIS POINT, the servant returned again and replaced our empty teakettle with a fresh one, then topped off our cups before leaving us. Although the visit probably lasted no more than a minute, it felt as if an hour passed. When we were finally alone, Vambéry turned back to the first page and drew one of the lamps close to the text. “I will do my level best with the translation. If something is unclear to you, please stop me so we can review in more depth.”
Not a breath could be heard as he began to read aloud.
“She lived many years ago in southern Ireland near Waterford. A legendary beauty, with the reddest lips and pale blond hair. Her true name has long since been lost, but at the time her beauty was known far and wide. Men traveled great distances, not only for the chance to gaze upon her but in hope of winning her hand in marriage. It is said her outward beauty was no match for the beauty she held within. She was the brightest of spirits. She lived alone with her father, her mother having passed in childbirth.
“This beautiful, well-natured girl fell in love with a local peasant. His name, too, has been forgotten, but he was a true match for her in all things; he was handsome, kindhearted, a gentleman by any measure, but he lacked the one feature this beautiful girl’s father cared about above all others—money. As it does today, money dictated one’s place in society, and her father knew the only way to elevate the family name was to marry his daughter into a family of wealth. Because the peasant boy would never be rich and therefore could not bring the family the standing her father wished, she was forbidden to marry him.
“The beautiful girl’s father instead arranged for her to marry a far older man, a man who promised the father great riches in exchange for the daughter’s hand. This suitor was known throughout the land for his cruelty and his wicked ways, but these deficits were of no concern to the father; he was blinded by the promise of wealth and the position he could attain amongst the local families. He soon forgot about his poor daughter, and most of the other villagers did, too. Her husband locked her away in his castle, barring contact with the outside world. He thrived on the knowledge that he possessed a treasure so sought after and reveled in keeping it locked away from all. She suffered tremendous abuse, mental and physical,