Victoria Holt: Road to Paradise Island

Wait till morning, said my cowardly self.

But of course it was a challenge. Besides, how could I sleep with my thoughts going round and round in my head, asking myself Why? Why?

Deliberately I got out of bed, thrust my feet into slippers and put on my dressing gown. My fingers were shaking a little as I lighted a candle.

I opened my door and listened. The house was very quiet.

I started to mount the stairs, pausing on each step, thankful because I knew the place so well that I was fully aware of the position of creaking boards.

I was in the corridor now. I could see there was still a haze of dust. I could smell the peculiar smell like nothing I had known before ... the smell of age, of damp, of something not quite of this world.

I stepped over a broken piece of wood. I was in the room.

I let the light fall over the walls and ceiling. In candlelight the stains stood out more than they had before. Then I had seen the room through the daylight which came from a window in the corridor. What were the stains on the wall just by the bed ... and on the other wall too? I lifted my candle. Yes, and on the ceiling?

I almost turned and ran.

I felt that this room held a terrible secret. Frightened as I was, the urge to remain was stronger than my fear, not exactly forcing me to stay, but begging me to.

Perhaps I imagined that afterwards. And yet I believed that something... someone ... had called me up here on this night... that I was to be the one to discover.

I stood for what seemed like minutes but which could only have been seconds, looking about the room, and my eyes kept coming back to those stains on the walls and ceiling.

"What does it mean?" I whispered.

I was silent, listening, as though I expected an answer.

I took a cautious step forward. I was very much aware of the chest of drawers.

Some impulse led me over to it. I put my candle on the top of it and tried to open the top drawer. It was stiff and difficult to open, but I worked hard at it and suddenly it began to move.

There was something in it. I bent down. A small hat of grey chiffon with a little feather in the front held in place by a jewelled pin; and beside it another hat trimmed with marguerites.

I shut the drawer. I felt I was prying and it seemed to me that somewhere in this strange room in the dead of night, eyes were watching me and I had an uncanny feeling that they were willing me to go on.

I shut the drawer quickly and as I did so I noticed that from the second drawer something was protruding slightly—as though that drawer had been shut in a hurry. I tried to open it and after a little difficulty I succeeded. There were stockings, gloves and scarves. I put in my hand and touched them. They felt very cold and damp. They repelled me in a certain way. Go back to your bed, my common sense urged me. What do you think you are doing here in the middle of the night? Wait and explore with Philip and Granny M tomorrow. What would she say if she knew I had already been here. "You have disobeyed orders. William Gow said it might not be safe. The floor could give way at any moment."

I had taken out some of the things and as I was putting them back, my fingers touched something. It was a piece of parchment rolled up like a scroll. I unrolled it. It was a map. I glanced at it hastily. It looked like several islands in a vast sea.

I rolled it up and as I was putting it back my hand touched something else.

Now my heart was racing more wildly than ever. It was a large leatherbound book and on the cover was embossed the word Journal.

I put it on the top of the chest and opened it. I gave a little cry, for written on the flyleaf were the words Ann Alice Mallory for her sixteenth birthday May 1790.

I clutched the side of the chest feeling suddenly dizzy with the shock of my discovery.

This book belonged to the girl in the forgotten grave!

I don't know how long I stood there staring down at that open page. I was overwhelmed. I felt that some supernatural force was guiding me. I had been led to uncover the grave and now ... the book.

With trembling fingers I turned the pages. They were full of small but legible handwriting.

I believed then that I had the key to the mystery in my hands. This was the girl who had been buried in the grave and forgotten, the possessor of the jaunty hats in the drawer, the fichu, the gloves. And she was Ann Alice Mallory—my namesake.

There was something significant in this. I had been led to this discovery. I had the feeling that she was watching me, this mysterious girl in her grave, that she wanted me to know the story of her life.

I picked up the journal and turned to leave the room. Then I remembered the map which I had put back in the drawer. I took it out, and picking up my candle walked cautiously from the room.

Reaching my bedroom, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dressing room mirror. My eyes looked wild and my face very pale. I was still trembling a little, but a great excitement possessed me.

I looked at the journal which I had placed on my dressing table. I

unrolled the map. There was an expanse of sea and a group of islands to the north and then some distance away another island ... all alone. There was some lettering close to it. I peered at it. It was small and not very clear. I made out the words Paradise Island.

I wondered where it was. I would show it to Philip and Benjamin Darkin. They would know.

But it was the journal which I was eager to read.

Somewhere a clock struck one. I would not sleep tonight I was sure. I would not rest until I knew what was in that journal.

I lighted another candle and taking off my dressing gown and slippers got into bed. Making a rest for my back with pillows, I opened the journal and began to read.

May 30th 1790

On my sixteenth birthday, among the gifts which were presented to me was this journal. I had never before thought of keeping a journal and when the idea first came to me I dismissed it. I should never be persistent enough. I should write in it enthusiastically for a week or so and then I would forget all about it. That is no way to keep a journal. But why not? If I write in it only the important things that would be the best way. Whoever would want to remember that it had been a fine day yesterday or I had worn my blue or my lavender gown. Such trivialities were of no importance even when they occurred.

Well, I have promised myself that I will write in it when the mood takes me or when there is something so momentous that I feel I must put it down when it happened so that if I want to refer to it later I shall have it here ... exactly as it was, for I have noticed that events change in people's minds and when they look back they believe that what they might have wished to happen actually did. I want none of that. I shall strive for the truth.

Life here in the Manor goes on very much the same from one day to the next. Sometimes I think it always will. So what shall I write about? This morning I was with Miss Bray, my governess, as usual. She is gentle and pretty and in her early twenties and I have been very happy with her for the last six years. She is the daughter of a vicar and at first my father thought she was too young for the post, but I am glad he decided she might come in spite of that for ours has been a very happy relationship.

When I look at the date I am reminded that it is two years since my mother died. I don't want to write about that. It is too painful and everything changed then. I long for the days when I used to sit beside her and read to her. That used to be one of the happiest times of the day. Now she is dead I turn to Miss Bray for comfort. We read books together but it is not the same.