More reading, to start

A cup of coffee and a half-eaten bagel sat on the kitchen table along with both the journal and laptop where I left them last night in my rush to get to my bed. I told myself I would glean the entries in the journal to get more information about Bianca, Havenhall, and the Hayward family in order to further my investigation, but that was little more than flimsy pretext. I needed to know what happened to Bianca.

Dear Diary, (May 20th around 10 AM)

I had breakfast brought to my room this morning, so I did not have to look Mr. Thornton in the face after last night. A different **** brought me the tray, this one a little older with slightly darker skin, but still very pretty and just as deferential as she helped me dress. I hate that as I cracked open my egg I wondered if Angelica was busy in one of the gentleman's rooms. I just hope, for her sake, that it is Mr. Thornton or even the older Mr. Naylor and not the odious plantation manager, Kyleson, who requires her attention.

As much as such salacious speculations and ruminations must have muddied my thoughts and muddled my judgement, I must confess that, as soon as I sent the **** away, thoughts of Angelica, her hair, and my dilemmas over my own compelled me to scrape whatever butter I could off the toast, wrap the butter and butter knife in the napkin, and stash them away behind the dresser mirror. As I did so, and even more so since, I've been troubled by the ways my thoughts and actions have departed from the expectations of a proper lady while trying to present myself with affectations and deportment of one--even, with this cursed kinky hair of mine, in pursuit of presenting myself as one.

Be that as it may, I no sooner had stashed away my purloined hair care necessities, and finished the last bites of dry toast, than I heard horses and carriages approaching, and stashed away any lingering shame and worries as best I could. I went to the balcony and witnessed the arrival of two carriages from the balcony overlooking the great lawn, just like with our arrival yesterday the well-dressed man and woman were met by Mr. Naylor and escorted into the house. Those must surely be my cousins, arriving to learn of their inheritance. After a quick check in the mirror, I hurried down the grand staircase to the morning room to greet the pair, curious to meet what little family I had left.

I entered the room and curtsied in greeting but was met with polite indifference from Miss Manton and a bold appraisal by her older brother. As I write this, I understand that in their eyes, an interloper from Pennsylvania was of far less interest than the reading of their uncle's will. At the time though, I took an immediate dislike to both. I'm still not sure if I was more irked by Miss Manton's dismissive glance or the way I felt undressed by Mr. Manning 's appreciative eyes. The man had no way of knowing that I was his cousin, but in my gut, I wonder if he'd even care if he did.

Miles Manton: _

I do not have time to sketch Priscilla Manton, his younger sister, but she too was a dozen years older than me and had the same tense expression as her brother.

Mr. Naylor did all the introductions and Miss Manton poured the coffee, so Mr. Thornton and I were little more than curiosities as the pair expressed their irritation at their uncle. Their main complaint as far as I could tell, was the lack of transparency in how the estate would be divided. Neither said so out loud, but it was not hard to see that Mr. Manton felt the entirety of the estate should fall to him, while his sister hoped instead that it would be split equally between the two. If it were not my father's will that was being read, it might have been like watching a poorly written farce in the theater.

Mr. Thornton did his best to converse with me as we waited, but I'm afraid I was rather discourteous with him. Perhaps my rudeness was because of his possible tryst with the house ****, (yes, I know how ridiculous and unfair that is) but I suspect it had more to do with my own inner agitation. Maybe my mother was right after all, I was beginning to regret my decision to accept my estranged father's invitation. Mr. Naylor had said that I was mentioned in the will, but in what way?

Finally, the elderly solicitor excused himself for half an hour or so to prepare for the execution of the will. I retired to my room to pen this entry, mostly so I did not have to listen any longer to the Manton's quibbling.