Natasha's Diary Read online

  Although Stewart appreciated the comment, he would have respected his wife’s privacy. He wouldn’t have read her private thoughts without her permission, and knew his father would also respect that privacy.

  “Poppa, don’t blame yourself. Natasha was determined to end her life, believing in her heart it was the right decision. Her only option. She didn’t discuss it with me, but I’m forced to accept it. I’m thankful for this book. It’s allowing me the opportunity to know her heart and her mind. My humble apologies, but I regret to state, I cannot allow you, momma, or Vicki to read it.”

  “This family will respect your decisions in matters concerning your wife and daughter.”

  “Perhaps in time I will reconsider this decision.”

  After his father closed the bedroom door, Stewart sat for the longest time deep in thought. The memories were vivid in his mind. As if he had kissed Natasha and walked out of the apartment only moments earlier. He pushed himself off his chair, found a new notebook, opened it to the first page, and began with his discovery of Natasha’s body. It was painful writing, but the release of the tormented thoughts brought a measure of peace. He had spoken to his parents many times since Natasha’s death, but never in such depth. His writing lacked Natasha’s passion, but then, he wasn’t an English major. Instead, he was a detail-oriented architect and engineer. He amazed himself recalling in detail conversations with his parents, Nanny, and Natasha’s brothers, but he couldn’t bring himself to write details of his last hours with Natasha’s body. That was too painful. He finished writing and set the book aside. Sitting in silence at his desk, he decided to write some personal comments in the diary, but that would wait for another day.

  * * *

  Having read the will, Stewart was well aware of the stipulation regarding Natasha’s parents. It was impossible to forget Natasha’s family and that bloody search that forced her to commit suicide. Now he was expected to put his trust in the woman, allow an employee of Natasha’s parents to take Hope from his home. To allow Natasha’s mother the right to see his daughter. He forced the decision from his mind. It was too soon for anyone to expect him to deal with it. Perhaps if he ignored it long enough the whole situation would just disappear. If only life could be so easy.

  * * *

  Confident she wouldn’t be followed, Nanny visited the Donovan home daily. Eliza informed her Hope cried herself to sleep many evenings. The poor child wanted her momma.

  A few days after the funeral, Nanny responded to a telegram she had received from the queen. Her presence was requested for tea. Anna was eager for arrangements to meet her only grandchild, the child conceived through Stewart’s love for Natasha. As a condition of the will, Anna was to pay Stewart for the privilege of supervised visitation with Hope. Nanny accepted the cheque from Anna and assured the queen she would speak with Natasha’s husband within a couple of weeks. Two accounts were opened at the bank before Nanny returned home.

  * * *

  The Donovans were in the parlour, talking.

  Woof.

  The dog leaped toward the door. Stewart shifted his body toward the window and saw Nanny’s horse and buggy advancing toward the house. Leaving Hope to play on the blanket, he stood and followed Willard to the door. After greeting the dog, Nanny adjusted her dark skirt and white blouse and entered the parlour. Eliza appeared from the kitchen, greeted Nanny, and sat on the sofa beside her husband, keeping a watchful eye on her granddaughter and dog. After friendly chit chat, Nanny turned her to attention to Stewart.

  “I’m assuming you have read Natasha’s entire will?”

  Eliza rose and walked into the kitchen. Stewart looked at his father and motioned for him to remain in the room.

  “Indeed,” Stewart responded.

  Nanny reached into her handbag and retrieved an envelope. He was able to see his name and the bank emblem. Natasha’s will stipulated that he was to receive a lump sum of money upon her death. Living with his parents, the funds would be appreciated until he was able to establish himself. He would give his parents monies to cover the expense of having him and Hope in the house. It would assist for the two years while he completed his education. They would live on a tight budget until he was able to find employment and provide for them. Breaking the seal, he removed the paper. His breath escaped in a rush as he saw the amount. “My word. Hope will be taken care of. I shall establish a trust fund for her immediately with a large portion of the funds.”

  Nanny didn’t respond, but reached into the bag and pulled out a second envelope. ‘Trust Fund’ was written in large bold letters.

  “That’s not necessary,” she informed him. “This should be more than sufficient for Hope’s future.”

  This first amount is for my personal use? This is astronomical. Stewart didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Stewart handed the envelope addressed to him to his father.

  “I don’t mean to offend Natasha’s memory, nor to insult her, but I must question such foolishness to believe that I require,” he stopped, wishing to change the word to include his daughter, “that we require such wealth.”

  “Natasha was not a fool in the matters of finance,” Nanny interjected. Her attention shifted between Stewart and his father. “Through articles in the newspaper, she became aware of many facets of her family. It upset her to know your family and others in the area pay taxes without seeing benefit. I informed Natasha the amount she demanded was substantial when we discussed the provisions for the will. She was adamant, determined to assist you and your family, and unsure of your requirements.”

  An awkward pause followed. Nanny appeared a bit distressed, fidgeting with her fingers.

  “As you recall from reading the will, the funds ensure Anna’s rights for visitation with her grandchild.”

  Stewart lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hands. He sighed, removed his hands, and looked toward his daughter. She was happily playing with the dog.

  “Marcus brought a letter to our home yesterday. King Harold wishes to have permanent custody of Hope and has offered payment for the privilege. Our child, my child is not for sale. She is a Donovan and will be raised a Donovan. I will fight with my last breath before allowing her to be raised by the family that hurt her momma. I wish with my entire being to refuse to allow Natasha’s parents, her mother, any contact.”

  “You are not expected to make an acquaintance with Natasha’s parents, but Hope shall know Anna,” Nanny reaffirmed, sympathetically. “Stewart, you must take the envelope with Hope’s trust fund.”

  “I will not,” he stated firmly.

  “You are capable of administering those funds until Hope is informed of its existence,” his father whispered to Nanny. “Given her age, that will not happen for some time.”

  The envelope was replaced in the bag, and Nanny put her hands on her lap. “Stewart. Anna is requesting time with her granddaughter.”

  Those dreaded words. He didn’t trust her parents. Although it was requested, numerous times, Anna never offered support in Natasha’s plea for freedom. Quite the opposite. She encouraged Natasha to return home. Now he was expected to allow his daughter to bond with the woman?

  “I informed Anna you required time after Natasha’s death,” Nanny continued. “She has displayed patience, but—”

  “I won’t allow the visitation,” he interrupted with a harsh tone. “I don’t trust them. Her mother or her father.”

  “I sympathize with your dilemma, but Anna has met the demands of will,” Nanny reminded him, squeezing her palms together.

  “I refuse to accept the money.”

  “That is not of consequence. A cheque has been issued. I have spoken with a lawyer. In the eyes of the law, Anna has met the conditions set forth in the will. Payment grants her visitation rights with her granddaughter. You cannot keep the child from her.”

  Dreaded words. ‘Not of consequence.’ He had no choice. Stewart stared at the floor.

  “You must trust me, Stewart,” she begged.


  The room went quiet. His father rose and walked out of the room. Stewart never spoke. Staring at the floor, he avoided eye contact with Nanny. There wasn’t a sound until his parents returned a few minutes later with the silver tea pot, cups, saucers and sweets. They set them on the table between the sofas.

  “What if I lose custody?” Stewart asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  “I pray that won’t happen, and hope the judge will look kindly on the fact you are allowing visitation to the child’s grandmother,” Nanny responded confidently.

  She accepted her cup of tea from Eliza.

  Stewart’s mind drifted back to Natasha’s death. He regretted leaving Hope with his parents and Nanny when he rode off with Natasha’s body. He should have vanished with his daughter. Run from Natasha’s parents. A life in seclusion. But that was the reason Natasha committed suicide. To give him and Hope a better life. Damn. With all his heart he wished for the ability to destroy the will. He didn’t need or want their money. Hope was a content child knowing his parents and sister, Nanny, Joshua, and Marcus.

  “Do you wish to join Hope and me? Anna would cherish the opportunity to meet you.”

  Stewart closed his eyes, lowering his head, unable to face the family who hurt Natasha so deeply. “I cannot,” he whispered. “I begged Natasha for the opportunity to become acquainted with her family, but now, I have no desire to meet them. I will blame her parents for the remainder of my life.”

  “Stewart. You’ll never be forced to make an acquaintance with Anna, but it’s my responsibility to ensure Anna sees her granddaughter.”

  Stewart couldn’t imagine standing before that couple and bowing as if he were proud and privileged to make their acquaintance. He had no desire to see them or speak with them. He took a sip of hot liquid and inhaled deeply. It was Natasha’s wish. He couldn’t live with himself if Natasha was unable to rest in peace. You trusted Nanny, Natasha. Don’t make me regret this decision. He looked at Nanny.

  “I trust you.” He placed his hand over his pounding heart. “Make the arrangements. I will allow you to accompany Hope for these visits,” he informed her, begrudgingly.

  When Nanny stood to leave, Stewart picked up his daughter, straightened her casual play dress, and walked to the door. They waved goodbye as she led the horses away. He placed Hope on the ground and watched as she ran to his momma. Stewart looked into the sky.

  “What possessed you to put that stipulation in your will, Natasha? I am terrified I will watch our child ride off and never see her beautiful face again. We didn’t dispute often, but I would have stood my ground and argued this point. I’m not desperate for financial assistance, Natasha. Our child would have been cared for and loved.”

  With Hope down for the evening, Stewart entered the parlour, and handed his father Natasha’s will. He joined him on the sofa. Stewart knew nothing of the legal system, but couldn’t bear the thought of losing his precious Hope.

  “I require advice,” he informed his father.

  An hour later, after a great deal of discussion, they decided to contact the lawyer who prepared Natasha’s will for a professional opinion. They would not lose Hope without a fight.

  * * *

  A week later, Stewart climbed onto the buggy and took the seat beside his father. Looking back, his mother stood at the open door with Hope in her arms. He waved as they rode off.

  The buggy arrived at Nanny’s home. So nervous, Stewart forgot to assist their friend to her seat. Poppa extended his hand, waited until she was seated, and then set off for the city.

  Nanny led them into the stone building and up the steps to the lawyer’s office. They were greeted by a gentleman in his early fifties with grey hair and spectacles. Stewart took his seat at the large mahogany desk between his father and Nanny. Unable to relax, he fidgeted with his suspenders and jacket, listening as the gentleman expressed his condolences.

  “I went to great lengths when preparing this document,” the lawyer informed them. “I conferred with colleagues in the surrounding area. This will cannot be contested unless it is proven you and your family are unable to provide for the child.”

  “Financially, I’m able to support my son and his daughter,” his father proclaimed confidently. “My home provides a more than adequate roof over their heads.”

  “I will fight with my last breath to keep my daughter,” Stewart added. “I will encourage a relationship with Natasha’s brothers, but I will not allow my daughter near that castle. As you must recall, it was my deceased wife’s wish that Hope remain with me and my family.”

  “The will states the queen is to be given visitation rights,” the lawyer reminded him.

  The room went quiet. Stewart’s heart pounded like hands on a drum. I don’t need reminded. “I’m aware of that fact,” Stewart finally muttered, “but not the king.”

  Chapter Four

  Terrified he would never see Hope again, Stewart dreaded the thought of sending his daughter to meet Anna. His life wasn’t worth living without the child he shared with Natasha.

  On the evening before the first visit with Anna he read Hope a bedtime story, kissed her goodnight, and retired to his room. He wrote a long entry in his journal, finding solace as he put the emotions in his heart and mind into words. After reading a few entries of the diary, he put the books away and crawled under the covers. It was impossible to relax.

  Frustrated, he crawled out of his bed and wandered into his daughter’s room. Able to hear her breathing, he sat on the edge of the bed in the dark room. It was a long night. Shortly before dawn, with his head resting on her mattress, he finally drifted off to sleep.

  “Poppa.”

  It can’t be morning. I need sleep. His head felt twice its actual weight, his eyelids glued together by the sleepers. Unable to move, he struggled to open his eyes. Both his neck and back ached from resting in the awkward position.

  “Good morning, Hope,” he responded, his voice as cheerful as he could manage. Hope yawned and then began chatting. What I’d give for an ounce of your energy. The carefree existence of a three year old.

  The door opened. His mother looked in, still in her dressing gown. Her long gray streaked blonde hair hanging over her shoulders.

  “In less than twelve hours, Hope shall be back in this home, speaking of her visit,” she reminded him.

  Lacking the ability to lift his head from the bedspread, he glanced up.

  “It shall be a long day, Momma,” he groaned.

  He pushed his upper body off the bed and wiped the sleepers from his eyes. Looking out the window, the sun was shining in the cloudless sky. To the world it’s a beautiful weekend. Personally, I would prefer it to be Monday. I would prefer to go to work or school, leaving Hope with Momma.

  Shortly after they finished their midday meal, Stewart carried Hope up the steps. After washing her hands and face, he removed a new yellow dress from the wardrobe. He spoke of her impending day as she was dressed. The child was excited to learn she would meet a friend of Nanny’s, but became apprehensive when informed her poppa would not be joining them. His normally excited, spunky daughter was suddenly as shy and reserved as her momma. The flood of tears broke his heart. Stewart attempted to convince his young daughter she would enjoy her day with Auntie Anna and Nanny.

  Unsuccessful, there were still tears when her nana entered the room. After an embrace, Eliza reassured her granddaughter as she pulled her soft blonde curls back and tied her hair with ribbons.

  Once his mother was done, Stewart reached down and gripped his daughter’s small hand. When Hope looked up at him, his focus went to their joined hands. His felt wet and clammy against her small warm one. He pulled his hand back. “My apologies, Hope. I didn’t realize my hands were so clammy.” He wiped both palms on his trousers, and gripped her hand again.

  He looked toward his momma. “This is dreadful. The last time I experienced such nerves, I feared losing Natasha and Hope to her father.”

  “Your poppa and I will
be grateful when Hope is back in our home as well.”

  Arrrr. Woof. Woof.

  Agh, the dreaded arrival. With Hope on his lap, he shifted his body to look out the window. Nanny’s horses were trotting up their tree-lined driveway. Carrying Hope, he followed his family to the door and outside to the carriage.

  “Mind your manners,” he reminded his little girl. “I love you, Hope. Nana, Papa, and Aunt Vicki love you.”

  “Poppa. Come,” she begged with teary eyes.

  Torn, Stewart wished with his entire being to remain with Hope. Ideally, he would never allow Natasha’s daughter out of his sight, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet Anna. He would move heaven and earth for Hope, but he couldn’t join her on this venture. Not even as he stood and watched the tears pour from his child’s eyes. His heart pounded, suffocating him as he considered it. Struggling to breathe, he stubbornly decided he would remain behind.

  “I cannot, Hope. I will be here when you return.” Stewart kissed her forehead and embraced her. “I love you, sweetheart. You must listen to Nanny.”

  With one foot on the carriage for balance, he placed Hope beside Nanny and stepped down. Eliza and Vicki had joined him. They waved as the buggy carried Hope away.

  “Bring my precious little angel back to me.”

  Exhausted from his restless night, Stewart went to his room and settled on his bed.

  He heard Vicki leave to visit a friend.

  Unable to relax, he wandered down the stairs and into the parlour. With the newspaper in his hand, he sat on the sofa. He read the same paragraph five times before throwing the paper down. “Damn it. I should have gone with her. I can’t. I will not sit and be pleasant to Natasha’s mother.” Discouraged, he worked his way back to the second floor and retrieved a novel from his nightstand. After shuffling back to the sofa, he sat with the book unopened, staring at the cover. Certain over an hour had passed, he removed his watch from his pocket. It had only been forty-five minutes since Hope left with Nanny. “That’s impossible,” he groaned. “This watch must be broken.”