Tuesday, 20th September

Dear Diary,

I got another letter from "home" today. Ugh. I'm so utterly sick to death of my mother and her mindless blathering. Telling me all about the jumble sale in the village and what Martha is cooking for dinner is so trivial and DULL. I know she's just trying to hide the fact that my "father" has been gambling again. Who knows, maybe this time he'll actually win.

HAH.

He's never won, never ever. You know this, Diary. You of all know this. My father is a useless, broken excuse for a man. He doesn't deserve the title he holds, the title my great-great grandfather earned for us. He's no Laird. He's a joke. How am I supposed to take my place if he keeps on losing it?

Ugh. Diary, I'm going to lose my mind. I have idiots for family. And my uncle Maxwell and his idiot sons are just waiting on the sidelines for my father to be pronounced bankrupt so they can take over the title and land. Over my dead body. I will be the next Laird or die.

~Lady Elaine Jessamyn Squire