Friday - 13 Aug.
I received a letter from Mother today. She reminded me of her uncles, Derek, for whom I was named, and Jan.
Jan, the youngest of the three children, was constantly trying to prove himself equal to or better than Derek, which in the end got them both killed during the Nazi invasion of Holland. Sadly, the old Count lived to see it and gave his life in defense of Kasteel van Valkenberg, leaving Grandmama to pick up the pieces - yet another European title long on heritage and haughtiness and short on funds.
Mother is very astute, however. She may be right about Nick. I could have a case of sibling rivalry on my hands.
I probably saw more of the Major than his own sons ever did. God knows he could be a bastard when he the mood was on him - or simply a bastard because he wanted to be - but beneath it all was a man who cared deeply about his job and his colleagues. I'd always assumed that he was the same about his family. However, he was a workaholic. It seems to be a mandatory characteristic amongst the initiated. Does Nick believe that I stole his father's time and affections from him? I've never thought of it that way.
She also suggested that I offer him "a way to express himself privately and without confrontation." I've been pondering that anyway. Nick needs an emotional release. His friendship is growing with the others, but not yet to the point of truly opening up. I know it will be a very long time before he does so with me - if ever. I think I'll present him with a journal. Should I order him to keep it or just suggest that he treat it as his friend and confident? The latter, I think.
After my father gave me my first blank book and told me to write whatever I wished in it - anything from fiction to news items to poetry or drawings - it took a while before I started to do it faithfully. Over the years, I would have been lost without it. I share things with it that I could never share with a living soul. A Legacy Journal is for public consumption, but this has been my sounding board, my conscience, and my grief counselor. I might not have survived Peru without "my friend" to keep me going - as odd as that sounds. I just pray to God that my treasure trove is never found - many a land mine or cow patty, as Maggie would say, lies hidden within.
I have a blank notebook that I picked up in Boston years ago. I have no idea why I purchased the thing - or perhaps it was one of those "free gifts" given in return for a charitable contribution to the museum. I can't remember. It will suit Nick quite well - a saddle leather binding with an embossed image of the "U.S.S. Constitution" on the cover - "Old Ironsides" - the flag ship of the Atlantic fleet, the oldest vessel on active duty in any navy.
Now, to find the right pen. I recall that it was the rosewood fountain pen that Dad gave me that first enticed me to write. I wanted to use it. I still use it, but only for this.
A thought just struck me. In giving a journal, am I doing what Mother warned me against - projecting a reflection of myself in Nicholas? I don't know what else to do. My only frame of reference is myself.
P.S. Mother has always sworn she does not have the "sight". I sometimes wonder. She warned me of an avalanche the very day it hit. I guess I'll just have to try to swim to the top and hope we all come out in one piece. Maggie and I have agreed not to see or speak or write to each other until Nick's case is settled and her own problems dealt with.
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