The English Descendants

39

1897- Entry 1

Enola knows.

At least, she knows that Lucille is pregnant. I am fairly certain she has figured out that the baby is mine, as she cannot imagine Lucille having taken lovers in Italy or before we were in that country. She has offered her help when the child arrives, and she has offered to serve as a midwife. Lucille is not entirely happy with this, but as she could think of no good reason not to accept the offer, she has consented.

She believes the child was conceived before Italy. I do not know. Based on her size and when Enola says many women begin to show, I would agree.

Enola is starting to struggle with the cough. The tea is taking hold. She has mentioned that she may have to recant her offer of midwifery if it gets worse, as she does not want to infect the baby if she is ill. She has also talked of quarantine so as not to spread it to Lucille. I have told her that there are some who come from the cities to work the mines who have a cough like hers because of the perpetual damp and something in the clay itself. Something those of us who are born here adapt to throughout our childhood. I hope the lie is convincing.

1897- Entry 2

It has been a few months since I wrote last. Enola grows weaker, but she is still determined to be a good aunt to the baby. She seems to have believed the tale I told of the mine sickness.

Lucille looks healthy and complains about her feet. Her lust is voracious. I fear she may leave unexplainable bruises one of these nights.

Enola and I have not yet consummated our marriage. She has said she is not entirely ready to break free of the mindset she was in when we met- prepared to take her vows. We are killing someone so blameless she sought to be a nun. If there is a god, he certainly will not appreciate this.

Enola and Lucille are opposites in every way possible. The only thing they have in common is that they both love me, in their ways. Enola, however, is content to keep love chaste. She speaks of god as though he were her friend and of forgiveness that is a certainty. When I ask her if there is anything so dark that it could not be forgiven, she tells me no, there is nothing. Not even the man who betrayed Christ would be so damned. I do not understand this notion of god. She can tell this by my expressions when she speaks of her faith and she is open and honest with her answers to my questions on the late nights when we sit by the fire speaking of such things. Lucille always interrupts with tea and I am heartened when Enola forgets she has it and dozes off beside me.

I could be content with her.

1897- Entry 3

The baby arrived today. He is small, likely early, and he is oddly shaped, as though something in him did not grow right. Lucille is devastated. She told me that she cannot believe that he is not perfect, for our love is perfect, and anything we create from it should be also. I see a shift in her that looks similar to the shift which came when she realized the moths would not take away Mother's soul. Something in her world has shattered and I do not know how the pieces will fall back together.

Enola looks after the child. He struggles to breathe, and I cannot help but think he will not survive long. This house is no place for children. Lucille has asked if she can save him. Enola dresses him in a little white gown, baptises him, and prays earnestly for his life. She has said she will care for him, but I believe Lucille thinks she means she will assure his survival.

I cannot bear to hear that rattling little chest. It breaks my heart. But because of it, I hold him ever closer.

1897- Entry 4

Lucille refuses to name him, for it is clear he will not live long. Without her knowledge, I call him my little Luke. Enola prays over him every night, her love for him earnest. And she says it is clear that my heart is in my hands when I hold him.

He is beautiful, even when Lucille says he is ugly. She nurses him, but reluctantly. I do not let her alone with him. I fear what she would do. She has often pushed milk from her breast into a cup and handed it to Enola to try to feed to him. My wife, my wonderfully patient wife, uses a tiny spoon to dish tiny portions of milk onto his waiting tongue. He laps at it eagerly and cries when there is no more. That is when she puts him to her own breast and sings to him as though he were her own. I wish he were. I would take them both from this place at a moment's notice if I could. I have considered sending them both away from this place in the middle of the night, but I do not know how I would convince Enola that there is reason enough for her to spirit the child away from his mother.

Every woman we have killed was once one of these tiny, innocent, precious souls. They had families who loved them as dearly as I love him. Who would have done anything to protect them. And another one of them is dying beside me.

She is smart and I hope she will figure out our secret before it is too late. I want Enola to live, even if it means I hang. But I am not brave enough to go to her for confession.

1897- Entry 5

Little Luke is dead.

I held him in my arms as his life ended.

I can write no more . I have no heart left for it.

1897- Entry 6

Lucille buried him in the clay, with the others. It is the same place she will soon leave Enola. Her cough worsens and her skin appears sickly pale. She now prays for herself, but not for healing. She prays to leave her body swiftly, with little pain and no lingering, so that she may hold my son and meet her god. I ask her what it will be like to see him and she describes a warm place made of light and peace. There will be no pain, and there will be nothing but joy left in her soul, all her memories made bright, all her suffering washed away, the greater plan for her existence made clear.

Knowing that we have killed her, I cannot help but think we have destroyed such great potential for good. That the plan would have been so much bigger, had we not interrupted it. I asked her if, perhaps, marrying me was not in god's plan, and should she have instead served as his handmaiden in the abbey? She laughs and assures me that while it is different than she planned, all things that happen are in god's plan and there is something, even if we do not see it, that she has done perfectly just by being in Allerdale Hall.

I cannot help but think this sort of belief is foolish, childish, and in denial of the cruelty of this world. What sort of god would plan a childhood such as mine?

But at the same time, the forgiveness and grace this god of hers is supposed to bestow is entirely appealing. Perhaps that is the trade-off with gods. The ones that are so deeply forgiving and embracing are the ones that allow horrible things to happen. They would otherwise have nothing to forgive anyone for.

1897- Entry 7

Enola is dying. That much is clear. And I have left to visit the post office. I should be there for her. She is my friend and she did so much for little Luke. But I cannot face her knowing that I have killed her.

1897- Entry 8

Enola died a peaceful death. Lucille says she sat beside her bed while she prayed the rosary time and time again until her voice faded on one final Our Father. And then she was gone.

I helped take her down to the clay.

I cannot do this again. Something has to change, whether the mining machine is financed or not. There will be no more deaths in Allerdale Hall, at least not of those we lure here.