May 21st, 1816

Mary, Abigail, and Hannah visited today, along with their children.  It’s hard to remember that my cousins, other than Jenny, are only a little older than myself, though I suppose I’ll soon be married just like them.  With children too.  I always knew I would have to have them someday, but knowing something doesn’t always mean that it feels real. 

All three apologized for not being able to meet me sooner, though they needn’t have.  When you apologize for something, you ought to truly mean it.  Otherwise, it’s wasted breath.  And I know perfectly well that they didn’t really want to drive miles through the rain just to see me.

I don’t blame them for this at all.  They aren’t the ones being rude.  I am.  I wish that I had at all considered what it would mean for my family for me to be here.  Jenny won’t admit it, but it’s very clear that I’m an imposition.  There’s very little I can do to help, and very much that Jenny has to show me how to do. 

Normally I’m a lazy thing—at least, I always thought that I was.  But I don’t mind milking the cow or cleaning dishes so very much here.  On the contrary, I enjoy it.  It’s not like at the Retreat, where labor like gardening or polishing is for your own benefit—or more likely, just to pass the time.  Here, work is for everyone.  And though I’m sure that I’m dreadful at it, I like helping.  Perhaps that’s also selfish—maybe I just like having a purpose.

I wish Frederick would do chores with me.  At the very least, it would give us an excuse to be alone together. 

He did join us for lunch today, though.  Everyone was there save Uncle Samuel.  He had to attend a village meeting; apparently the food shortage has led to some riots.  Luckily, they haven’t touched us yet.  There was some discussion over whether or not it would stay that way.  Mary said that they’re really only in town, hurting places of business, so we shouldn’t be concerned. 

“Until they run out of food there too,” Aunt Caroline said darkly.

There was quiet after that; I don’t think anyone knew what to make of it.  I suppose that we’ll be safe, for at least a while, because our house is on the outskirts of town.  Jenny mentioned as much, quite rationally.  But from what I gathered, Abigail and her family live much farther away from the rest of the O’Brien’s, in a farm house right near the town square.  No one seemed eager to mention that, though, least of all Abigail.  She was awfully quiet, particularly during this tense conversation.  I can only guess that she’s very worried.  She has children after all, and one of them only five months old.

I was positively delighted to have Frederick there.  I really do want him to get on well with my family.  But he was mostly just quiet.  Perhaps he felt uncomfortable as the only man there.  I must admit that I still feel like a bit of an outsider as well.

I don’t know what it’s like to have that easy comradery that my family has with one another.  They joked over soup like it was second nature, laughed at the innocent little things the children said.  Jenny tried to include me, but to no avail.  They all just fit together too perfectly.  Well, except for Abigail.  She was the only one who was just as quiet as Frederick and I.

I thought that I might find a friend in her, or at least offer her some comfort.  While everyone else gossiped about neighbors that I didn’t know, I angled my chair towards hers. 

“She’s beautiful,” I said, referring to the child asleep in her lap.

Abigail started at my words, and I was worried that I might have caused her to wake the poor little thing.  “Thank you,” she said quietly.  I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

“I used to fall asleep in my mother’s lap too,” I said, hoping to keep the conversation going.  “I used to be terribly afraid of thunderstorms, so she would sit with me by the windows while it rained, and trace her finger against the rain drops as they slithered down.  She did it to show me that it was only water, that you could even touch it without getting hurt.”

“She wasn’t really touching it, though,” Abigail said.

I realized that it did sound a little silly, but all I could do was smile and shrug.  “It worked,” I said.  “I would always fall asleep, I became so unafraid.  Of course, the next time a storm started, I was just as frightened again.  I never knew why.”

“Maybe you just wanted to sit with her,” Abigail said.

“Maybe,” I said, knowing that was true.

“I wasn’t scared of storms until I had children,” she said.  “Now, I can’t help but see lightning striking the house whenever I hear thunder.”

I can only imagine what the shouts of rioters make her feel.  It had never occurred to me that my mother might have also been afraid of the storms too.

“I think that being a mother might just mean being afraid all the time, and pretending not to be,” said Abigail.

“I’ll be well-prepared, then,” I joked.  I didn’t really mean to say that.  The idea of the melancholic having children bothers some people.

But Abigail didn’t seem bothered.  Instead, she leaned in closer, careful not to disturb her sleeping child.  “What is it like,” she asked, “being…ill?  How do you know when you’re ill?”

I told her that you don’t.  Other people have to tell you.  “You’re too busy loathing yourself to wonder if you perhaps shouldn’t,” I said.

“Is it better?” she asked.  “Knowing?”

Frederick cut in then, and said, that yes, certainly, it was.  I hadn’t realized that he was listening to our conversation.  But I suppose that I should have, since he was the only other quiet one at the table and was seated right next to me.  “It’s only after you know that you can be fixed,” he said.  “Right, Miss Pineghast?”

I looked at Frederick.  “Yes,” I said.  I would never disagree with him.  But I’m not certain that I really believe that either.  It’s not exactly nice, knowing that there’s something wrong with you.  In a way, it, it confirms your worst fears.

And since I’ve been diagnosed, I haven’t been cured.  Not even by Frederick.  In some ways, he might even make things worse, though not intentionally, of course.  Sometimes, he makes me feel awful about myself, that I’m doing something wrong by being with him.  And then, I’m constantly worried that he’ll leave me.  It’s times like these that salvation seems very far away.  Especially after all the things I’ve done with him.  All out of love, of course.  But still, things that should only happen between a husband and a wife. 

I suppose we will be married soon, though, and I won’t ever have to worry about that again.

I say all this, yet there’s no doubt in my mind that I will be cured, if only because I have to be.   I’m sure that Frederick must be right.  I’m very lucky to have him, someone who is so sure that I can be fashioned correctly.  Even though everyone else thinks I was born broken.

So I told Abigail that yes, it is better.  But when I smiled at her, I could tell that she didn’t really believe either of us was telling the truth.