July 12th, 1816

I visited Abigail today.  Aunt Caroline wanted me to bring her a fresh loaf of bread, after her window was broken by rioters a few days ago.  Bread doesn’t do very much to make up for that, but I suppose that it’s better than nothing.  Bread, I believe, is an acknowledgement that something wrong has happened that no one can do a thing to change.

Aunt Caroline was really trying to kill two birds with one stone.  I could tell that she wanted me to leave the house.  I haven’t since Frederick left.  For some reason, I’ve been glued to her.  That’s partly because she seems to be making an effort to be kinder to me.  She hasn’t criticized me at all in the last few weeks, and hasn’t sent a single cutting glance my way.  Neither of us has spoken about the change, but we both know that it’s there.  I’m glad that we don’t speak of anything serious.  That’s the last thing I want to do. 

Maybe that’s why I can’t talk to Jenny; I know that we would go to the root of the problem immediately, and I’m not prepared to do that.  I can tell that there are things that Aunt Caroline wants to discuss with me, but she focuses on the banal instead.  I think that’s very kind of her.  I suspected that she had some softness in her, though she would never admit it.

I thought that I would be angry with Aunt Caroline, but I’m not.  I no longer feel numb, so I know the absence of anger isn’t because of that.  I suppose I just understand why she did what she did.  I don’t know if I feel the same way about Jenny.  She shouldn’t have read my journal.  I don’t know if she sought it out or not, but that doesn’t really matter.  The fact remains that she invaded my privacy, and I’m not sure that I can forgive that.  Walking to Abigail’s gave me time to dwell on all of this.

Abigail’s house is even smaller than Uncle Samuel’s, even though there are four people living in it.  I was pleased to see her and the children again; her husband, Thomas, was busy in the fields when I arrived.  I don’t think that their crops are having much luck either, but I expect that he must guard whatever little they have. 

I was glad to not have to discuss anything concerning Frederick.  I only told Abigail that I was leaving sooner than expected, as my doctor had unexpectedly been called back to England.  She said she was sorry to hear that.  “I was just getting to know you,” she said.  I said the same; I wish I had thought to know her better.

We talked a little about the riots; it was hard not to.  But much as I hesitate to talk about Frederick, I could tell that Abigail felt the same way about the riots that plague her nights.  “It’s awful,” she said, “to have to fear your own neighbors.”  Although no one had stolen anything from them, a stray bottle had smashed through their window.  Sometimes there are gunshots too, she said. 

“A part of it, though,” she added in a low voice, her eyes on her tea, “I’m almost grateful for.  It gives me something to dwell on.”  She looked up at me, hoping that I would be the one person who would understand the sanity in that.  I did.

“I’m sorry,” I told her, “that there isn’t more I can do to help.” 

I wish that I could help everyone.  The riots wouldn’t happen if just a little of the food we have in England was shared.  I’ve long held that position, and I couldn’t stand it when well-dressed ladies would complain about beggars over their little sandwiches.  I never said much at those afternoon teas; that was when my father first began to worry that something was wrong with me.  That I didn’t seem to be having much fun.

Sometimes I wonder how anyone can enjoy themselves in this world, when it’s so unjust.  Frederick would say that such thoughts were melodramatic, but he’s not here anymore and I think I’m right.  I think that it would be mad not to be just a little devastated by the state of things.  It makes me feel awful for being so obsessed with my own little world and my own little problems, when there are so many bigger things to concern one’s self with.

I think I’ll visit Abigail again.  I like knowing that I can help, in what little ways I can.  And I like speaking with her.  She reminds me so much of my mother, though their lives couldn’t be more different.  Discontentment, I believe, is what unites them.  That, and the determination to soldier through it.