November 1st - 10th, 1871
THE DIARY OF LIZETTE MARCHMONT
Lady's Maid, Hearthorne Manor
November 1st, 1871
Lady Soames seems particularly animated these days. She speaks often with Professor Soames about what she calls a "family celebration" in late December. He responds only with his usual unintelligible muttering from his chair by the library fire, but she seems satisfied regardless. The house is being prepared for someone's arrival. Lady Soames has me airing out the best guest room and ensuring all linens are fresh. She mentioned a new nurse will be joining the household on November 15th. A young woman recently trained. Lady Soames seems particularly pleased about the arrangement.
Mr. Wrexham was on the boat landing again this evening. I saw him from the upstairs window as dusk fell. He stood among the memorial stones for nearly an hour, perfectly still, as if waiting for something. This is the third time this week I have observed him there.
Something feels wrong. I cannot articulate what or why, but the very air of Hearthorne seems to have changed. Expectant.
November 3rd, 1871
I encountered Mr. Wrexham at the boat landing this morning while returning from the village. He was examining the last memorial stone and startled so violently when I called out that I feared he might fall. When I asked if something was troubling him, he would not meet my eyes and claimed he was merely taking the air—though the morning was cold and gray, and he stood there shivering in his shirtsleeves.
His face looked drawn and exhausted. I suggested he rest, that he looked as though he had not slept in days. He smiled then—such a terrible smile, sad and knowing and final. He said there would be time enough for rest soon. Before I could ask what, he meant, he walked away toward his cottage, moving like a man twenty years older than his age.
I do not like this. I do not like any of this.
November 5th, 1871
The oil barrels have been moved. I noticed this while searching for cleaning supplies in the storage shed. Several barrels that were stored there are now gone, and when I asked Mr. Wrexham about it, he dismissed my concern.
Winter preparations, he said. Must ensure we have sufficient lamp oil distributed throughout the estate should the weather turn severe.
But there were at least twenty gallons stored, far more than normal winter provisions would require. And why distribute it to multiple locations? It makes no sense.
Lady Soames radiates satisfaction these days. She moves through the house with an air of anticipation, as if waiting for something wonderful to occur. She speaks often of the new nurse's arrival, counting down the days. "November 15th," she says. "Less than two weeks now. Everything will be perfect."
Professor Soames remains in his chair by the library fire, as he always has. Once I heard him muttering to himself in one of his rare moments of partial lucidity: "The timing must be exact. The pattern must be maintained. Twenty-nine years to the day..." His words were slurred and halting, but the intensity behind them chilled me.
What pattern? What timing? What happens in twenty-nine years?
I tried to ask her ladyship if she was feeling well, if perhaps we should call the physician. She laughed—a bright, delighted sound that somehow chilled me.
"I have never felt better, Lizette. Everything is proceeding beautifully. You need not worry yourself."
But I am worried. The house feels wrong. Like something is coiled beneath it, waiting to spring.
November 8th, 1871
I cannot remain here.
Some instinct I cannot name, cannot explain, tells me to flee. The house feels oppressive, as if the very walls are waiting for something to happen. Waiting with anticipation. Waiting with hunger.
Mr. Wrexham avoids me entirely now. When our paths cross, he looks at me with such terrible sadness, as if I am someone he is mourning. Yesterday I tried to speak with him about his health, and he merely said I should not concern myself with him. I should concern myself with leaving.
Leaving? I asked. Why would I leave?
He started to speak, then shook his head and walked away.
Lady Soames radiates an anticipation that makes my skin crawl. At dinner she spoke enthusiastically about the new nurse. "She has such excellent training, Edmund. Miss Nightingale herself provided a reference. She will be perfect. Absolutely perfect."
The way she said "perfect" made me feel ill.
Professor Soames muttered about patterns and cycles and the proper timing of things in his halting, slurred manner. "One year exactly," he said from his chair. "The interval must be maintained. One year from the last transformation to the next. The pattern requires it."
Transformation? What transformation?
I do not understand what is happening here, but I know—with absolute certainty—that I must not be present when it occurs. I will tell Lady Soames that I must visit my sister in Cambridge. That she is unwell and requires assistance. I will leave before Miss Ashford arrives. Before whatever is coming happens.
I am not a coward. But I am not a fool either. Something terrible is approaching Hearthorne. I can feel it.
November 10th, 1871
My trunk is packed. I depart for Cambridge at dawn.
I encountered Mr. Wrexham this evening with the memorial stones. He stood at the lake's edge, staring into the dark water. When I approached to bid farewell, he looked at me with such terrible sadness and finality. He told me to go and never come back, his voice gentle but absolute.
I asked what was happening, begged him to tell me what was wrong. He shook his head and said I would not believe him even if he could explain. But I was a sensible woman, he said. I knew something was wrong here. I should trust that instinct and leave tomorrow.
Then he pressed a small package into my hands—something wrapped in oilcloth, carefully sealed. He told me to open it only if I heard that Hearthorne was no more. Only then. Until then, I must keep it safe.
No more? I asked him what he meant, my voice shaking.
He smiled that terrible, sad smile and told me he planned to right a wrong he had witnessed for forty years. To ensure no one else suffered as thirty women had suffered. To die fighting rather than grieving.
Before I could respond, he walked away toward his cottage. I stood there holding the package, my hands trembling.
I am leaving at dawn. I will not be here when whatever he is planning occurs. I will be far away in Cambridge when December 21st arrives.
May God forgive me for leaving him. May God protect him in whatever he is about to do. May God protect us all.
