November 15th, 1871, Evening
THE JOURNAL OF BENJAMIN WREXHAM
Final Entry
November 15th, 1871. Evening.
Tomorrow at midnight, everything we have planned will either succeed or fail. I write this knowing I will likely not survive to write another entry. My heart labors even as I form these words. Each breath requires conscious effort. But it has sustained me long enough. One more day. One more night. Then it can fail with my blessing.
Everything is ready. The materials are distributed, the charges are set, the fuses tested. Six months of preparation reduced to one final night. Tomorrow at midnight, it all comes to purpose or ruin.
Seven brides will surface when the hour strikes. Miss Chalmers will lead them. The eldest—forty-nine years in the deep—the others who still remember their human names. They know some may not survive the fire we must set. They have chosen this anyway. Death by their own hands rather than eternal submission.
They understand that the fire necessary to destroy Hearthorne will burn them as surely as it burns the house. But they prefer death by their own choice to eternal servitude. They prefer to die fighting.
I understand that choice now more than I ever could have had when I was young and healthy.
Professor Soames is in the library as always, slumped in his wheelchair near the fire, lost in whatever twilight consciousness he inhabits. He knows about the pattern—what academic wouldn't be fascinated by such things before succumbing to this state? But he does not know that beneath his feet, in passages he once studied, seven transformed women are preparing to surface. He does not know that I have spent six months turning Hearthorne into an arsenal.
Neither of them knows. That is our advantage. Surprise and rage and forty years of accumulated fury.
Miss Eleanor Ashford did not arrive today. She will never arrive.
Lady Soames waited at the door this afternoon, expecting her thirty-first bride. When no coach appeared by evening, I heard her mention to Professor Soames that winter travel must have delayed the girl. She will arrive tomorrow, surely. Perhaps the day after. The ritual could accommodate a brief delay if necessary.
But Miss Ashford is in London, safe and ignorant, with forty pounds she believes came from a generous employer who regretfully had to cancel a position. My forgery succeeded. She never departed for Lancashire. She found other employment. She lives.
Lady Soames will die tomorrow night still waiting for a bride who will never come.
Forty years of savings for one life. The best trade I ever made.
My chest pains constantly now. I cannot draw a full breath without sharp resistance. I know my heart will fail tomorrow, perhaps before the attack begins, perhaps during. It does not matter. The materials are ready. The plan is documented. Maps and instructions are hidden in three locations should anyone need them afterward. If I fall before midnight, Miss Chalmers will proceed anyway. She does not need me to execute what we have designed together.
I have lived sixty-three years. Forty of them at Hearthorne, placing memorial stones for women whose deaths I could not prevent. Women whose transformations I witnessed with helpless rage. Tomorrow, I stop bearing witness and start fighting back. If I die in the attempt, I will die having finally acted. Having finally chosen resistance over resignation.
I think of Miss Chalmers in the deep. I think of her waiting there with six others, preparing to surface one final time. I think of them swimming up through dark water, emerging at the boat landing, walking into Hearthorne with oil and flame.
I think of Miss Ashford in London, alive and ignorant and safe.
I think of Lizette, who sensed something wrong and had the wisdom to flee. She left five days ago for Cambridge. If we succeed tomorrow, she will hear of Hearthorne's burning from afar. She will open the package I gave her and find my testimony inside. She will understand, perhaps, what we fought for.
The pattern has claimed thirty women over twenty-nine years. Tomorrow, we ensure it claims no more.
To Miss Chalmers, though she will never read these words: Thank you for giving my death meaning. Thank you for teaching me that it is never too late to fight back. Thank you for showing me that even in the deep, even transformed, humanity can persist. I hope you find peace, whatever form peace takes for you.
To the seven who will surface tomorrow at midnight: I will be waiting at the boat landing with the final materials. We will walk into Hearthorne together. We will spread oil through every floor. We will light the fires. We will watch it burn. And if I fall before the task is finished, you will complete it without me.
To Miss Ashford, safe in London: Live well. Live fully. Never know how close you came.
To anyone who finds these journals after Hearthorne falls: The pattern existed. Thirty women were transformed. They suffered for decades in the deep. We fought to end their suffering and to prevent any more from joining them.
Whatever happens tomorrow, we tried.
Tomorrow at midnight.
The pattern ends.
Whatever the cost.
—Benjamin Wrexham
Groundskeeper, Hearthorne Manor
December 20th, 1871
[The next entry in the Hearthorne archive is a newspaper clipping from the Cambridge Chronicle, dated November 23rd, 1871, reporting the total destruction by fire of Hearthorne Manor on the night of December 21st. Three deaths confirmed: Lady Constance Soames, houseman Jarvis Winterbottom and Benjamin Wrexham, groundskeeper. Professor Edmund Soames escaped but was found in a state of severe mental disturbance.]
