The Wretch

Isadora's Diary

June 13th,

On Friday evening Eddie died. Here, on the grounds. The doctor and police agree it was a tragic accident. He was such a beautiful child, really very beautiful, and not quite thirteen. Phillip is heartbroken, Eddie was more an older brother than friend. I bought this diary from the stationers in Holmfirth when I went to Church this morning. Folk already know about Eddie, it made it into the paper, though Charles has made sure to highlight the accidental nature of the incident in every other sentence. They gave me their sympathies, of course. The thing is, something about Eddie's death is thoroughly queer. He always hated the lake because of the flies. He never went near it unless we were all having a picnic. Yet, Charles told me and the police that he saw Eddie walking over to the lake from the library window shortly before we found him. He has taken the death particularly hard, I caught him crying for the first time. I am heartbroken for Connie too, her beloved son. Charles will make sure the family is comfortable, it's the least we can do.

I have an urge to wrap my own children under my wing and never let them go. Charles has been downright awful to me these last few months. He is a violent man through and through. I'm going to keep this in the hollow of my dressing table, along with my precious few family photographs. The rest of Lathyrus can rot for all I care. Eddie's tragedy has put everything rather more into perspective. Maybe then the boys will not inherit their father's temper or money.

August 22nd

I cannot even begin to express

How the world is bathed in hateful excess.

I worry, cry, and shake through the night

To continue, come morn, takes all my might.

The world is so very troubling at the moment, the European situation is utmost alarming. There is a palpable sense and taste of unease in the air. Charles tells me not to concern myself with Germany, but I cannot help it – it has infected my mind and stuck fast. Charles continues to be cruel, the children distant. I feel I have been writing the same thing for months...for years.

September 3rd

I took a trip to town today and overheard some women talking about Charles and me and this house and what happened to Eddie. I shan't be going back. Something is not right, and I can't stop thinking about how much Eddie hated the lake. I feel so enclosed in the house, but utterly exposed outside of it. But it struck a nerve, and has re-awakened my resolve to find out what really happened that day. I will ask him tonight, if my resolve holds.

September 4th

For the first time in my life my courage held, and I regret it utterly. I asked him in our room what had really happened to Eddie. He was furious. He told me to stop being stupid. That the police were satisfied. I told him that they never seemed dissatisfied. That an investigation never began. He swore to God. I asked him why he had been so upset and agitated by Eddie's death – because God knows he was. I keep having to remind myself how strangely he was acting. An incandescent bereavement, as if it was his own child. But my courage bore no new answers, just a bruise on my wrist.

September 17th

I've been reading some of the books in the library. There are old accounts and histories of the house that are centuries old. The house was built on the backs of stolen and broken Africans. I've never met one, but can they be so different? I've read Mrs Seacole's Adventures and though perhaps much too headstrong, did we not learn from her? From her selflessness and even her shocking intelligence? I asked Charles if he knew about this , he just shrugged and said: of course. I thought about all those black bodies that would never have been able to simply shrug of a situation.