Lucille always chose the women. It was Lucille who chose Eunice. The McMichael family had money, and that was what we needed. A marriage with Eunice would secure that money, but that was the safety net. Lucille and I made our way to America, Eunice's home, to try to gain funds for my machine. No one understood our desperation. The family home was decaying and falling down around us. The family money was gone, the bulk of it wasted by our father. My machine, which would mine the red clay from the ground around Allerdale Hall, our only possession, was our only hope for survival, but we had no money to fund its production and operation.
I always walked into these meetings hopeful that someone would finally see promise in my idea... in me. Secretaries were a formality, but I had come across none like Edith. She made no pretense of politeness. I was unaware of what I could have done to deserve the scorn that laced her words, but I ignored it as the words on the pages caught my eye. Her words. Fiction. What little I was able to read seemed brilliant. When she softened as I complimented the work, I saw her differently. Young, attractive... not someone Lucille would choose.
Of course, Edith was no secretary. She was the daughter of the man who held my future in his hands. His rough, work-worn hands. Hands that mocked mine along with his words. He assumed I lived my life in the glory of privilege. A man like him would never understand the horrors I had seen... committed.
You've got the softest hands I've ever felt.
Those words struck me harder than any blow. To see the look of pity on Edith's face as she watched her father begin his rejection, then hear those words that questioned my very manhood... that was worse than any mere denial of funds.
Soft hands. That insult would seal his daughter's fate. It was then I chose to take charge, for once. I would no doubt cause a stir to so suddenly shun Eunice, but Edith would be mine. Then, Cushing's money. Edith wouldn't be too hard to sway. The softened look on her face as I praised her work gave her away. Like me, she wanted to be taken seriously. Like me, she wanted to be seen for more than what was on the surface.
Like me, Lucille would take care of her. Lucille took care of them all. She, like Mr. Cushing, found my hands to be too soft for the rough work.