November 30th, 1886
The boy does nothing but cry; it wears on my nerves, makes the very marrow of my bones ache with his plaintive whimpering. Hardly a happy thanksgiving to me, I fear. I'm beginning to wonder if I haven't made a mistake in selecting this one.
I always told Clifford I'd take my pound of flesh for his disobedience. I suppose he never believed I would be wont to make it so. Ah, but it was a long ride back with this boy, first by sleigh, then train, and finally carriage to Belledouleur. I'd expected him to be impressed, the warm weather, the grandeur of my estate, the hard-working thralls in the fields.
No. I am subject to this pitiful constant mewling from the boy. Some mutterings about some 'Bobo,' a name he's bestowed upon his lovely, a felt bear of no great significance. The boy still cries for his bear. Ah, how am I to stand it?
I keep reminding myself that this is perhaps the best Clifford and his cursed loins could produce for me. Ah, but within any breeding there are always the weak specimens; the imperfect limbs on the family tree that must be pruned without remorse. Alas that Evelyn died in childbirth, and he survived. He, and an older sister Doreena. It hardly leaves me much of a litter to choose from.
Ah, fair Doreena, married off and doing well in her own right. She does me proud, the model daughter, wife and mother her station requires.
But Clifford, I'll never understand what possessed the man. He, as my sole heir, stood to inherit everything. And yet, he forsook it all and moved that forlorn strip of territory, Nebraska. I remember his last night at the house as if it were yesterday: how he threatened to leave and never look back; and I offered to set the hounds on him and have him torn apart for his ingratitude.
If he were a better man, I would've given him credit though: he never flinched. I suppose it's my own generosity or weakness that stayed my hand. I made him a bargain: that I would give him funds equal in the amount of Doreena's dowry, and let him go. In exchange, however, in as many years' time as I decided, I would make a visit to his holdings and select from his get an heir suitable to replace him. Then, I would be done with him, and not trouble him again.
Fate was not kind to Clifford, I fear. Though he proved fertile, he hardly produced quality. This runt was the pick of the litter, but I'm not sure that's saying much.
On Thanksgiving Day I paid a visit to Clifford and his Daphne. After all, how could the man turn away his own father on such a holiday? He, of course knew the reason I'd come. Apparently, he hadn't thought it necessary to discuss our deal with his wife. When she realized that I'd come for more than turkey and stuffing, she became distraught.
That trickled down to the children gathered around us. I watched the twins - what were their names, Cornelia and Cornelius - fall to simpering. The baby, George, he was too young to even assess, but there is a blank look in his eye that turned me off immediately. Of the rest of the lot, the only one that so much as captured my attention was young Charles.
There is a keenness in his eyes, a sort of cleverness. He turned his gaze from his mother's lamentations to me, then back again, all the while saying nothing. He did not, however, fall to tears. I think that was why I selected him. The boy has the potential for rationale that his siblings, emotional little primitives, clearly lack.
Oh, did I take a moment to describe this place that they all live? The provincial hovel these people call home?
No?
Please permit me a moment to do so now.
It was a farmstead of several dozen acres, all tilled land buried beneath snow and ice. The granary stored the work of their labor. Several barns were nearby, containing various manners of beasts: chickens, swine, sheep, a cow or two, and their cumbersome draft horses. A few fruit trees dotted the landscape, what my poor son refers to as an orchard, though it hardly compares to my own. The beasts served to provide milk, eggs, meat and hide.
Clifford and his wife take to making most of their own goods. That which they don't produce they trade, not sell!, with their neighbors in town.
Clifford has no hands, no labor. The children work like slaves to sow, tend, then harvest the crops. Even young Charles soils his hands milking the cows, gathering eggs. His sisters sheer the sheep, even spin and dye the wool.
Most shockingly of all, Clifford seems proud of this fact! He boasts that this lifestyle puts his closer to God; and that his so-called "Lord" will provide. If such were the case, why has his Lord already claimed his first and second born? When I asked, he replied "God works in mysterious ways" and didn't bother to explain further.
The man is delusional. Any one of these children would be lucky to be chosen by me.
It's an honor only young Charles will receive.
After dinner, I stayed the night in their small hovel, a cabin by my standards. There is a common area, a kitchen and dining area; and three bed rooms: one for the parents, one for the boys, and the last fir the girls. Not even any indoor plumbing. Clifford tried to convince me that they're building an addition next spring, but I simply do not care. I'll never be returning here. His plans are irrelevant to me.
The next morning, I took Charles.
The boy alternated between protests and silent sorrow for the entire ride to the train station. Occasionally he asked if we could go back for Bobo. I informed him we had a timetable that must be kept. I could not bear to stay in this wintery hell a moment more than necessary. It may be all well and good for animals, or savages, but I craved the warm comforts of Belledouleur once again.
Perhaps I should give him a bit more time. But if he doesn't come around, I'll be forced to dispose of him. I haven't decided quite how I would even go about that. I can't send him back to his father, naturally. That would be akin to admitting I was wrong, and it would be a greater kindness than Clifford deserves.
How would I get rid of this child anyhow? Release him in the swamps, sell him into labor, or perhaps merely feed him to Wildfell?
Ah, I should put such thoughts out of my head. Humorous though they may be, it will serve me no good to cloud my judgement with undo resentment.
No. It's only been six days. I remind myself: patience! I shall give it a fortnight, perhaps even a moon, and make my decision then. He may yet surprise me. Perhaps even challenge me! If I can train a dog, then perhaps I can too shape this young creature into a likeness befitting his blood and name!
- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. November 30th. 1886