March 14th, 1888
Another year has come and gone. Another Thanksgiving, and the Christmas Ball lie in the past. Charles has finally started coming into his own. It was a delight to see how he conducted himself at the Ball, standing beside me. He presented, not as a child like I'd feared, but as a young lord himself. Even, dare I say it, taking steps to ensure obsequence from servant and guest alike.
Most delightfully, he enjoyed it!
He handled it graciously, of course. I've explained to him that how we treat commoners and the servants ought not be confused with the grace that we treat our esteemed guests and peers. "It hardly does, Charles, to disoblige those who we either seek to impress, or from whom we might use in the future. A lone king on an isolated mountain top has a magnificent view, and is ruler of nothing."
It is through utilization of the common man, and the reserved trades with one's associates that give one a much broader network of power and influence. Of course, a healthy dose of fear goes a long way as well; but as I told him, we needn't wear that little gift on our sleeves. A person or beast constantly exposed to fear becomes desensitized, numb. Influence is lost. Fear is a potent herb to add to the broth, and one that must be used judiciously.
Fear blends especially well when a margin of hope is tossed in.
"Why, dear Charles, you can keep men hanging on to you for a lifetime if you but alternate those two critical elements with an artful hand," I told him.
"Give them just enough to believe they have a chance, and they'll keep trying, Grandfather?" he echoed as he pieced it together in his brain. "No hope, and people give up. No fear, and they become complacent." He nodded as he processed that truth. "It is not entirely unlike how you handle Wildfell, is it, Grandfather? You meter out reward and consequence to him; and he's made all the more loyal for it."
Oh, but how I could've swept the boy to my breast and embraced him in delight if my nature and bones would've permitted it. Alas, he has grown since his first arrival. My days of lifting him as a reward are passed.
Regardless, the lad gleaned onto that facet brightly, and in that moment I was never so proud of a child as I was of him. I enfolded him in my arms, and kiss him on the forehead before lifting his face to mine.
"Dear Charles," I said, brushing his wavy brown hair back from his blue eyes, "you have me in awe. Pray tell me, my lad, how came you to be so astute?" He hesitated and I didn't wait for a reply before pulling him towards me again and rested his head under my chin. "Charles, my lad, in this moment, I am truly proud of you. Though I may be your grandfather by lineage, call me Father by patrimony. From henceforth, as long as I shall live, you are my son."
The way his face came alive when I spoke that to him. The brightness that lit his eyes. He smiled, sure, and I tried to react in kind. As enthusiastic a mien as ever Wildfell ever wagged his tail as a pup! The boy is so hungry for my praise, and those are just words.
Words.
Mere words.
Powerful words.
The boy is so eager for acceptance and approval. And why oughtn't he be? I am, after all, the primary contact in his life. At times, I am actually glad Evelyn is no longer with me. She would coddle the boy, spoil him, come between what I am trying to achieve. All the best is I can do this with honesty. I've never lied to him, nor in speaking my feelings did I then. For I was truly proud, and I do without question consider him my son from hereon.
Perhaps had I tried more deliberately with Clifford I could've succeeded in shaping him. Was it my own hubris in assuming that blood alone would be enough to elevate him to the ideals which I hold so strongly? Was it gentle Evelyn's influences that sabotaged my designs? Perhaps even a shortcoming in her own blood that passed on to him? Mayhaps. Or, as always, there is the chance that Clifford would've always been the anomalous weak limb. It is irrelevant. He is gone, and well replaced.
Regardless, I have now been successful when in the past I was cursed with failure in the past. This boy, this delightful, sharp, and ambitious boy. He is coming to be exactly as I had hoped. An heir I can be proud of! I am pleased to call him Son.
- Wainwright M. Burns, Belledouleur Plantation. March 14th, 1888