MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL (typewritten)

17 October. No walk this morning, though I did have thoughts about strolling over to Cathedral Close and circling back. However, the morning post interrupted that thought, and my mind and ambitions did not return to it. Instead, Mrs. Brady, Gertie and I ascended to the Widow Hawkins’ Suite. I have left the suite intact to some degree. I used to visit the rooms often, especially when we first took over the house. I would find some measure of quiet in them. I especially like spending summer hours up there. Over the years, it’s become a spillover for unwanted bric-a-brac and ugly furnishings. It will take a little work to make the apartment livable, but Gertie is up for the challenge, taking to the task without hesitation.

The mattress felt firm and didn’t smell musty, which is somewhat of a surprise. It certainly won’t be up to Arthur’s standards.

I wanted to help with the cleaning, but it didn’t take long for me to feel intrusive, so I set my mind enhancing the rooms. I brought out some old ruby glass vases collecting dust in a closet and a collection of small porcelain figurines—including the Venetian dancing lovers in party masks—that we inherited from Peter Hawkins. There has always been something about those two lovers—the grand positions of their hands, the chips in the paint on the women’s dress, and the broken heel of the man’s shoe—that has tugged at my heart. They are ugly, but someone somewhere didn’t think so and that someone may have been Widow Hawkins. I don’t think Peter was inclined to collect such gewgaw. Although Widow Hawkins’ collection has no sentimental value to me, I have always felt compelled to be their curator. I must confess that I felt a gentle sense of peace at pulling out her things, dusting them off and putting them out for exhibition. I always found Peter to be intriguing, well-spoken, in a pleasant disposition, informed and very aware of his surrounding that suggested to me that he had more interest in the everyday minutia of the people around him than he did of a Solicitor’s routine. I’m positive those grand qualities were inherited from his mother.

* * *

To my surprise, I discovered Quincey and Gertie having a chat. I was about to enter to check on him in his room, but then decided to reserve myself for a few minutes and listen in—

"I could hear you from the ceiling; my room is right below this one. I heard things moving around, and I wondered what was going on."

"Your mother wants those rooms cleaned, that’s why we were up there. If I had known you were down here, I would have been quieter. I didn’t mean to wake you."

"I don’t know how you’d have managed that, this is an old house, and it creaks with the breeze. Sometimes at night, it’s a calliope of creaking. I’ve tried counting, you know, the creaks instead of sheep, hoping I’d fall to sleep, but after a hundred, what’s the point."

The awkwardness of his voice made me smile, and I’m smiling as I record this account. It was only a few years ago that his voice cracked, and his lower tones began to develop into the smooth tenor that is now.

"I’m sorry that I bothered you."

"There’s no bother. Really. Honest. I was curious. That’s all. And now, I have even more curiosity. I didn’t know we had a new housemaid. Something special must be happening."

My vantage point didn’t allow me to observe what was going on, and I resisted the urge to peek around the corner. From the sound of their voices, I could sense there was some distance between them. The suite still held echoes.

"You’re very pale."

"It’s influenza. I can’t seem to shake it."

"You get back to your bed. That’ll do you good."

"Dr. Morgan says I’m not contagious. He said that the period of contagion was in the first few days. It’s been a few weeks since; maybe more. No one else in the house has come down with it."

This was true. Influenza has spared the rest of us this time around. It only wants Quincey.

"Sorry, love, as I said, I don’t wanna take my chances, you know."

"Sure."

"Are you feeling better, then? Being up on your feet and all."

"I am. I tire quickly. Mostly through the day. I think it’s because I’m just lying around, and I’m not so much tired as I am restless. After a whole day of it, my body wants to get up and move. I do that at night, so I don’t bother anyone."

"Who’s to bother?"

"My mother and father, Mrs. Brady if she’s around. Rufs if he’s around. Now you."

"No bother here."

"This bloody illness has made me entirely nocturnal."

"Listen to the way you talk."

"Sorry. I didn’t take you for a girl that would be easily offended by a curse."

"I’m not. I was just making an observation. It’s the word ’girl’ that’s offensive. I might have to take you to task on that one."

"Then allow me to apologize."

"It’s been a while since I’ve been called a girl."

"Couldn’t have been that long ago."

"Let’s just say long enough and leave it at that."

Footsteps brought them closer, and their voices slipped into a quiet tone, making it difficult to hear everything.

"I bet you know a lot about something special."

"Are you old enough to have that look in your eye?"

"Old enough for what?"

"I think you know, love."

"Do I?"

"It’s the same twinkle what’s in every eye of every tyke your age to the old rummy blokes that grab and pinch anything they can get their sticky fingers on. It’s a hungry look and believes you me; I know that look."

"I’m sure you do. You look very versed in such things."

"Oh, I’m well versed, to be sure. I can tell by lookin’ at you, love. You don’t have the first idea—"

(Side note. Gertie Henderson is a lewd person. There are several other colorful words I could associate with her, but they all equal to ’lewd’ in some form or another.)

"I’m not as innocent as I look," my son said.

"I didn’t say anything about innocent."

"You were about to say something concerning my youthful appearance being at odds with the salacious nature of ogling a young lady."

Here there followed a indescribable sound . . . the vocalization of a shudder?

"Love, your hands are ice."

"My temperature always runs a little low, or so says Dr. Morgan."

"I’ve heard of folks running a little hot, but I’ve never heard of someone running cold, before."

Before this incident could transpire any further, I made my presence known.

"Gertie, I found some dried flowers for the vases," I tried to look surprised at finding Quincey in the room. However, I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t about to let me get away with any such charade.

They were standing close together near the window, as I had suspected, and it looked as if Quincey was about to place a kiss on the side of her throat. For a brief moment, he appeared older than his years, and Gertie was reduced to her innocence, however long ago that had been.

"Mother, you certainly took your time," was all Quincey said to me. I’m unsure of his meaning. Did he know I was waiting? Did he know that I was listening? My cheeks flushed at having been caught. As I dwell on this, my recollections are drawn to Quincey as an only child. He is our single bird, and he’s creeping over the edge of the nest, anxious to take flight and feel the life of the wind under his wings. I can see the wanderlust glinting in his eyes and hiding in his questions. He has always been brimming with curiosity, never afraid to ask questions, and still game to explore new horizons. I shouldn’t browbeat myself after all these years. The choices I made may seem like selfish choices to others, but they were the choices I had to make. We can speculate on what kind of person Quincey would have become if he hadn’t been an only child. It’s only speculation and nothing more. I’m sure his stubborn streak (a gift from his father) would still be intact as well as his inquisitive nature, his fresh mouth, his sharp wit (a gift from his mother) and gentle kindness for all things nature-related that at times can be uncanny. Had it all turned out differently, he would have been the younger brother, which is a role I’m not sure would be suitable for him. As an older brother, he would have risen to the occasion of leadership with zeal unabated.

Moreover, if things had been different, and he ended up as the middle child, I’m sure that I would have no worries, for he would have risen to be the peacemaker. I do blame myself for holding back and never attempting to give Jonathan another child or Quincey a sibling. It wasn’t within me to create another life. I know that now after the failed attempt and then success. Quincey was to be the only child.

I shouldn’t think of such things, let alone write them down and especially before bed. I know my mind will race with melancholy thoughts when I place my head on Jonathan’s pillow, the comfort of his day-old scent diminished by his time away.

I seek solace in this room, in his bed, surrounded by his things. Jonathan’s is a masculine room in spite of my attempts to add some cheer and color. The bed is soft and plush with goose-down pillows. The curtains blocking out the daylight are thick, luxurious velvet. Oriental carpets cover layers of padding, preventing the noise from downstairs. I like that when one closes the door to this room, all outdoor ambiance is squelched. This is Jonathan’s womb, and when his work takes him away from me, be it for short or long periods, his womb becomes my haunt.

We shall try this without Dr. Morgan’s sedatives tonight. Where hides sleep? Maybe I’ll count creaking boards. 

Next Chapter: CHAPTER VI