Is Charles really having it off with the lady who makes his shirts?
Is the baby normal or not?
Will Mary ever stop crying?
To find the answers to these any many more questions, read this final episode in the long running serial - Mary Eagle/Walker's Journal

While Charles was at work today, I chanced to see his diaries and gazed through to find out what I could of his interest in Adelaide.  I was surprised to find she has a child, born 2 years ago, living with her and her parents. I wonder who the father is. She does not use a married name so the child is no doubt illegitimate. Who am I to cast stones?

Charles informs me that a man called John Brown who in October led a raid in Virginia in America which was the signal for a slave rebellion has now been captured. I wonder what Harriet Beacher Stowe thought about all of that

I overheard my friend Emily whisper to Sophia the other day that she thinks there is something wrong with our Mary. She thinks she is not developing normally. Of course they both already have children and know more about what to expect in the way of development.  I got the impression that Emily felt this was my fault because I had suppressed her in the womb in the attempt to conceal my pregnancy all those months.  Dear God, are you going to punish me forever? Apparently she is not smiling as a baby of her age would be expected to do, and she doesn’t yet hold her head up unsupported.  I have no comparison to make. I have thought her very good, when in fact perhaps she is abnormally good because she hasn’t the wit to be anything else.

I asked Charles for more details about the Hilbournes last night, hoping to find out how he regards Adelaide in particular. I let it slip that knew that Mr. Hilbourne wanted Charles to marry her at one stage.  He was silent and then glared at me.

 “How did you know that? Who told you that? You’ve been reading my diaries!” 

I had to admit that I had glanced at them and that I didn’t feel married couples should have secrets. He asked me if I was willing for him to read my journal, and I said no, but then agreed that he could if he wanted, but he only shrugged it off.   He says that I am obsessed with jealousy over his old friends and that there is no cause whatsoever.

December 9th

Charles is very upset to hear about the death of one of his favourite author’s – Thomas De Quincy whose autobiography is called Confessions of an English Opium Eater. According to Charles the book was an instant success and an important inspiration for other writers.

Not many weeks ago, Washington Irving, another of Charles’ favourites died. Charles says Irving has been called the father of the American short story and is best known for The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  He also wrote Rip Van Winkle, about a man who falls asleep for 20 years. How tempting that sounds right now.
How short is our influence upon this world – although I suppose as they were authors, their words will greatly outlive them.

I eventually told Charles my fears about Mary.  He says he will make enquiries and we can take her to a baby doctor to see if what they think of the situation. He says there are things we can do to help her progress.  Perhaps if she smiled at me I might care for her more. Charles says if I loved her more, she might smile at me. If I smiled at her more, she might learn how to smile.  But my guilt keeps me from loving her.

Sarah is back with us again, having had half of Christmas eve and all of Christmas day at home. I am very pleased to see her again. What a night last night was. I shall never forget it.

We had a quiet Christmas, going to Church. There was no feeling of rejection from the others in the congregation towards me. I think the worst of the problem has been faced and it is now over.  We went to a party at Charles’ cousin Harry’s house. He is now a widower, and his two year old daughter Eliza who is a bonny sweet girl. I only hope Mary turns out to be as amenable.  I wore my favourite green velvet dress, bought for my engagement party last Christmas.  It fits well again. I almost feel normal again.

Mary had many presents for her first Christmas. I gave her a soft doll and made a patchwork quilt for her bed with satin ribbon trim.  She does seem to be marginally more interested in the world now. Charles gave her a collection of books by Hans Christian Anderson which have just come out. I was so annoyed at his choice.

“Why do you keep trying to think of her as normal?” I said. “You will only be disappointed. She may never read. She may never speak. She may never feed herself. We may have to have her care for the rest of our lives!”  He stormed out of the house and slammed the door.

So I was left from 4 p.m. in sole charge of Mary as it was Sarah’s day off. Things went all right until about 7.30.  Ella had come and feed her about 6 but she was very ill (although I think she was the worse for drink) and only gave a short feed and dealt with the baby rather roughly.  When Ella left, Mary settled for a short time, and then began crying piercingly.  I so much wished for Charles to return to take over from me. I put my nightgown on and prepared for sleep, hoping she would quieten. Perhaps she was fretting for food, and I had nothing to give her. I knew that Sarah would have made up some sugar and water and feed it in a bottle when there was no milk available, and thought to do that, but then Mary started crying even louder. I changed her nappy, and made her bed dry again, but she wouldn’t settle. I was beside myself with frustration. Finally, I sat down on the chair with her on my lap, undid the buttons of my nightgown, and put her to my breast, not expecting anything, but hoping for some temporary respite from the noise. 

She suckled with greed, not even seeming to mind the absence of milk. She quietened, and I relaxed and suddenly realised that a strange sensation had come with the suckling. I felt as if a cord was being pulled between my breast and my womb. It was slightly painful, and slightly pleasurable. I didn’t know what to make of it. Mary relaxed in my arms, and went to sleep. I looked into her sweet face, and marvelled at her sprigs of hair which seems to be taking on the hue of mine.  Her eyes, also, when I noticed them earlier, are clearly not going to be Charles bright blue, but more my green shade.  She seemed to be away in dreamland, and then just as I was about to stand and put her in her cot, she had a twitch on her mouth that looked so like a smile. She was smiling in her sleep – dreaming of what? 

Just as I sat there marvelling at her, I was aware that Charles had come in and was looking at us, together. His eyes were wet, “It is a miracle,” he said. “You have finally found each other.” And it was true. I suddenly had nothing but love and compassion for my little girl. All my disgust and dread and anger at her for ruining my life had drifted away.  Charles said we looked like the Madonna and child. He was overly sentimental about it, with it being Christmas day.  Together we put our baby to bed, and then we went to bed too, and loved each other as we have not done for many months.

In the new year we have an appointment to see Professor Hogarth who will give Mary a thorough examination, and then we will be able to move on and help her to change or accept her as she is.

The strangest thing has happened. I seem to be producing milk. I feel my breasts fill up, and drips come out and make my shift wet.  I have decided to try to feed Mary for a few minutes each time before Ella feeds her, and see if my milk supply will come in any useful quantity. It is like we are being given a chance to start all over again. It is like a small miracle.

I can only hope that 1860 will have something good to offer us.  For much of 1859 I was in a black fog, but I will make an effort and we have already begun to be a much happier family.

For a long time I thought God had abandoned us, but now I can pray again. Here is my New Year’s poem.

What is Prayer