My parents were here at Christmas and my mother asked if I were happy. I had to think quickly and invent a disingenuous answer for my current state. I could not tell her the truth. If she could see me now, she would take me in her arms and flee from this house. I have lost so much weight, and now I have spent little time outside the house because the judge prefers I not speak with my friends—at least the ones I had last year. Aunt Maud has not returned my inquiries. I believe that she would, so I now wonder if she even got my messages.
The last time I went riding was in March when it was still cold. But today I decided to ride, so I slipped out and Lily and I went to my old, favorite haunt. Sometimes I think about simply running away like Jane Eyre, but I know the judge would find me.
While I rested from my ride, I heard another horse approaching. It was Mr. Quinn. Somehow he knew I was on my favorite hillside ride once again. We spoke of many things, but I could not find the inner strength to tell him of my plight. After all, I agreed to this marriage. He looked at me with concern, took my hands, and told me he had never stopped loving me.
So, my diary, I can never go back there again. My husband might kill him, and I believe he has friends who could make Mr. Quinn disappear forever. I have no hope and no one to help me. How different my life would be if I had waited for Mr. Quinn to make his way in the world.
30 April, 1894
I have not had the strength to write in my diary since the judge found out Mr. Quinn was talking to me on my ride. I do not know who told him, but I believe he has eyes and ears everywhere. That evening he consumed a great deal of brandy and began to make remarks that caused me to believe he knew about Mr. Quinn. Afterward, it took me four days to rise from my bed. Jonalyn has attended to me and worried about me since I was not conscious for the first day. She told me he forbade her to send for a doctor. I fear the judge may kill me the next time he becomes angry. By then, perhaps, I shall not care.
Several days later, Jonalyn came to my room before dinner was announced. She said the judge wanted me to appear at the table instead of taking sustenance in my room. I bathed with Jonalyn’s help and dressed for dinner. Then she had me sit down on my bed, and she told me I must claim not to feel well—that will not be difficult—and eat nothing of the beef and mushroom gravy that she is preparing for dinner. When I asked her why, she simply said I must do so and ask no questions. The judge loves morel mushrooms, and this is the time of year they grow wild in the forests. Jonalyn was out all morning collecting them.
I did as she asked. I had difficulty walking down the stairs, but I somehow managed to reach the dining room and have dinner with my husband, who was looking hale and hearty. How ironic that he who should be so evil to me and to his first wife should look so happy and contented with his own life. Mrs. Hernshaw went to see an ailing sister this week, so Jonalyn had prepared our dinner.
As I watched him eat his food and ask for seconds, I could only guess what kind of morels were in the gravy—the kind my mother warned me about. She found them near fallen logs, and showed me when you cut a good morel in half, the inside is hollow. But the morels beside the fallen logs in the forest are often filled with toxin, and the inside is a dense filling unsafe for the human anatomy. The judge inquired about my lack of appetite, and I explained that I did not feel well and so would take a little tea and soup. “All the more for me,” he exclaimed, and put another helping on his plate.
I ask God’s forgiveness and will do so every day of my life, just as I will ask a blessing on Jonalyn Heaton. As I watched my husband’s gluttonous nature compel him to ravish two plates of roast beef and mushrooms, I knew in a few weeks I would be free of this locked prison.
23 May, 1894
This will be my last entry in my journal, and then I will hide it away in this house which I will leave forever. Perhaps someday, long after I am gone, another human hand will find this book. But it is more likely the house will perish in the future—as all material goods must end—and my thoughts and longings will go with it.
Over the past two weeks I have remained by my husband’s side—appearances and pretenses—so all of Endurance believes me to be the grieving wife. The judge was quite healthy for a week or so, and then the toxins began to destroy his stomach. It commenced with vomiting and stomach pain, which led to seizures, a coma, and, finally, death. Dr. Brown attended him daily, but could find no reason for his sudden decline. He dosed him with medicine, but it had no effect. And finally, three days ago, my husband, the judge, went to meet the Judge we shall all face. While I know I should not condemn, I believe my husband must have found that a most distressing meeting.
The judge’s will was read two days ago, and, as I am the only surviving relative, I will inherit a vast fortune. Each of the servants will also receive a stipend. This has caused me to make many decisions. I have found new employment for Mrs. Hernshaw and the Heatons, and I plan to close up the house until I decide what to do with it. My good-byes to the servants were laced with tears, especially for Jonalyn. I will try to stay in communication with them if I can. I will hire Tyler Quinn’s mentor, Simon Barclay, to manage the businesses, and it will give him quite a substantial living. I believe Mr. Barclay to be a good and honest man. He will keep my financial business quiet and continue to watch the accumulation of wealth which I can leave to my children, should I have any. Otherwise, I have designated charities as the recipients of my late husband’s wealth.
I have given a great deal of thought as to what I shall do with the life I have left. I am but eighteen years of age, so I hope to see many years to come. I do not imagine myself going back to the tiny town of Anthem to live; that life, as well as that naïve girl, is gone. They died the day I left and came to Endurance. But I will love and visit my parents and brothers, and now I will be able to help them financially.
Yesterday, Mr. Tyler Quinn called on me with his official calling card. We sat in the front parlor and had many words to say, words we could not say during this dark period of my life.
And so I take my leave from Endurance, a town that held such hope, but also such pain. I plan to visit the many cities on the East Coast of America. I would like to see New York City and Boston and Philadelphia—and even Buzzards Bay—places I have simply read about. Now that I am a widow, I may visit them in a widow’s black clothing, and none will question my unaccompanied travel. And I hope to try a balloon ascension ride, the most wondrous thing I saw when I first came to Endurance. I believe I will take this trip to the East Coast to heal myself and consider the next part of my life.
The Heatons and Rose Hernshaw will accompany me to the railroad station and make sure my belongings are put on the train with me. When I leave Lockwood House, I will turn and look one last time at the turrets, walls, and windows of the mansion, and I will remember the rich mahogany staircases and the thick stained-glass windows. Such beauty. Then I will turn my back on it forever. What a different journey this will be from the one I made last October. Perhaps I shall wave at the White City as I head toward the East.
And my diary—you that has sustained me throughout this ordeal—I will leave you here in this house of sadness. The Lockwood name I will never answer to again, nor will I ever use it, since I must work hard at forgetting this period of my life. But my locket, with the pictures of my parents, I will wear forever, a reminder of their love for me.
In two years, when my time of mourning is over, if all goes as planned and God is willing, I will meet Tyler Quinn somewhere far from the town of Endurance. We will marry and live in mutual respect, a bond I once hoped to find. I now know that he was in my heart all along.
And, despite the anger and sorrow and tears I shed here, I will continue to have an abiding memory and fondness for that library and reading room, the public square, my Aunt Maud, the Fourth of July picnics, and the wondrous feeling in my heart when I first laid eyes on the astonishing town that is Endurance.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Van Kirk lives in a small t
own very much like her fictional Endurance. Educated at Knox College and the University of Illinois, she taught high school English for thirty-four years in the small town of Monmouth, Illinois. She taught an additional ten years at Monmouth College. Her short story “War and Remembrance” was published by Teacher Magazine and became one of the chapters in her 2010 creative nonfiction memoir, The Education of a Teacher (Including Dirty Books and Pointed Looks). Marry in Haste is her second Endurance mystery. The first, Three May Keep a Secret, was published in 2014. She divides her time between Illinois and Phoenix, Arizona, where her three children and nine grandchildren live. Visit her website at www.susanvankirk.com.
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