Oh that I never saw that bird again! Such strange behavior, the way it pecked at my bedroom window.
I was preparing for bed last night and had drawn the curtains when I heard it thump onto the sill. And then came a flapping and beating against the window, an awful, startling noise! I could not imagine what it could be, so that I did not want to look out into the night. Silly nonsense, I told myself. I will not cower in my own house. I pulled back the curtains.
I wonder if its twisted leg contributed to its odd manner; perhaps it had difficulty clinging to the narrow sill, although that still does not explain why it would seek to perch outside my bedroom. When I first opened the curtains, the raven flapped its wings and squawked for some time, its bad leg held out to the side, but then it seemed to settle, only to commence pecking at the glass. I laughed at first, though with a touch of nerves. Such an unexpected, and almost amusing, way for a wild bird to behave. Why are you knocking at my window? I asked aloud. Do not think I am going to let you in.
Yet it continued with its steady and hard rapping, and the sound became more and more horrible. I feared the bird would crack the pane. I tried to shoo it away, sweeping my arms at the window. Could it be somehow trapped on the sill? I took my candle and leaned closer to the window to try to see out into the darkness. The raven stopped its knocking and cocked an eye toward me.
I then noticed something most peculiar. I could not make it out at first, and then thought it only a matter of light and reflection. However, as the bird remained still, its eye turned steadily toward me, there could be no doubt. A bird’s eye ought to be flattened in shape, with a dark iris surrounded by a dark-gray sclera, and entirely unmoving in its socket. Yet this eye was round, with white sclera, and it rotated about in the socket. It looked nothing like a bird eye, but rather that of a mammal. More to the point, a human.
It causes me a shudder to think on it this morning. Last night, I shut the curtains and retreated to bed. What else could I do? It would be preposterous to wake Charlotte over such a trivial matter, and certainly I wasn’t going to go out into the dark in my nightgown to chase the bird away, although more than anything I wanted it to leave. I pulled the covers up to my chin, the candle still lit at my bedside, and waited with dread to hear that horrid tapping again. Yet all was quiet.
I remained awake far into the night, but never did I hear another sound at the window. I confess it was with some apprehension that I went to open the curtains this morning, and I had to make myself do it in one quick motion. Such relief to see the bird had gone!
If only I were mistaken in my observations, but I cannot imagine how. I saw it clearly, and now even in the light of day I cannot chase it from my brain.
I have slept most of the day, but I have yet to recover from my sleepless night. I intended to sit outside for a while, but have been unable to move from this bed all afternoon. Even the broth and bread Charlotte kindly brought me at noon does not sit well with me. Though I do not complain to anyone, I am quite uncomfortable. My stomach cramps, and there is an acute pain in my left side, but I am not bleeding, and I hold on to that fact. If only I had experienced carrying a child before. Might I then know if a sensation is normal, or that I should be alarmed? Do I fret too much, or not enough?
April 28
This grief is intolerable
April 30
Such pathetic instruments, this diary, this pen in my hand. What can they do but slice into the wound, flay and pin my sorrow to the page like a dissected organ? I would rather throw it all away, every page, every pitiful hope.
May 2
“You must be strong, Mrs Forrester. You’ve got to deliver this poor little thing, or it will be your death, too.”
Mrs Connor, my unlikely angel of mercy, who came in the night and wiped at me with damp rags, offered small sips of water, while Charlotte cleaned the mess. I did not expect it, but Sarah Whithers blanched and ran from my bedside at the sight of my bloody legs. Not Mrs Connor. Five miscarriages, two stillborns, three live births. She should be decorated with more medals than her husband, she said, her pride matter-of-fact. She survived. She implies that I will do the same.
“You’ll have all of the labor, Mrs Forrester, and none of the sweetness. No, it isn’t fair. It’s a grim business, but it’s not up to us, is it? We must never forget it. Our lives are not our own.”
Is there nothing we can do? I begged. Please tell me there is something? I’ll do anything, but please save my child.
Oh Allen, I have lost our baby.
May 3
There was hope. I did not imagine it, and Dr Randall does not deny it even now. I might have been so fortunate as to bear the child to term.