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Ms. Adelaide Baker

December 31, 1903

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Dear Diary,

The house is cold. Its floorboards ache with untold stories, its walls creak and moan in the night. I know Mother said that this house has been passed down the Maybelline women for generations, but I don’t want it.

Some distant great aunt passed away recently, and we’ve been entrusted with its upkeeping. I long to go back to Chicago and dance with Samuel under the streetlights. Young and free, he seventeen, and I sixteen, had our whole lives ahead of us. And Mother, cruel as can be, has robbed us of that chance. Of family. Of future. And moved us to this terribly chilly, unseemly house.

It is with much difficulty I sleep nowadays. I do all things—brewing tea, reading, writing, and even imagining sheep jumping over walls, as the Yankees would do.

I’m currently writing because the lemon-honey tea I brewed didn’t make it to my lips. The pretty little teacup with the lily-of-the-valley and bluebell porcelain design, the one that Samuel gifted me when we were children, has shattered into smithereens on the wood, along with the vestiges of my hope.

I went to get some napkins, and when I came back, the most unnerving thing happened! The shards of porcelain were gone—teacup, entire!

This house is cursed, I tell you.

I ran to rouse Mother, and she tossed and turned, but did not wake.

Embarrassed, I ran to my room, huddled under the blankets, and started writing to comfort myself.

It is with hope and shame that I aspire to sleep soon. What a trivial thing to get in a pickle over.

Goodnight,

Adelaide

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Ms. Adelaide Baker

January 1, 1903

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Dear Diary,

I cannot fathom the anger Mother must be feeling to not talk to me. Samuel and I did sneak out, but that should not elicit enough rage to move us out the very next day.

I am still having trouble sleeping. Mother was so upset that she did not come to wake me this morning. I thought she would pretend to be happy. It is New Years, after all. She left early for work. And breakfast. Was cold. I know that a parent’s anger is justified, but I still have two more years till adulthood. I want to enjoy comfort and ease before I live with elbow-deep housework.

Samuel is employed in factory work. He dreams of opening a small mechanic business with me by his side, though I suppose that will never happen, now that Mother has swindled me away. Mother always says that married life is different for a woman. Says that I had better get a handle on my cooking skills, as they are a bit shabby.

But Samuel will learn to be patient. At least, that was the course of action. Now, I don’t know what the future holds. Except for restless, tossing sleep.

Goodnight,

Adelaide

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Ms. Adelaide Baker

January 2, 1903

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Dear Diary,

It seems as if Mother will never talk to me. When I call for her, she turns my way, then turns back and walks away from me. She cocks her head whenever I say anything to her and pretends she does not hear me. A teenager’s folly should not be the cause of such…behavior. I know not what to call it.

And even worse, she forgot to pack my things. I have a room, a bed, a pillow, and she forgot the most essential thing of all. My hatboxes and clothing, my jewelry and powders and perfumes, all gone. Still, I live. Waiting for Mother’s anger to abate. Only then will I ask her to retrieve my luggage.

Mother has always reacted with fury when I act up. I will not prod her.

My fingers are trembling as I write this. The ink is a lurid shade of red. It frightens me.

I tried making tea this night, but that was as much a failure as a few nights ago. The teacup shattered.

This time, I watched it like a hawk.

It didn’t disappear.

Goodnight,

Adelaide

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Ms. Adelaide Baker

January 3, 1903

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Dear Diary,

Thinking of Samuel hurts. But it helps me sleep. His memory soothes me like my old rose balm.

The current memory I have of him is the night we snuck out. The afternoon was thick with laughter and the spun, sugary delights the vendor next door was selling.

Samuel bought one for me and we made our escape on the cobblestones, hand in hand. We went to the market and ate strawberries till it looked like we’d smeared rouge all over our faces. He sang a song and played his guitar for me.

And then, we snuck back home.

Mother hadn’t noticed yet. She was taking her afternoon nap.

So I sprinkled violet water in my hair and strung my brown tresses with baby-blue ribbons. Lightly powered Yardley of the Valley on my neck. Applied a shimmering, bright gold eyeshadow on my eyelids and a soft rouge for my cheeks. And lastly, I wet my lips with the newest gloss, put on my best dress, and escaped just as I had come—through the window, down the huckleberry tree, and into Samuel’s waiting arms. I know, it sounds like a romantic fantasy Austen would have been keen to write. Samuel is, after all, the perfect gentleman.

However, he wouldn’t tell me where we were going that night.

“A surprise for my lady,” he whispered.

I can still remember the feeling of his voice as it hugged my heart. So smooth, so dark, so deep, so utterly masculine.

I remember him taking me to the new theatre, but I cannot remember anything past that. The night must have been too fun to remember. I might have had a brandy or two. I am the type to sneak those things.

A dull, throbbing headache is pressing at the back of my skull. I will not try to remember anything more about Samuel, or the perfect love I will never have again. This new place is devoid of boys, which likely is Mother’s doing. She was pressing me to introduce myself to the wealthy Hardy boy last week, but she is pretending to have forgotten. She isn’t speaking to me anymore. Not a word. She wants me to crack under the pressure, apologize for loving a man who came from a poor family.

I won’t.

Sleep evades me even after the lull of my perfect night with Samuel. I will try. But I make no promises.

Goodnight,

Adelaide

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Ms. Adelaide Baker

January 4, 1903

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Dear Diary,

I fear I know the reason I am unable to sleep. The signs were there, but I, like a mad fool, chose to ignore them.

My mother moving her things here and not mine. Her not bearing to look at me.

That day in Chicago that I recall not? That day with Samuel? The night did not end in with a warm peck on the cheek and a goodnight. That night ended in tragedy.

I am remembering this now. We had gone to see the Drury Lane musical Mr. Blue Beard. A comedy show. Samuel was eager, though I was a bit hesitant. I had wanted to stay inside that night, enjoy some quiet reading and hot tea with him.

Somehow, that uneasy feeling I had felt was a premonition. Not just a result of some unwise dining.

Some rich politicians were passing through town. I remember their voices as they went into the theater. Harsh and grating, like the town crier’s if you may. I remember them as if they spoke to me yesterday.

They had a nasty plan. They were going to burn the theater to the ground, blame it on a structural fire. A believable lie, considering the architect had been mad irresponsible about the blueprints. They planned to build on top of the razed theater, cash in the dough that rolled in from whatever atrocious business they formed on top.

Oh lord, even now, I am remembering the lengths they went to. They opened a theatre door amidst the first beginnings of panic and an icy wind blast rushed inside, further rousing the flames into a fury.

Samuel, oh, my precious, dear, Sammy. He never made it out of the fire. He pushed me forward. In front of him. Still, I didn’t make it out. I was trampled to death. Then burned.

I see clearly now.

The ink I’m writing with is my blood.

The diary, this godforsaken diary is a collection of the charred remains from the theatre door.

And I, Adelaide Reba Baker, am trapped with my guilty conscience. I had the opportunity to save hundreds, yet stayed silent.

I am beyond redemption.

Floating.

Never to rest.

Dead, but not living.

With only my words for company.

Forgive me.

Goodbye,

Adelaide