To see Father’s joy as he held our baby, dear sisters, his sole heir, is to be lifted to the heavens. His life has been one of continued grace, and the fame of his philanthropy has outstripped the notoriety of his business acumen, but still he has lost so much in the past years, not the least your companionship and love, that he was starving for some new victory over loss. He sees in his grandson that victory, I believe, and a justification for all he suffered as he fought to make his mark.

Christian has been absent from the house since Hope’s death, grieving deep in his soul for the purest life to ever touch this earth, and so my husband has not yet seen his son, but word has been sent to his usual places and I expect him shortly. I can imagine him leaping the stairs two at a time to reach his child and that vision fills me with sublime hope for the future. Our child is all the hope we need. He will be the redemption of the Reddmans, the savior of us all. He will honor your legacy and your sacrifices, dear sisters. You can be certain that Kingsley will carry on the greatness of our father as the Reddman family is once and forever reborn

March 28, 1923

My Dearest Sisters,

A mountain cougar has been spotted in our county. It has slipped down from the heights north of us in search of food as this long wearying winter continues or has simply lost its bearings, but the effect is either way the same. A dog was mangled on a farm not far from us and one of Naomi Scott’s famed dairy cows was found dead in a far pasture, its haunch chewed to the bone. The presence of this wild beast has cast a pall upon the spring and the men are out with their guns, combing the hills in search of its tracks in the soft earth.

Christian has gone out with Kingsley hunting for the cat. He has taken his father’s shotgun out of the case and given it to our son to carry, against my objections. Kingsley is too young to handle a firearm and Christian is obviously unable to handle it correctly, but as always, as regards dear Christian, my objections went for naught. It is as if he does not even hear me as I speak. There is for him only his son and the pond and the woods, where he sits for hours on end with nothing but the birds and the tiniest creatures to keep him company. His unhappiness is so evident it crushes any attempt to reach out to him. We have almost passed through his fourth year back and still he acts as if the battlefield is just behind him. Sometimes I think it would have been kinder had the jagged piece of metal that severed his arm slipped into his throat instead and saved him from the misery he has come home to.

Seeing them walk off together, the quiet boy with the oversized gun cradled in his arms and the crippled man, I marveled again at the relationship they have forged. Kingsley barely speaks two words together, so shy and withdrawn he has become, and Christian’s wretchedness infects with melancholy all with whom he comes in contact, but together they seem a natural whole, like two wild animals perfectly at ease with one another. I had hoped that Christian would help me speak to the boy about his studies, for Kingsley obviously fails to heed my importuning, but Christian refuses to hear one word ill against his son. Kingsley’s newest tutor has failed to connect with the boy and reports that his pupil is still unable to read even the most simple-minded passages or add his figures correctly. I suspect, though I dare not breathe this to Christian or Father, that the problem is with the boy, not the pedagogue, but even so I am searching again for a more rigorous teacher

March 31, 1923

My Dearest Sisters,

I can’t sleep, I can’t read, my mind is racing with an anger that I can only release in words addressed to you, my darlings. I had another row with Father about those people. I insisted once again that he force them from the property, that they be banished to where their anger can no longer infect our lives. New Jersey, I suggested, where they can do no more harm than has already been done, but once again Father ignored me. What is past is past, I argued with him, let it go, let them go. He reminded me that the property is deeded to the widow Poole and he is powerless, but even had there been no deed his answer would have been the same. I understand Father’s reasons, better than he can know, but the time for pity has passed, as the events of this afternoon demonstrate with utter clarity.

I was in my room when the window darkened and a great cloud drifted overhead. In the face of that fearful sky I thought of the cougar and then of Kingsley and immediately went in search of my son. He was neither in the playroom nor in his area on the front lawn. The governess was having tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Gogarty. When I asked about Kingsley she sputtered something foolish and then lapsed into guilty silence. With admirable restraint I told her to find the boy. While she searched the house, I stepped onto the rear portico and down into the yard.

The sky was gloomy and threatening, the wind brisk and undeservedly warm, like a tease of summer before cold again sets in. I first searched through the garden, peering as best I could over the shoulder-high hedges. I stepped carefully, with an unaccustomed caution, not knowing what kind of animal could be stalking me in the interstices of my maze, but the garden was empty of man and beast.

From out of the garden I thought of returning to the house but for some reason felt drawn to the pond. It was with a dread that I stepped down the hill. That pond had scared me often, yes, and I had worried that someday my son would lose his footing and fall within its murky depths. But the surface was clear and the ducks still floated undisturbed upon the chop. Beyond the pond was the stand of woods where I dared not step and prayed that my son was wise enough to stay out while that animal was still alive and on the roam. It was at the edge of the pond that I first heard the sound, high and trilling, a voice like a bird’s almost, as best as I could tell from the distance. I followed it, moving around the pond, followed it to that decrepit wreck of a house.

There on the decaying wooden steps sat Kingsley, leaning on his side, listening to the Poole daughter read to him. The sight of that hideous-faced girl, and the book she was holding, that book, filled me with the hatred that rises every time I see that family. But now it came from someplace deeper. She was sitting there with my son, reading from that book, and he was listening to her, raptly, absorbing every word of the vile hatred that was spewing from her throat. Is it not enough that they have wreaked their vengeance on our father and his children, must they now infect my son? It was too much to bear and the shout of outrage came unbidden from my throat.

Kingsley jumped to his feet. I told him to get back to the house immediately and he hesitated for a tense moment, his head hanging in indecision, before sprinting past me and up the hill. I then turned my attention to the girl.

She was still sitting on the steps, her frayed frock loose about her, her dark eyes staring at me with an indifferent hatred. As calmly as possible I said, “I don’t want you speaking ever again to my son.”