1865
Dearest Book, I am worn thin!
I curse English summers. In America the heat was fiercer, yes, but it did not sink into the skin like this. The humid air stirs my gut and clings until the cloth on my back feels part of me.
Callum has gone to the docks in search of work. I keep the house as best I can and labor in the garden, for we must have something in the icebox come winter. He speaks fondly of fishing. The thought of him venturing far out to sea, when I still struggle to keep him from wandering during his episodes does not sit easily with me. But I had best not say so.
Instead, I tried to dissuade him with the excuse that winter work would be slow and we will need the money. I hoped he might choose something closer to home. He only smiles and says, "Surely, in town there will be other employment needed." There is always an answer with him...
Last evening was the worst yet. While preparing our supper, the cloth tucked into the waist of my apron slipped free, met the stove, and caught. The fire rose quick and eager, and by the time it was beaten down, the stove was ruined, the counters blackened, the kitchen thick with smoke.
I was shaken, yes, but not so far as to forget myself, nor the natural order of things. Should not a husband offer comfort before censure? Mine, once certain I was unhurt, saw fit to deliver a sermon on carelessness, as though I had not already chastised myself enough to content the Almighty.
It left me more nettled than before. Would he prefer to cook his own meals, then?
Louisa