Shaken, I put the journal down. Cecilia was heartbroken over the loss of her baby, and as a father, I could only imagine the depth of sorrow and despair she and Richard felt. Sean and Laura were both such healthy babies, and Jackie and I could have had more children, had we chosen to do so. But we were happy with our two and decided they were enough.

I brightened at that thought, because I realized that long-ago doctor had been proven wrong. Cecilia and Richard went on to have two daughters.

Thus heartened, I picked up the book and took up where I left off.

Cecilia was evidently ill for some months after the death of the baby, and her entries in the journal were sporadic at best. Then I hit an entry that gave me a tingling of excitement.

Richard insists I need a companion. He’s so busy now and can’t be with me during the day. He worries that I’ll be bored and lonely with only the housekeeper and the staff in the house. I finally consented and began to consider who might be suitable. Someone who will not fatigue me unnecessarily and whose face I can bear to see day after day, naturally. I considered various family members, but they are mostly too old and depressing. Cousin Lavinia has the face and disposition of a prune, and I should go mad after one day in her company. Aunt Berenice isn’t much better, nor is her whiny daughter, my cousin Mary Elizabeth. Then I thought about a distant connection, Esther McMullen. If I recall it correctly, she is the granddaughter of my mother’s great-aunt Matilda, or something like that. I have met her a couple of times, and she is a quiet, modest young woman. Richard has arranged for her to travel here from Georgia for a trial period. She is apparently quite grateful for she is alone with very little money.

Esther McMullen. That wasn’t the same as Essie Mae, but Essie could be a nickname for Esther.

After a few entries Cecilia mentioned her cousin again.

Cousin Esther is here and is so far proving satisfactory. She is as quiet and modest as I remembered and so pathetically grateful as to be embarrassing. I have managed to extract certain details from her about her reduced circumstances. Her mother married against her family’s wishes, and her choice was a charming but faithless Irish rogue named Mick McMullen. He abandoned Esther and her mother when Esther was only five years old! How terrible it must be not to have a father one can rely upon. Esther’s maternal grandparents turned their back on her and her mother as well. That was not the Christian thing to do!

The tale of Esther and her mother was a sad one, but not uncommon. I read further.

My cousin has settled in well, and I am quite pleased with her. She is a comfortable and unobtrusive companion. I have discovered that she prefers to be called Essie Mae, however. It was her father’s pet name for her. I should think she would find it abhorrent, given that the man abandoned her, but she clings to her memories of him. So she will be Essie Mae henceforth, though I wince at the common sound of the name every time I hear it.