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But worst of all, I’ve just learned something. Something that makes me want to run as far as I can away from him.
I’m pregnant. And I already hate this baby more than I can say. Whoever this baby is, they will eat me from the inside and take away the last of my strength.
Oh, England. How I ache for you.
Maya continued to read for hours, flipping through pages, devouring her Grandma Diane’s words. She couldn’t believe the horrible thoughts of this woman, who’d given away her riches for love and then immediately regretted it. She was so haughty that Maya struggled to comprehend her.
In the diaries, Diane reported the birth of her first daughter, whom she named Veronica. It was clear from her words that she felt no love for the little baby, who needed her so. By then, her husband, Victor, had made a healthy mountain of wealth on “importing and exporting,” but the wealth was still not enough for Diane. Diane wrote about pushing Victor further, reminding him of just how much she missed her “gorgeous” life back in England. She also wrote about hiring a nurse to do the majority of the childcare so that Diane could go back to “feeling and looking her best.”
By the time baby Bethany arrived three years after Veronica, Victor had generated enough wealth to purchase the estate in Hollygrove.
Of this, Diane wrote:
June 3, 1955
The mansion is said to have been built two hundred years ago, which is nothing in England terms but incredibly ancient to Americans. The nurse has set up the nursery and the bedroom for Veronica and Bethany, and I’ve wandered the hallways, plotting decorations for each of the rooms. Victor is away on business yet again, and I’ve demanded that the nurse remain here to care for the children. Doing it alone always gives me the blues.
I wrote a long letter to my sister, Margot, back in England, telling her all about the mansion Victor purchased, as well as the tremendous wealth he’s earned. I told her I’m living almost precisely the way we did back in England, but on my own terms. But when she wrote back, she didn’t congratulate me whatsoever. Instead, she told me that our father is dead. This is information I don’t know what to do with. I burned the letter immediately.
I knew when I left England that Victor would carve out space for us in this brand-new country. I knew we would make it work.
Maya’s stomach flipped over. This was the woman who’d raised her own mother? This was her grandmother?
When Maya had first given birth to Phoebe, she’d felt doubled over with love and surprise. She’d told Steve, over and over, “I don’t know how I got so lucky. I just don’t know.”
But Diane spoke of her daughters as though they were necessary elements in life she wanted to brag about. She’d forced the nurse to raise them.
And the worst of it was as her daughters got older, it seemed that Diane pitted them against each other. It was as though she wanted to create another “competition” between them, just as she’d had with her sister, Margot.
Diane wrote:
August 17, 1960
The girls are fighting down the hall. I can hear them screaming, and the sound is nostalgic to me, a reminder of those long-lost days with Margot. And I catch myself wanting to ignite this behavior. I know that this sort of competition and animosity creates strong and powerful individuals. I know that nothing wonderful comes from comfort.
For example, I gave little Bethany a beautiful doll with gleaming hair and big eyes.
But to Veronica, I gave nothing.
It was an experiment, I explained to Victor. And it’s been marvelous to watch.
Veronica’s jealousy mars her beautiful face. Bethany struggles, knowing she should share but understanding she’s been “chosen” by me. She likes feeling chosen. She likes feeling more loved. And this has carved a dramatic distance between the girls. When, years ago, they cuddled close on the sofa together, reading, I knew it wouldn’t be long till they found hatred in their hearts.
In this way, I mold beautiful yet top-thinking young women. In this way, I carve the future of the Albright name.
Eventually, Maya slammed the diary closed and blinked through the darkness. She’d let the fire nearly die out, and she hurried to add logs to the flame. On her phone were fifteen messages from Brad, asking her if she was all right. He was worried about her.
MAYA: I’m fine. But I think I have a hunch as to why my mother didn’t want contact with the Albrights anymore.
MAYA: I’m beginning to think this house is really haunted.
MAYA: Can you please come over?
BRAD: I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
BRAD: Sit tight.
ChapterSeventeen
