Luke’s journal, continued

October 24, 1766

I was too upset to write anything further in this journal last night. It was hard to sneak out in the night and bring it to its new hiding place in the forest—risky now because Mother might go find it. Now she has the little book I filled up before I started this one, and it has enough information to condemn me instead of Asher. I couldn’t tell if she read that part yet. I didn’t dare ask her directly, of course, and she didn’t mention it. She did appear extremely disappointed in me. I stood by the dimming fireplace before her, feeling my face grow hot, and not from the fire, as it didn’t give out enough heat at that point. She looked me up and down as if I were some sort of insect instead of her favorite son.

“Don’t tell Father any of it,” I said again. “If you do…” I tried to think of something she wouldn’t want to happen that I had control over, but this time my mind was blank of schemes. All I could think was that the most beautiful creature in the world now disapproves of me. What am I to do now?

Silence between us grew so awkward, I moved to add more logs to the fire. It could be a long night, I thought. She stirred in her chair as if to go, the book still in her hand. “Wait,” I said. “You don’t understand. There’s—so much you don’t know!”

Her reply was so quiet, I barely heard. “Tell me. What don’t I know?”

“My—reasons. So much I haven’t told you. The pain inside—” My voice broke. I felt like a little child, and I couldn’t stop it. Tears flowed from my eyes. I wiped them frantically, but they wouldn’t stop. At least this was the one person who might sympathize with me. Just maybe.

Mother’s countenance changed when she saw me cry. If she thought the tears insincere she might have hardened herself to them, but she softened with the understanding they were real. I burned with embarrassment—after all, I am close to being a man, growing taller than other boys my age, swiftly becoming an expert at everything I must learn to be a gentleman, and looking forward to sailing to England for medical school in only a few years. Who am I to cry in front of a woman, as if I were a woman myself? But my secrets have been eating me alive. The people I call friends have no idea of the conflicts within me.

And so, I began to tell her some of my innermost secrets. I might be foolish to tell her, but either I confide in her, hoping she will sympathize and not ruin my good reputation, or all is lost.

She shuddered when I told her I can’t trust Jesus or identify with him. My words came out in a rush: “I think I know something of what Judas felt. This very moment, I know the shame of disappointing you that I’m really more like the Devil than like the one you want me to copy. But how can I be someone I’m not?”

I listened for any hint she had read of my plans against Asher. But when she mentioned nothing of the sort, hope rose within me. Perhaps there is still a chance it will not be discovered.

I watched her tremble and heard her cry. It hurt me worse than any sternness would have. I’m uneasy about Mother. Her beauty speeds my heart—makes me happy and nervous at the same time. I missed her embrace last night as she kept me at a distance. I sensed she didn’t know what to do with me now that I had become a stranger. I know it’s foolish to let her know who I really am, but it’s too late not to, now that she has one of my journals. All I can do is explain myself even more than my little book does and hope she will sympathize with me. But I hate being a beggar!

As the embers began to die again, we both shivered in the cold. Mother was looking at the floor now, all energy drained. I felt like lead in my chair. “It’s time we both go to bed,” she said.

“Please, Mother. Give me back my journal!”

“No. There is too much I need to know now.”

My heart pounded.

“At least promise me you won’t tell my secrets. Please!”

For some time her clear light-blue eyes—the color my own eyes share—looked into mine. It was good she met my eyes again, after all this time. “I won’t tell,” she whispered. “But one thing I must ask of you in return. You must mend your ways, my son.”

“Mend my ways?”

“Turn about, repent the sins you have been committing.”

It felt as if my heart slipped down into my belly. I thought her request impossible, but I have to try. “I will,” I said.

Then I hugged her. She cried again, and then went away to what was probably a troubled sleep. Mine was.

I don’t think she knows yet about my scheme against Asher. She is certain to find out, though. Is there any way I can reverse the consequences before the evidence is found?

One thing I know: I must get that journal out of Mother’s hands before she reads of those plans!

October 29, 1766

Mother has hidden my journal so carefully I haven’t found it after a thorough search every day since our confrontation. Where can it possibly be? In the woods somewhere, like this one? It’s hard to keep a book from being ruined out here. (Yes, I am in the forest while I write this.) I keep this one in a wooden box in an old abandoned wigwam, but it’s already a little damp and is likely to mold before I fill it. My anxiety grows. I haven’t been able to prevent the discovery of the gambling debt and slave deal, and I might as well admit on this page that I didn’t exactly borrow that money from Father. I stole it. And Father will think Asher did all of it. Will Mother really keep her promise, even after she finds it all out?

I don’t so much care what happens to Asher. He deserves my retaliation after all the ridicule against me and the bragging and the slights. But Mother! Why did Mother have to be dragged into this mess? And what will I do if she turns against me? The thought of it makes my very knees shake.

I write this at an old fire pit not far from the wigwam. It’s deep in the woods, a place few go. I like to come here to think as well as to write—my own private spot. The October wind blows leaves all around me. Their brilliant colors are only now beginning to brown. I may be devilish, but I do appreciate beauty. It’s early morning, and frost covers the ground. I look forward to winter—odd of me, perhaps, but I like the way the snow covers the deep grooves in the roads so that sleighs glide gently over it. When the snow is just right, it’s an easy ride, so much better than any jostling coach or buggy. I like the white of the snow and the blue of the shadows. They suit me better than the red and green so often used to deck the homes, shops, and churches for Christmas. My colors remind me of the ice in my heart that never seems to melt.

I wish something would happen to prevent the disaster that looms over me. I don’t want to lose the bright future I have. I doubt I will get to sail to England if I’m found out. As for Mother—I wish I could ease her sufferings.