Life in our quiet Yorkshire village took a dark turn when my daughter-in-law, Eloise, fell with child. Our relations had never been warm, but until her condition, I bore her sharp tongue for the sake of peace. Now, she crossed every line—shouting, hurling insults at me and my husband, while our son, Edmund, stood silent, excusing her with “her delicate state.” Her cruelty gnaws at my soul, but Edmund’s passivity stings far worse.
From the first, my husband, Walter, and I saw Eloise for what she was—ill-mannered, brash, with a look of disdain for us plain folk. Still, she held her tongue for a time. Though we’re not gentry, we’ve our pride and endured her barbs with grace. Then came the child in her belly, and the mask slipped. Her temper turned venomous, her words lashing like a whip. Edmund only shrugs: “She’s carrying; she must be humoured.” My heart aches, but he will not hear it.
Take last Michaelmas, my birthday. I spent the day baking, setting a fine table for our guests. Eloise took one bite of the trifle and proclaimed it “the vilest thing ever to pass her lips.” A lady would have held her tongue, but not she. “Must I choke down swill to spare your pride?” she sneered. The company froze; my cheeks burned. Yet I held my peace. Edmund murmured some half-hearted plea, but she scoffed, “Why shouldn’t I speak my mind?” The others cleaned their plates—only she found fault. Her words struck like a blow, and my son did nothing.
Their wedding feast was a horror I shudder to recall. Eloise drank like a fish, spouting nonsense before brawling with her own sister over some trifle. The guests gaped; it took three men to part them. Her parents sat unmoved, as if such scenes were commonplace. That day, I knew her spite was no passing mood—it ran in her blood. Yet even that did not prepare me for her tyrannies once she quickened. Now, every word sets her shrieking, and we are her favoured targets.
When the midwife said the babe would be a boy, Walter and I bought a set of blue christening gowns as a kindness. We brought them with smiles, only to be met with a shriek: “Have you lost your wits? ’Tis ill luck to buy before the birth!” She raged, calling us fools and worse, while Edmund stared at his boots, mute. We left humiliated. That my own son permits such disrespect cuts deeper than any insult.
Last week, our daughter, Margaret, invited us all to supper for her birthday. We hoped for a pleasant evening. Eloise arrived in heels tall as ale-jacks, though her time was near. Quietly, I said, “Love, mightn’t you wear steadier shoes? For the babe’s sake.” Then came the storm. “You’d love to see me fall and lose it, wouldn’t you?” she howled. “You dream of my ruin!” Her accusations were monstrous. Walter spoke up—only for her to call us “doddering old fools” before slamming the door. Edmund chased after without a word of remorse. The supper was ruined; we sat in silence as the guests whispered.
I could scarcely breathe. If Margaret—a mother twice over—ever spoke so to her husband’s kin, I’d die of shame. This is beyond bad breeding—’tis malice. Three days later, Edmund called. I would not speak to him; Walter took it. Our son offered hollow regrets but swore he’d not make Eloise apologise—”her nerves are frayed.” Those words broke me. I bore three children: Margaret, my joy; young Henry, kind as summer; and Edmund… He’s a stranger now. He lets his wife mock us, shame us, grind us into the dirt. ’Tis betrayal.
Walter and I keep silent, though one word to the parish would see Eloise shamed. But I’ll not stoop to her ways. Yet my heart cracks—why does Edmund not defend us? Did we raise him so spineless? Or has Eloise made him her shadow? I know not how to endure a daughter-in-law who poisons every day, nor a son who lets her. The babe will be our blood, but I fear she’ll turn the child against us. The thought chokes me—but I’ll not yield. If Edmund lacks the spine to curb his wife, I shall do it myself, though it tear our family asunder.
