Extracts from the Journal of a Victorian Mother

Words by Alex Grehy

Art by Sandra Eckert

16th May 1880

My first journal entry as Mrs. Florence Harrison, or, more rightly, Mrs. Edward Harrison, for I am now his, body and soul. It is no hardship. He is kind and handsome and we are sincerely in love. I look forward to supporting his ambitions as he rises in society.

Although I am aged but twenty, Mama has raised me to be bright and sensible, following the ways of our dear Queen Victoria, the very epitome of womanhood. Edward has furnished me with a brand-new copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management and wishes me to be a modern housewife.

30th June 1880

I have, these past weeks, been plagued with sickness. Edward sent for the doctor at great expense. The shame I felt at his intimate questions was soon overwhelmed with joy. I am to be a mother.

20th January 1881

Although exhausted by a long labour, I am bursting with pride. This morning I gave birth to Edward’s son and heir—William. He is a bonny child and I have dared to disagree with our venerable queen, who has stated that new-born babes are ugly things. Our William is surely the most beautiful creature in creation.

I have been diligent in preparing for the child. He is now with his nanny while I rest. She is using a newly patented invention—an oval glass feeding bottle with a long rubber tube and nipple from which he can suck warm cow’s milk. I have chosen “The Empire” bottle, hoping that it will give my son the spirit of strength and purpose that is the mark of our age.

29th January 1881

Today I am freed from confinement and may take up my duties as a wife and mother. Such sweet appellations.

I was vexed to overhear the cook and housekeeper discussing my maternal choices. What do two such crones know about modern motherhood?

I am not cheating nature by using a feeding bottle. Indeed, Edward, who has a keen interest in science, believes that women are evolving away from breastfeeding. Mrs. Isabella Beeton herself recommends their use and believes that the new formula milks are most nutritious. As if that were not enough, even our dear sovereign, who has born many fine heirs, believed breastfeeding to be disgusting. If she were not still consumed with grief over the loss of her dear Prince Albert, I am certain she would be recommending these new bottles to women across the empire.

14th February 1881

Edward presented me with a lace-trimmed card on this Saint Valentine’s Day and professed his love most profoundly. I was glad to present myself at dinner in the corsets of my youth, though I fear my waist will never again reach the 18 inches of my girlhood.

I care not for the servants’ tattle. Wives of my rank and standing have obligations to our husbands that the lower classes cannot understand. The use of the bottle has enabled me to maintain a pleasing appearance and return to my duties within weeks of my confinement.

30th March 1881

I am with child—a gift of Saint Valentine no doubt. Edward is both delighted and concerned, for he would not wish me to over-bear. I have reassured him that I am young and strong; to bear children is my destiny.

William is almost three months old. He is a sweet infant, but he is not thriving. Mama and I have consulted the apothecary who recommends a new condensed milk for babies. He believes it to be most efficacious. My housekeeper suggested that I find a wet nurse, but the apothecary assured me that the new formulas are more nutritious than milk from a stranger’s breast.

My housekeeper has been vulgar, suggesting that had I breastfed William myself I would not be with child so soon. I am sorely tempted to let her go as I cannot countenance such unseemly gossip among the staff. But she has been with Edward’s family her whole life and he will not hear of it.

20th October 1881

My precious son was born last night. We have named him Alfred. Edward is exceedingly proud. I am strengthened by his approval and look forward to re-joining his life within a fortnight. The nanny has, at last, praised the feeding bottle as William can now be left with his milk while she sees to Alfred.

25th December 1881

For Christmas, I presented Edward with a photograph of his children. Alfred rests on his brother’s lap, while William is a cherub, sitting contentedly with his bottle, sucking at the feeding tube. He enjoys the sweet formula, as does his brother. Edward placed the photograph on the mantelpiece and promised that he would sit for a family portrait in the new year.

9th April 1882

I am two-and-twenty today. My life is complete. I have a loving husband whose success has assured our place in society. I have two beautiful sons. William is now 15 months and looks the image of his doting father; but baby Alfred, with his bright blue eyes, takes after me.

Today we sat for a family photograph, Edward’s birthday gift to me. Edward stands proudly behind me, William sits on a little velvet stool by his father’s knee, and Alfred lies on my lap. The photographer instructed us to stay still and avoid excessive facial displays.

I hope that the photographic plate has not captured my concern. William is sickly and Alfred fails to thrive. Mama and I have consulted the apothecary again and are reassured that every day new and better baby milks are being produced. Edward does not carp at the expense; he wants the best for his sons. Following the inestimable advice of Mrs. Beeton, we are now adding boracic powder to the cow’s milk to keep it fresh and wholesome.

I am glad of her wisdom as I am again with child. No-one expects a woman in delicate condition to be wasp-waisted, but I was glad to be home from the photographic studio, partially so I could remove my corsets and partially because no photographer’s constraints could have prevented Edward’s grin when I told him the news.

10th November 1882

Our daughter, Clara, was delivered today. She is an adorable angel, but my heart is ruined. Edward could not hide his disappointment. Clara will never see her brothers, and although I could see love in his eyes, the spark of pride was absent.

Our dear William died a month ago. When I laid him in his crib that night, his cheeks were hot and apple red, his curly hair straightened by sweat. I lay an extra blanket on him so he would not be chilled. I remember shivering myself, although Edward had assured me that the wild electrical storm experienced by our American cousins but days before were not an ill omen. Indeed, the night was peaceful, but by morning, my sweet William’s soul had passed on.

His brother followed a fortnight later, taken by the scarlet fever that scourged our neighbourhood.

I willed my baby to stay cosseted in my belly, but she arrived early, weak. I felt fear as I have never felt it before and would not look at her. I gave her into the care of the nanny. How could I dare to love my daughter when the loss of her brothers loomed so cruelly?

10th November 1883

It was Clara’s first birthday yesterday. We ventured to have a small party. Edward and I have had little intimacy over the last year, fearing that the frequency of my childbearing may have weakened our babies in some way. The doctor assures us that pregnancy is the natural condition of a woman and that our fears are unfounded, but he has no medicine to mend a grieving heart.

However, our gathering served to maintain our place in society. Edward retired to the drawing room with the men, and I was left to enjoy the company of other mothers. Many were older than myself, and I realised how young I had entered marriage. I envied them, sitting with their first babies, unaware of what tragedy might lie ahead. We spoke at length about the merits of bottle feeding; many were following the latest advice that feeding tubes and nipples could be washed but once a fortnight. I must tell the scullery maid, as she has complained at length about having to complete the chore every few days.

Edward declared the event a success and we resumed our intimacy.

27th August 1884

To Edward’s great relief, I was delivered of a son, Joseph, this morning. A man needs an heir, and with Clara lying next to her brothers in the cemetery, Joseph is our best hope.

We have consulted the books again and are assured that we are raising our children correctly using the most modern methods. Death is rife and although few children reach their second birthdays, we feel we have been most unfortunate.

25th December 1884

Edward and I celebrate Christmas alone.

20th January 1885

William’s birthday. Edward and I visited his little grave this morning. He says that although I am his cherished wife, we should no longer enjoy intimacy. He does not wish for more children as he cannot bear the pain of their loss. I have no doubt that he loves me still, as I love him, but it seems that it is not our destiny to be a family.

9th April 1885

Today I am four and twenty and already an old maid.

Despite his pronouncement, Edward and I are close and yearn to share a bedchamber again. He kissed me most tenderly this morning and presented me with a gift which brought tears to my eyes. By some magic, the photographer has most carefully spliced the images of our children into a new portrait. Edward stands stern behind me; William sits on a velvet stool by his knee. My precious babies, Alfred, Clara and Joseph are arrayed on my lap. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

30th September 1885

Edward burst into my sitting room today, full of agitation. He took a poker and violently stoked the coal fire in the grate until the flames leapt up the chimney.

He told me that he had, that very morning, attended a scientific symposium.

I bade him calm himself, but he snatched my Mrs. Beeton’s Guide and began tearing the pages out and hurling them into the fire. I was astonished. 

I could hardly hear his explanation over the crackle of the burning pages. Esteemed doctors now condemned the baby bottles that we had so diligently used. They harboured pestilence; bottle-fed babies were dying in droves.

How we wept in each other’s arms as the pages curled in the flames.

15th September 1886

Edward and I promenaded around the park with our son this morning. Walter is barely a month old and thriving. I am no longer encumbered by the fashions of my youth and am enjoying motherhood as the housekeeper always reckoned it should be experienced. I rise above her tutting; the woman is a shrew, especially when she has been proven right.

This evening, my son lies asleep in the crib next to my nursing chair. Although I know that many perils lie ahead, I pray that I can keep him healthy. The doctor tells me that if he reaches his second birthday, then he will have the chance to reach manhood and old age. 

Edward and I have resumed our intimacy. The doctor says there is little chance of my quickening while I am breastfeeding, and we may enjoy a decorous interval between pregnancies. I hope that we are blessed with many more children, though we will never forget those that we unwittingly killed with the notorious “murder” bottles. 

About the author

Alex Grehy’s ambition is to write relatable pieces that engage the reader's emotions and helps them to make sense of the world around them. Her work has been published in a range of anthologies and e-zines worldwide, including Gnashing Teeth Publishing and Red Penguin Collections. Her words are also available via a global network of prose & poetry dispensers run by French publisher Short Edition.  Alex's sweet life is filled with narrowboating, rescue greyhounds, singing and chocolate—the foundation of her original view of the world, expressed in vivid prose and thought-provoking poetry. 

About the artist

Sandra Eckert is a doodler, a dabbler, and a messy and restless individual. An avid naturopath and off-the-road walker, she finds inspiration in the unscenic vistas and hidden places. While her interests currently lie in the world of art, she has been known to tend goats, whitewater kayak, fish for piranha, and teach teenaged humans. She is fascinated by the lessons of the natural world, both seen and unseen. Sandra holds a BFA with certification, and has continued her education both formally and informally, though she is too distracted to gather up her credits. She lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania with her husband, Peter, and her dogs, Jack and Tobi.  Additional works are available here.