Questions for Harriet: 🌿 Harriet Allery (1819–1888) — Totnes, Devon!
My imagined visit to her in a modest cottage in the 1870s, a widow reflecting on a life of rural devotion, continues.
What was it like to marry at fifteen—were you frightened, excited, or both? How did you manage a household with so little and still raise three children? When you go to the Totnes market, what do you look forward to most? Do you remember a moment in your life as an Innkeeper's wife when you felt truly proud? What remedies or cures did your mother teach you that still serve your family?How did you feel when the railway came through—hopeful, or wary of change?If you could choose one hymn to be sung at your funeral, which would it be? What do you miss most about the way things were when your husband was still there? What were your favourite pastimes, especially in the evenings? What do you hope your grandchildren remember most about you?
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Chapter 10: The Final Letter “If I could speak to my great-granddaughter, I’d say: love gently, and plant lilacs by the door.”
I never put pen to paper, not truly—not for this. But the letter lived in my thoughts during those still hours, when the house was quiet and the kettle simmered low. I imagined it drifting down through the years, through daughters and daughters’ daughters, until it found her—my great-grandchild. A girl with my cheekbones, perhaps, or my laugh. Living in a world I could never picture.
I’d begin simply. My dear girl, I hope your hands are warm and your heart is sure.
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Then I’d tell her what no one told me when I was seventeen and trembling at the altar—that courage doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it’s no more than rising with the sun to do the same small things again. That love isn’t only found in grand gestures. More often, it’s a quiet tending—a cup of tea poured just right, a coat mended before it’s asked for.
I’d tell her about bread—that the crust should sing when you tap it, and that a good loaf starts long before the flour touches the bowl. I’d speak of mending—that there’s beauty in what’s worn and patched, that something repaired carries more meaning than something untouched. And I’d speak of loss—how it comes like the tide and how healing isn’t quick or tidy but made from tea, time, and tenderness.
I’d tuck in the things I’d learned without books: Plant herbs near your doorway. Listen to women older than you—they hold the map. Keep a clean apron by the fire. Sing while you stir the pot. Let babies sleep on your chest if they need to.
And I would end with this: You are made from strong cloth. From hands that have kneaded, healed, stitched, and held. You are not alone. You carry us all inside you. And that, my love, is a mighty inheritance.
Ms Perplexity Assists.
I was curious about other personal histories from 19th century women, and in particular wanted to read examples of diaries written in that era. Perplexity came through again:
The most comprehensive example from this list is this one:
During my research into my grandmother Mary Jane (Robinson) Cutting and my great aunt Edity Mary (Robinson) Howells, I discovered sad and compelling tales of difficulties in childbearing and loss. I tried to imagine what that was like for these two sisters as they shared their lives with each other. You will find The Mary Letters intriguing.
Reflection Prompt: If one of your ancestors could write you a letter, what would you want it to say? What words of wisdom or comfort might echo through the generations to reach you?
