The Secret Journal

Chapter Two

The shadows of night wrapped itself around the city of Boston and the sounds of the evening rippled through the air. Rosemary sat tucked into her favorite chair by the fireplace, her chin rested on her knees as her brown eyes watched the flames lick at the wood. Conflicting emotions were racing through her, anger, fear, guilt and uncertainty to name a few. She could still hear her Father’s voice echoing in her ears, the chill of his threat resting like a rock in her stomach. Rosemary wanted to prove to him that she could make it without his money and support but she knew that without it she wouldn’t make it past the Boston station. 

“Pardon me, Miss. Rosemary?” Molly asked quietly.

“Yes, Molly, what is it?” Rosemary asked. 

“I was wondering if you will be needing anything else this evening” Molly asked.

“No, Molly. Go on to bed, I can dress myself.” Rosemary replied.

“Are you quite certain, Miss?” Molly asked. 

“Am I certain that I can put on my own nightdress? Yes, Molly, I am quite sure I can handle it!” Rosemary snapped. The poor girl looked like she had been struck as she curtsied and left the room. Regret instantly flooded through Rosemary, and she wanted to go after Molly and apologize but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

There was only one place where Rosemary found any solace when she had a big decision to make and that was in the attic. She pulled on a sweater and crept across the hall to the staircase that led to the attic. Rosemary had created her own space up there, she loved being surrounded by things of the past; it felt like she was surrounded by forgotten stories that were waiting to be told.

The wooden steps groaned beneath her weight as she held onto the banister and reached for the old skeleton key to unlock the attic door. The hinges squeaked in protest and the smell of dust and age rushed to meet her as she stepped inside. The chill seeped through the comfort of her sweater but Rosemary barely seemed to notice as she turned on the single light that cast a dim glow over the room filled with cloth covered furniture, piles of boxes and old trunks. 

Rosemary made her way over to the large window where she had made herself a nest of sorts with old blankets, pillows and some of her old dolls and stuffed animals. She sat down and looked out the window, the lamp lighters were all at work brightening the fog laced streets. Most of the home's windows were bright, some dark with slumber. The factory stacks no longer chugging the black smoke into the air as the workers walked wearily home to their families. 

A shadow in the corner caught her attention. It looked like a trunk that had been tucked into a back corner. The dark wood was warped, tarnished from years of neglect and weather damage. The old leather straps had fallen apart long ago.

Rosemary knelt down on the hard wooden floor, ignoring the chill as she opened the creaking lid to peek inside. It was mostly filled with old dresses that mice had chewed away, a silver plated hairbrush with a matching mirror. There didn’t seem to be much of anything inside until her hand bumped against something hard.

Rosemary pulled out an old leather journal with the faded gold letters: M.R, engraved into the front. She could feel the tingle of excitement growing inside her as she opened the aged spine to the first page.

“Micaela Rosemary Robertson, started in May. 12th, 1720.” She read softly.  Something clicked in her memory, her mother’s maiden name had been Robertson but who was this Miceala? A memory came to mind that she had heard her mother whisper to her father years ago after Mother had received an upsetting letter.

“What should we do? No one can ever find out that Micaela is my sister, our name will be ruined if it comes out!” Her mother had burned the letter shortly after, so Rosemary had no clue who had sent it or what it had said.