What nine-year-old wouldn’t curse her brother who scared her with a fake spider? The curse had been in a book she’d just read and she still remembered the words.May your actions rebound on you triple-fold and may you rue the day you crossed me.
The fake spider had scared her half to death. And Charlie had died only days after she’d cursed him. She swallowed hard and wiped the tears from her eyes. She didn’t believe in curses, not really, but at times like this, it was hard not to let the guilt overwhelm her.
Charlie would have loved the idea of a cellar hidden away for decades. Ever the prankster, he would have lured his siblings in here, then locked them in and turned off the light. Georgie smiled. The dark didn’t scare her, and she’d already checked for spiders lurking in the corners.
They’d found Great Grandma Charlotte’s journals, full of her discontent and unhappiness, which referenced locking her own children in the cellar for misbehaving. But the cellar pre-dated her. Brandon thought it might be part of the original house, built in the 1870s by their ancestors who had settled this land.
Georgie stood and moved over to the shelves again. She and Tess had taken every single bottle from the shelf to check for hidden boxes, or more journals, and had found nothing. Each stone in the wall had been carefully laid, each one finding the perfect place next to the others.
They would have carted the stone from the nearby ridge, or the dry riverbed, working in the searing sun. Her fingers brushed the stones, the cool hard surface centring her.
A stone under her fingers wobbled.
She frowned and examined it closer. It was a larger stone, long and thin. She traced around it with her fingers and it wobbled more. Curiosity mixed with excitement as she pried her fingers behind it. Not very thick. It couldn’t be part of the actual wall holding it up. She lifted the rock away and gasped.
Hidden behind it was a small metal box, less than a ruler’s length long.
Georgie glanced at the ceiling. No point waiting for the others to get home. They could be ages. Besides, like the chest they’d found down here, it might contain nothing of value and she didn’t want to get their hopes up.
The guilt prickled her skin as she tugged on the metal box. No, her family hadn’t waited for her to explore the cellar, so she didn’t have to wait for them now.
She scraped at the dirt surrounding it, wincing as it stuck under her fingernails. Looking around, she found an old screwdriver and stabbed at the sand, loosening it enough so she could drag the box out. It was an old biscuit tin, a little bigger than an A5 ream of paper.
Georgie carried it to the table and used the screwdriver to lever the lid open. She paused before opening it. Something closed this tightly wouldn’t have spiders inside. Still, she stood to the side, reaching over to flick the lid away. Inside was something wrapped in oiled cloth.
Heart pounding, she wiped her hands on her pants, lifted out the parcel and slowly unwrapped it.
Two books—one was brown leather-bound and the other a red hardback. Both had yellowed pages, and the red book had signs of water damage. Its cover creaked in protest as it revealed the first page.
This journal belongs to Lilian Stokes.
Georgie’s mouth dropped open as she wiped the dirt from her fingers onto her shorts and then brushed the small, neat handwriting. Her ancestor, the one who had settled the land with her husband, Reginald back in the 1870s. Georgie had always fantasised about what her great-great-great-grandmother’s life had been like and now she’d find out. But why had it been hidden away?
She opened the first warped, brittle page to discover neat and flowing handwriting.
26 September 1870
It is done. One short ceremony at the registration office and my identity has been erased. I am now Mrs Reginald William Stokes. Mother is of course thrilled I am no longer a spinster, and Father is pleased I am no longer a financial burden.
Perhaps I should not be so dour. Reginald may become the great love of my life like I read about in novels.
I should not blame him for his lack of interest in me during the lead up to the ceremony. I imagine a lot of planning is required when moving across the other side of the world. We will have plenty of time to get to know one another during the three-month voyage to Western Australia. For yes, that is my destination. Not only did I have no say in who I was to marry, but I am also to be sent to the new colony in the antipodes. My heart is torn. The thought of leaving everyone and everything I know behind grieves me, but I will not deny the glimmer of excitement at the adventure my husband and I are about to undertake.
Upstairs, the floorboards creaked. Someone was in the kitchen. Georgie tensed, glancing up. Perhaps she should have locked the kitchen door behind her.
“Georgie! You here?”
Ed. She breathed a sigh of relief. “Down here,” she yelled. She opened the other book, another journal, but this one dated a hundred years earlier than Lilian’s journal. She didn’t recognise the Dutch name on the title page.
Ed trotted down the steps, wearing hiking boots with shorts and an astronomy T-shirt, his light brown hair mussed like he’d been swimming. “What have you got there?”
“Lilian’s journal.”
Ed did a double-take. “What?”
She grinned. “Found it in the wall.” Georgie pointed at the hole she’d left behind.
“Let me see.” Reverently, he took the journal from her and read. “This is amazing. Tess will flip.” Without another word, he ran up the steps with the journal in his hand.
