“Good. Love and miss you!”
“Back at you.”
Hanging up, I drop my phone on the coffee table. It was really good talking to Jenna again. I’ve missed her so much since she moved away. Growing up, if I wasn’t with Lincoln, which was rare, I was with Jenna. Or the three of us were together.
I grab my journal and make my way to the hallway where the attic door is. I pull the short string hanging and it creaks as the stairs lower. Before my head peeks through the opening, I get the same feeling I always get when I go into the attic. It’s not the normal creepy feeling you’d expect. It’s more serene than anything and gives off a familiarity vibe. It’s weird, to say the least.
As with a lot of attics, this one is taller in the middle with the slopes of the roof making the outer portions shorter. Luckily, I’m on the shorter side, so I don’t have to hunch over much as I walk to the boxes stacked in the corner.
Flipping open the top, I smile when I see the painted covers of several journals. Lincoln always paints the covers before giving me a new one, just like he did the first one he gave me.
I set the newly-filled journal down on top of the others and close the box. Just as I turn away, something over in the other corner catches my attention. The lighting in the attic isn’t great, but it’s worse in this part. I move closer and notice several stacks of boxes I’ve never seen before. A distant memory filters through my mind. I have seen these boxes before. The day the realtor showed us the house. I must have forgotten about them.
I grab one of the top ones and turn it around, looking for a label, but find nothing written on the outside. I flip the lid open, and I’m surprised to find it full of books.
I lift the box and put it on the floor before opening the one beneath it. This one is full of books as well. I check the stack next to it and find two more boxes filled with the same. Frowning, I grab one of the books and fan the pages. My eyes widen. These aren’t books. They’re journals. It’s full of feminine writing. Despite the journal appearing old, the pages seem to be well preserved. I open it to the middle and find the date July 28, 1859 written at the top of the page. I read the passage.
William surprised me today with a picnic. Father wouldn’t let me go at first, claiming it was inappropriate for a girl my age to be alone with a boy. But after begging and pleading and agreeing to have Benjamin, one of the house staff members, accompany us, he finally did give in. Fortunately, he didn’t dawdle too close to us. It was utterly magical. We had rolls of sliced ham and chicken, little squares of cheese, and he even brought my favorite fruits: apricot and strawberries. When we first sat down, with our backs facing Benjamin, William discreetly reached over and grabbed my hand. That was the first time he had ever touched me like that. My goodness, I must have had a hundred butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I was so nervous, but it felt right holding his hand. I wonder what it would feel like if he had kissed me.
I smile at the excitement the girl felt. The first touch is always the most anticipated and revered. I remember the first time Lincoln touched me in more than a friendly manner. I thought my knees were going to buckle, and my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest.
I flip to another section. This one is dated February 18, 1861.
I’m getting married. I still can’t believe it. I’ve known for years I loved him, but it’s still hard to believe William feels the same. In two days, I’ll be Mrs. William Young, and I can hardly wait. He already has a home for us. It’s on a farm his grandfather left him when he passed away five years ago. I’ll be an hour away from my parents, which kind of scares me, but I’m excited about starting my life with the man I love. We leave for our new home the day after our wedding. I haven’t seen where we’ll be living yet, but I trust William when he says I’ll love it.
I jump and drop the notebook when a door slams downstairs. I quickly snatch it up from the floor.
“Hey, Mols!” Lincoln calls. “Where ya at, baby?”
“In the attic!” I yell back.
I read a few more lines when Lincoln’s head pops through the hole in the floor.
“Whatcha doing up here?”
I hold up the journal. “Come look at this.”
He finishes climbing the stairs and walks up behind me, setting his hands on my waist and kissing the side of my neck. “What do you have there?”
“I finished a journal, so I came up here to put it in a box when I came across these.” I gesture to the stack of boxes. “Do you remember the boxes that were up here when we viewed the house? The realtor said the old owner claimed they came with the house.”
“Yeah. I guess we forgot they were up here.” He looks over the boxes. “What are they?”
I flip open to one of the pages. “I think they’re someone’s journals.”
He takes the book from me and reads the short entry. Once he’s finished, he closes it, but opens it again to the first page. The name Betsy Miller is scrawled in the middle of the page in calligraphy.
“It’s neat because they’re so old, but I’m not sure if I should read them. I mean, these are obviously private thoughts of this Betsy girl.”
“I honestly don’t think it matters. It’s not like she’s still around to be upset you invaded her privacy.” Lincoln puts the journal back in the box, closes it, and opens another one. “Take a look at this one. It’s not from the same woman.”
“Anna Dumont,” I murmur. The year eighteen-ninety-four is written below her name. I lift my eyes to Lincoln. “How in the world did these end up here?”
“No clue, baby. My only guess is one of their families lived here and they must have left them behind.”
The house is over a century old, so it’s possible. Which begs the question; are these women related?
“Hmm….” I close the lid to the open box. “Would you mind bringing down a few of them for me? Maybe we can find some clues as to who they belonged to and return them to their families. I’m sure they’d love to have them.”
“Yeah. I’ll put them in the family room.”
After we carry four boxes to the opening of the attic, I climb down and grab them as he hands them down to me. I’m both excited and anxious to get started reading them. In a weird way, I feel a kinship with these unknown women, because they’ve done the same thing I’ve been doing for years. Documenting their life. While the purpose of me reading them is to find out who they belong to and give them to their families, I can’t help but be curious what these women’s lives were like. You read history books, old newspaper clippings, and see it in movies, but to read personal thoughts about a person’s life who lived in the nineteenth century is different. It’s almost like seeing it firsthand.
Unfortunately, I won’t be able to start them until tonight. Gray and Gemma are due back from their friends’ houses soon, and I have supper I need to start.
“Thanks, honey.” Once Lincoln has pushed up the attic stairs and faces me, I put a hand on his lower stomach and lean up on my toes for a kiss. His hand slides around my back, and what was supposed to be a simple kiss, turns heated.
“How are you doing?” he asks against my lips.
“I’m better.”