Mandy Hubbard - Ripple

The shuffling returns. My grandmother’s face is hidden by a big box wrapped in plain brown paper. Her wrinkled, veiny hands grip it tightly.

My mouth goes dry. “I thought we agreed no gifts,” I say. I refuse to take anything but the gas money I so desperately need.

“This isn’t from me,” she says, placing it on the counter.

When I see the handwriting on the top, my mouth goes dry.

“It’s from your mother. She gave it to me before . . .” Her voice trails off, and then she clears her throat. “She wanted me to give it to you.”

I frown. “You’ve kept this for six years?”

“I was afraid it would upset you too much to have her old things. But you’re an adult now. If you want to see them, they’re yours.”

“Oh.” I stare at the package.

She puts a hand on mine. “I’ll finish up this soup. Why don’t you go to your room and open it in private?”

This time I don’t resist. I take the package and retreat to my room, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.

Six years, my grandmother has kept this.

I perch at the edge of my bed, on top of my mom’s old flowery comforter. It seems like a lifetime ago that I lived with her in a rental house on the other side of town.

I stare at the box for several long seconds. I’m afraid to discover what’s inside. What if it’s something stupid, like a jewelry box or stuffed teddy bear?

What I need is answers, something that tells me what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to fix the lives I’ve ruined.

I reach out and tear the paper off. My heart beats louder in my ears. The box is heavy as I rip open the lid and reach in. My fingers find a scrap of paper, and I pull it out, unfolding it as I take in a long breath.

For my daughter, on her sixteenth birthday.

My only regret is not being here for you today when you need me. I hope this will help you understand what is to come.

I don’t realize I’m crying until a dark splotch appears on the paper. It was supposed to be for my sixteenth birthday. The day everything changed. Did my grandmother know that and forget? Or did my mother not make it clear?

I read the note again.

My mom knew. She knew she was going to leave me, and she wrote this note, four years before I was supposed to read it.

Did she write it before or after she killed Greg?

I reach in and touch something hard and leathery, and as I pull it out, I realize it’s a book. A very old book.

My fingers trail over the dry, fading surface as I pull it onto my lap, the dust covering my jeans. It must be ancient. As I lift open the cover, the spine cracks.

The first aged, yellowed page is nearly blank, except for three words written in stark, perfect calligraphy:

For the cursed.

I take in a jagged breath of air, then slide my finger over the page and flip it over.

January 7, 1750

William doesn’t belong with Julia. Their betrothal is a business arrangement, nothing more. Now that he is in love with me, he wants to marry me, and not her. He has promised me he will end their engagement.

I suppose she does not care much what he wants, for it is William’s title she is after, and she will fight for that if he tries to jilt her. I hope he remains strong.

Tonight, when he dared dance with me at the Harksbury ball, I saw it in her eyes. I knew before the song was over that I had committed a sin. Afterward, I stood by, humiliated, as he lied to soothe her. He told her he was only being polite. Told her no one had asked me to dance and so, as a gentleman, he had asked me.

A pity dance.

And yet still she seethed, and I knew something had shifted between us.

She will do anything to have him, anything to become a duchess. That is why we must elope. Will has asked me to wait one month, and then he will be mine, and only mine.

Charlotte

January 18, 1750

I am terrified. Julia knows. She knows everything. She found me packing my bags, and she confronted me. She thinks just because I am her paid companion that she can control everything about me, but she cannot decide who I will love.

She told me I was a fool to believe him. She told me he compromised her and is duty bound to marry her. Her words left a dull ache in my chest. She must be lying. It is I who has been compromised. But I am little more than a servant. He cannot be forced to marry me. For the first time, I am not sure I have done the right thing these last months.

But I must trust in him. He loves me. He will honor all of his whispered promises. There is nothing I can do but believe in it for it is too late to go back and undo the things I have done.

Charlotte

February 7, 1750

Will was supposed to arrive last night to take me away. I sat on an overturned bucket behind the stables for three hours, shivering against the cold, and yet he did not arrive. I had to beg a groom to saddle a horse so that I could go to his estate. And yet it was useless because they said he has gone hunting up north with friends. How could he do such a thing at a time like this?

I was forced to go back home, but Julia soon discovered where I had gone. She came at me in a rage, and if not for her father’s valet, I might very well have been injured. Her father dismissed me not an hour later without references.

This afternoon, I stood on the stoop awaiting the carriage that would take me away from the only home I have known these last two years, when Julia positively flew up the drive on horseback, her hair undone and streaming behind her. I had never seen her so unkempt, and the look in her eyes was enough to put my stomach in knots.

She leapt from her horse and threw something at me. Some shimmery, dusty powder, which sent me into a coughing fit. It still burns in my lungs as I write this, miles away at a shabby inn.

It was a gypsy curse, she claimed. Her eyes were wide and frightening as she told me I would be as lonely and miserable as she was then. That I would pay for trying to steal her betrothed. I tried to tell her it was he who pursued me, but she would have none of it.

I have little to my name, but so long as Will keeps his promises to me, all will be right.

Charlotte

February 15, 1750

I have been unable to find Will. He has been away from his home for more than a week. I have rented a small room over a tavern, as it was all I could afford. I am but a few miles from Will’s home, just down the coast, near the Exmoor Cliffs. I had originally planned to travel inland, but I could not bear to leave the sea behind. Odd, as I had always loathed the smell of the salt in the air.

Charlotte

The lump in my throat grows. This is it. This is how it all started. Two hundred and fifty years ago. My fingers tremble as they slide across the curled yellow paper. I flip the page.

March 21, 1750

I found myself in the sea last night, swimming for no reason at all. I am lucky I did not drown for I have never learned how to swim. I want to go home, but I do not have a home anymore, and I must remember that.

I think I may be with child, and I do not know what to do. I have sent two letters for Will, but he has not answered. I suspect Julia is somehow intercepting my correspondence.

Charlotte

March 30, 1750

I cannot stay here any longer as I am nearly out of funds and I will be thrown out on the street soon. I must travel south to find my cousin and pray that she will take me in.