Maria Ridgefield

Margaret poured over the book in her hand, ignoring the sensation that had settled into her bones the moment she picked up the journal and sat upon her husband’s chair. The pages were thick, hand cut and bound with some of the finest thread she had ever laid her dark eyes upon. As a seamstress and highly regarded woman in town, she knew her thread and cloth.

To the dismay of her husband, she also knew her books.

She had already made her way through most of his library, but this particular book had never caught her eye before. Out of curiosity she had reached for it, simply to know the title. When there was no title to be found, she instead found herself immersed in the words that she was now trying to decipher. She sank deeper into her husband’s chair, her back to the window. The storm refused to allow any light to pass and she wondered if it would keep her husband out late. She hoped so. She hoped that perhaps he wouldn’t be able to pass the road until the next day with his wagon. Perhaps she hoped for his absence to become permanent.

With that comforting thought in mind, she smiled and squinted at the pages.

The writing was so frail, so thin and ill done, that Margaret wondered if it had belonged to a child that was just beginning to learn to write. As she turned the pages, she found the writing became darker, cleaner, crisper. And more urgent. Instead of paragraphs of flowing script, she found brief sentences, a word written in the middle of a page with no explanation. And then…

I fear the end is coming. He knows. He knows!

Margaret turned a few more pages, finding that the words ended in the middle of the book. There were still pages to go, spots to fill. Whoever had wielded the pen had stopped after their exclamation.

Margaret paused, her hand sitting in between the pages to keep her spot as she gazed blankly at her husband’s desk. His work was scattered, his ink left open and dry. He had been in a rush when he left but now she couldn’t remember why. Nor did she really care.

“He knows. He knows what? Who is he?”

A shiver ran down her spine, a cold sensation that she felt from her head to her toes. With a huff, she removed her hand from the pages and dropped it on the desk.

“Foolish man, leaving the blasted curtains open.” Annoyed, she yanked the heavy curtains closed feeling…feeling what exactly…as though something had passed through her…had she walked into a spiderweb? But webs were never that cold…nor were they in midair as this was. “Foolish woman.”

With the curtain closed, she convinced herself that the chill was gone. But still there was something lingering. Margaret cast her eyes again to the journal and began reading from the beginning.

I am so in love, I can’t stand it. It is foolish to feel so, but I have to admit it to someone, somewhere. So here are the words, clear and true. I am in love with this man who has gifted me this journal. A charismatic man who has returned from a sea voyage. He grew ill and decided land is the place for him. Everything happens for a reason, just as father says. Father has encouraged him. We are a smart match, I am certain. I shall want nothing more as long as I have him.

Margaret stared thoughtfully across the room. It couldn’t be…he would have told her…”Surely not.”

As she turned her attention back to the book there was a terrible sound behind her. An animalistic growl followed by a gust of wind, flipping pages in the journal that she had dropped in her surprise.

Margaret spun around, expecting to find a beast, a monster making its way through the window. Her scream caught in her throat as she gazed upon the floating face. For that’s what it was, a floating face coming from the curtains she had just closed. The face of a hag wrinkled and warry.

“Read!”

Margaret shook her head, feeling suddenly unwell. She placed a hand over her heart, feeling it hammering in her chest. Yes, it was still where it belonged.

“I-no-you.” Her thoughts spun as she tried to collect herself.

“He’s coming!” The voice a shrill shriek, making Margaret wince and fall to the ground with her hands over her ears and her white dress splayed out around her. She jammed her eyes shut. This was not happening. This was a dream. This is what happened when she read, this was why her husband frowned upon it. Women and their thoughts. They became too much. Their imagination grew wild.

The desk began to rattle, vibrating upon the floor. Dust rose in the air and the phantom stepped away from the curtain. Margaret refused to look, but she could sense the closeness. Could feel it in her blood, the way she was sweating, but freezing all at the same time. She would become ill from this. This would do her in, she just knew it.

Suddenly, her hands were yanked from her ears. Her eyes opened.

“What on earth are you doing in here?” Her husband glared down at her, his gray hair wild from the storm outside. He was older than her by twenty years, before she had even been born, he had lived a life she would never know about. He had been a newsboy, a fisherman for a short time. Margaret stared into his eyes, trying to remember the stories, the ones he had told and the ones she had heard in town.

Everyone had been surprised when he returned with a wife…

Another one? They had asked.

They had looked at her with something close to pity, but she had never been able to figure out why...

Nor had she cared until now. Her father had promised her the marriage wouldn’t last long. He would die…he was supposed to die.

Her eyes flicked to the journal that sat open on the desk, the pages flipping. Nothing else on the table moved. Her husband followed her eyes and saw to his horror the journal sitting there, the pages moving wildly. He considered reaching for it, he almost did. And then he froze. She watched the fear unfold on his face. His eyes wide, his mouth slack.

“Where did you find that? How dare you?”

For a moment, she thought he may strike her. Although he lacked many things, self-control was not one of them.

“It was here, on your shelf.”

“No, it wasn’t. I would never have this abomination here.”

Margaret nodded. “Sir, it was. It was on the shelf.”

“Only because you put it there. No one else would have. Is this a joke to you?”

“I don’t very well know what you’re talking about Jeffery.”

The pages stopped turning. All became very still. Jeffery finally looked away from her, turning instead to the journal on his desk. He took a cautious step forward. Margaret felt hands upon her waist, lifting her off the ground until she was once more standing. She was too terrified to scream.

She allowed her eyes to look at the page where the flipping had stopped. Jeffery had gone ghastly white, his hand over his heart as he staggered away from the desk. Curious, she read the words that had caused him such distress.

I am in the cellar. He did it. He did this.

Margaret glanced towards Jeffery who was now against the wall. He was staring towards her, but not seeing her. He was seeing what she could feel standing behind her. Perhaps, who she could feel standing behind her. There was an urgency in the words that had appeared on the page; the same urgency she had read earlier.

I fear the end is coming. He knows. He knows!

The end.

Margaret gripped her skirt in her hands and ran from the room without a word. She could feel the cold lifting, the sense of dread rising from her heart momentarily. Jeffery had not yet given chase, but she knew he would when he had his wits about him once more.

He was in shock. She relished the thought, mentally noting his brief moment of what he would call femininity, a characteristic of what he called the weaker sex.

As she drew closer to the door that would lead to the cellar her excitement was wearing off. What would she find down there? If anything? She had always been told not to enter the cellar. It was a rule spoken allowed that she didn’t question. She believed it was for her safety and she had already taken liberties by reading the books in his library. She had promised herself and her father that she wouldn’t overstep any further. She would be a disgraced woman if he tossed her out.

But now here she was, standing before the large wooden door with the thick black metal bar that held it close. She glanced over her shoulder, releasing her skirts. With all her strength, she lifted the bar. It screeched across the wood but lifted much easier than she expected.

She knew the sound would draw Jeffery to her, but surely he already knew where she had gone. The journal would give him direction, just as it had for her.

It was now or never. She couldn’t turn down a mystery. She ran down the stone stairs, careful not to fall. They would not be forgiving.

At the bottom of the stairs was a round room. The walls were formed by layered stones, just like the cellar in her father’s home. Before her eyes adjusted, she assumed the room was empty. Nothing seemed quite out of the ordinary.

As her eyes adjusted though…something came into view…

In the center of the floor there were stones laid out. The area of the dirt floor that was stoned over was in an odd shape and it wasn’t flat. The rocks were various sizes, some piled on top of one another. Dried flower bits were strewn across them, and a new rose was laid in the very center. At the very end of the pile, a few feet from the wall, Margaret could see a standing slab of marble. She stepped away from the stairs, her curiosity increasing as she drew closer to the mysterious shape. She was careful not to step upon the stone pile itself. Something told her it was important.

When she reached the slab, she extended her hands. It was too dark to see in the basement, but if she was right about her suspicion, there would be an engraving upon the stone. Carefully, she dragged her fingers down the front of the slab. At first, it was only smooth and cool to her touch. Slowly, she moved, all the while listening to the sounds upstairs. Jeffery was pacing while she unraveled the mystery of the basement, the mystery of the journal.

Finally! Her fingers found their first shape. She gingerly traced it, her eyes closed so she could focus simply upon touch. The first letter she had stumbled upon was in fact an R. Slowly, she drew her finger to the beginning of the line, tracing out the letters as the pacing continued.

M…A…R…I…A

Maria.

Margaret opened her eyes, her palm now resting against the stone. Maria. Jeffery had never mentioned Maria, he had never mentioned anyone but his parents and three brothers.

Maria.

The first wife?

She heard the sound of the basement door opening again.

She didn’t care. She needed to know. Quickly, she moved her finger across the rest of the line. She knew what she would find. R…I…D…G…E…F…I…E…L…D.

Ridgefield.

Maria Ridgefield.

Jefferey Ridgefield.

Margaret Ridgefield.

She stood up, turning to face the stairs. He was coming. The sound of his boots upon the stone steps was faint and slow, but it was there. No one else was in the house. He had fired the maid, the cook, and the gardener before Margaret moved in. He had explained to her that he didn’t want to pay someone to do tasks he could do himself. She had understood at the time, but now she questioned the real motive. Did they know what had happened to Maria? And why was she buried in his basement and not in the churchyard?

Margaret flexed her fingers, feeling vulnerable. There was only one exit and Jeffery was blocking it. He knew the basement, she did not. He knew where the hiding places were if there were any. He knew where to find objects down here if they existed.

She waited, wiping her sweating hands upon her gown that had collected dirt and dust since she descended the stairs.

“She wasn’t well.”

Jeffery had stopped on the final step. He was afraid to go near her, afraid of what she must be thinking. Surely, she was thinking the truth and that was worse than the lie. He wouldn’t tell her what had happened. He would tell her the same fabricated tale he had given to the townspeople when they began asking for their dear Maria.

“Why is she down here?”

It was not the first question he was expecting her to ask.

“She had no family and the townspeople would not have appreciated her body poisoning the spirits of the churchyard.”

“Poisoning?”

“As I said, she wasn’t well.”

Margaret thought back to the journal that she had been reading earlier in the day. The woman had seemed…well her early entries were rather boring. Margaret wasn’t too keen to read about love and the woman’s obsession with the man standing before her. Somewhere in those pages, the obsession must have changed. The final lines did not seem like they belonged to someone stable, nor like they belonged to the same person…

Something had happened. That much was clear.

“What happened to her?”

Jeffery stepped down onto the dirt floor and stared at the stone slab Margaret now stood beside. “She threw herself down the stairs during one of her fits. It broke her neck.”

“Her fits?”

“Yes. Her emotions often ran high. She would try to harm me or herself quite often. It wasn’t always like that. When we first met, she was marvelous. Charming, so intelligent. She came from a nice family. They all died while I was away. I came home and well…”

Jeffery trailed off and Margaret assumed he was thinking about the changes he had noticed in his wife upon his return. Perhaps he was thinking about how upset she had been, how alone.

But no. That was not at all what Jeffery was thinking about.

Maria had not thrown herself down the stairs. She had been pushed by her husband. And when he was sure she was dead he went to the stable where the gardener was putting his tools away from the day. And there he killed his wife’s lover. Both were buried beneath the stones in the basement, but only one was worth remembering and often he didn’t want to.

She was a reminder not to become too soft, too trusting.

Jeffery turned to face Margaret now, the young wife he had welcomed into his home in the hopes she would fill it with a liveliness that had been missing since Maria died. They had the same bright eyes and the same sweet smile, but Margaret was no Maria. He realized he would do anything to have the two switch places.

But such a thing couldn’t happen. He would have to settle for her.

“What did you find out?”

Jefferey wasn’t sure if he had heard her; she had spoken so softly. “What was that?”

“The journal. What did you find out?” Margaret thought of the words that had appeared before she raced out of the library. He did it. And suddenly, Margaret knew Maria had not thrown herself down the stairs.

A sudden cold filled the room, starting at her feet and rising to her chest.

“That’s nothing. As I said, she wasn’t well.”

A voice whispered in her ear, “Be careful.”

It wasn’t a voice she recognized, but it wasn’t one she feared. The only one she feared now was the man standing before her.

“Okay.”

“Shall we return upstairs? It’s rather cold down here now.”

He wanted her away from his secrets, he wanted her to forget about it entirely. Just as he had been trying to do since Maria had died, since he had discovered her deceit.

“Of course. After you.” She would not turn her back on him.

She followed him up the stone stairs, her muscles tense as she felt herself prepare for an attack that never came. Still, she wouldn’t let her guard down. When she was through the door, he shut it quickly, hoping to trap whatever spirit had been down there. He was sure his deceased wife still prowled the home. She hadn’t been at peace. He wondered if she ever had been. Perhaps when they first wed…

Margaret held tight to her skirts, waiting.

“Are you ready to retire?”

Margaret was far from ready for rest. Her heart thumped in her chest, and she was certain he could hear it. “Shortly. Head to bed, I will be there soon.”

Jeffery took a deep breath, trying to hide his annoyance from his young bride. He couldn’t scare her away and he was certain she was close to running. But she wouldn’t leave him. After all, she loved him. He was certain of that. There was a clear difference between her and Maria. “What will you be doing?”

“I’m going to have some tea, clear my mind. And then I will be up to join you.”

Jeffery forced a smile. “Okay. You won’t be long?”

“Not long,” Margaret turned and walked towards the kitchen. He watched her go for a moment; she held her breath listening intently for his retreating steps. When she heard them, she paused and waited. The bedroom door closed. She waited a moment longer and then tip-toed to the library once more.

The room was in disarray. Papers had been tossed from the desk and books littered the floor. Trinkets had been knocked from shelves and a painting lay half in the fireplace, its golden frame scraped. Her eyes roved over the room before landing on the diary. She picked up the leather-bound book and then quietly began opening the drawers on the desk. In the bottom drawer she found what she was looking for, a change purse full of coins from one of Jeffery’s expeditions.

It would get her somewhere.

From the closet she pulled down her cloak and wrapped it tightly about herself. It was so late now some would consider it far too early for anyone to be out of their homes. Most people had already retired for the day and others would soon be rising. Margaret knew she would be alone for the better portion of this journey, and she believed that was what she needed.

In silence, she left the house and all of its ghosts behind, intent on finding the life she had always dreamed of. Adventure lay in the fields beyond, in the forests outside of the home. She would find them.