The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  “Really? I told Mother to inform you.” Edward placed his hands behind his back as he walked. His top hat sat slightly askew on his head, and I had the urge to tip it off entirely. It was strange to see him dressed so formally when not so very long ago we scampered about in play clothes together, seeking adventure around every bend. “In any event, my business concluded sooner than I thought, so I was able to return a week earlier than intended.”

  “Perfect.” We continued to follow the walkway, where orange exotic plants such as Kniphofia and Strelitzia reginae came into view, along with the blooms of Erythrina and Echium and the green pods of the okirah bush. Their brilliant colors drew my eye, and I stopped to gaze upon them. It had been too long since I had enjoyed a walk here. The outdoors used to invigorate me, provide my only solace, but I had allowed my circumstances to tame me. I did not much care for the weak and weepy woman those circumstances had left in their wake.

  “You are very quiet. Again I must ask you . . . How are you faring?” Edward’s question seemed to erupt in the silence.

  I peeked at him. “I truly am well.” His raised eyebrow gave me pause. “Most of the time.”

  “And the other times?”

  “I have forgiven Father as best I am able.” I began following the curve of the path once more. “As for being a governess, it is a lonely sort of life. The other servants do not interact with me, yet I am not on equal standing as your family. When I am not teaching the children, I take most meals in my room and spend the other hours either reading or . . .”

  I clamped my lips shut. I had almost revealed my secret. Though Edward and I had always been forthright about everything, for some reason I held this particular secret back from him. He would not understand the desire to do something one was not “supposed” to do. His future had always been clear—heir to his family’s business and estate, the only son upon whom the responsibility of caring for several sisters would fall. He would marry a wealthy woman of gentility who could increase his standing in society, father several sons, and be the sort of man everyone in the county respected.

  I could not bear the thought that he would disapprove of the dreams of a poor woman who wanted to write and be published—something only a man generally succeeded at, at least in name—or worse, that he would not believe I could achieve it.

  “Or . . .?”

  Quickening my steps, I pulled away from his gaze and rounded yet another bend in the garden, which opened up into a view of the tree where I’d first met Edward so many years ago. It sat rooted on the edge of the bluffs, the ocean crashing far below. No other trees, nor any plants, grew in the immediate vicinity, which only made its unfurling branches even grander. Despite its obvious age, the gnarled branches still sprouted new life, gorgeous greenery against a darkening sky peppered with clouds. In the distance, a new lighthouse watched over the bluffs below.

  My breath left me. I had forgotten about this view—how, I do not know. For how could one forget something so reminiscent of heaven?

  I walked toward the edge, where our tree was anchored, the place of a thousand memories between us. We would climb into its branches and sit for hours eating plums, watching the water swirl far below. Being in those branches had felt unsafe and like a cocoon all at once.

  Now, the sea-sprayed wind hit my cheeks, and I determined to come back here with a journal to record the sights and sounds before me. Without translating my words from my heart to the page, I felt incapable of truly making sense of the heady feeling buzzing inside.

  “Is my family treating you well?”

  I spun at the sound of Edward’s voice, took in the clean lines of his jaw, the way his brow crinkled in his worry. “Yes, of course. Your mother has been nothing but kind to me.” Ever since my midwife mother had saved her life when Louisa was coming into the world, the two women had become friends. Before my mother passed, Edward’s had promised to look after me. Hiring me as governess, I assumed, was her way of doing so.

  “Good.” Edward nudged me with his elbow. “Earlier I said I’d just arrived, but I did manage to make a quick stop before coming inside the house.”

  My eyes widened and I flew to the hollow of the tree, reaching inside in one fluid motion. I pulled from the depths a new edition of Pride and Prejudice. “Oh, Edward.” It was a favorite of mine, and his family’s copy had been lost for some time. I stroked the cover and imagined reuniting with Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy once more.

  “It’s yours to keep.”

  “Truly?”

  He laughed. “Of course. My mother and sisters do not read much, and Austen is not quite in line with Father’s tastes.”

  “It’s perfect. Thank you.” I plopped myself down in the tall grass not far from the tree. “Come. Tell me everything about how life has been these eight months.”

  Laugh lines formed around Edward’s lips as he watched me. “Don’t you think we should return to the house?”

  I eyed the sun—it was growing late. But perhaps for a few minutes, I could pretend that life might bring me more than my destined loneliness. For I knew that my time with Edward, like this, just the two of us in the lingering sunlight, was limited. Once he grew old enough, his parents would ask him to seek a bride.

  And though I loved him more than anyone else ever could, that bride would most certainly not be me.

  13

  SOPHIA

  It had been a week since the discovery, and she couldn’t get the notebook and its contents off her mind.

  Sophia walked up the winding path that led into the hills surrounding Port Willis. The tall grass bowed to her as she passed, dancing a ballet so sweet and subtle she wished she could linger just to watch. But she also wanted to check out the old lighthouse up this way, because there was a mention of one toward the middle of Emily’s mysterious story—whoever Emily was. Something within urged Sophia to see if she could discover more about her.

  It was foolish, really. She didn’t even know if Emily was a real person or a character dreamed up by some random author.

  “Why does this matter so much?”

  No one was around to hear the words she’d spoken, and yet she seemed to feel a deep stirring, almost like the muffled whisper of a voice trying to get out.

  She polished off the last bite of a muffin she’d purchased at Trengrouse Bakery this morning. The wrapper crinkled as she shoved it in her pocket. Sweetness lingered on her tongue as she looked out over the bluffs. To her right and down a ways, the ocean spilled onto a rocky beach, soaking between the stones and retreating.

  Sophia’s short hair fluttered in the wind, her bangs flicking across her eyes. She pushed them away with one hand.

  The lighthouse finally came into view. Ginny had said it was no longer in service but was open for exploration by the public. The lighthouse stood a few stories high, its outer walls whitewashed and wind battered. Craggy rocks surrounded the bluff on which the lighthouse perched. As Sophia approached, it seemed the smell of the sea was stronger here.

  She looked both ways down the shoreline, but didn’t see any tree that could have been the one Emily wrote about.

  Sophia headed toward the door of the lighthouse, which was painted a bright red and propped open. She paused, listening, hearing nothing.

  She was alone.

  Taking another look at the ocean, she closed her eyes and let the breeze whisper across her cheeks. Then she ducked inside and began climbing the stone steps. Worn with age and use, they twisted upward in a spiral shape and ended in a room where the light operator must have worked. There was a large window that displayed a magnificent view of the Port Willis harbor and coastline.

  It was impossible to tell if this was the same lighthouse as in Emily’s story. What had she expected? Some sort of cosmic sign? Of course, there were something like eight to eleven lighthouses around Cornwall—depending on which website could be trusted—and that was assuming Emily’s story even took place here.

  Keen disappointment flooded her heart. Bu
t why? It wasn’t like unlocking the mystery of the story would help to unlock her own in any way. Not when she thought about it logically.

  Yet her heart rebelled at that idea.

  Footsteps sounded on the steps below. Sophia turned to find Ginny emerging at the top. “Hi.” She checked her watch. “I’m not supposed to be on shift yet, am I?”

  Ginny shoved her hands into the pockets of her zipped-up Harvard hoodie. “No, not at all. William stopped in and said he’d cover for me for a few minutes so I could get away. I think he was hoping you’d be there, though.” She winked.

  “Oh.” Sophia looked at the ground, a blush attacking her cheeks. She’d seen him a handful of times since the day at the beach last weekend. And every time, he captured her attention in a way that reminded her all too much of her attraction to David.

  That had been a fast and furious fall, and she was not anxious to repeat it.

  Besides, could she really trust her own taste in men? The only one she’d ever seriously dated had ended up being emotionally abusive, jealous, and controlling.

  “I hope I’m not intruding on your solitude. It’s been forever since I’ve been up here.” Ginny reached for the window, tracing a G in the condensation left over from the morning dew. “It’s where Garrett proposed, you know.”

  “Oh, wow.” Was Ginny finally ready to tell her what was going on with her husband? Sophia leaned against the lighthouse wall. “I’m sure it brings back a lot of memories.”

  Ginny’s finger stilled. She stuffed her hand once again into her pocket. “Yes.” Silence hung between them for a few minutes. “You’re probably wondering about him.”

  Sophia smiled softly. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

  Ginny blew out a breath, hard. “Let’s just say he’s been gone for six months.” Then she detailed the rest of the story for Sophia.

  There were so many things Sophia could say. So many strategies she’d learned for helping people through trials like this one. As a therapist, she knew how to help Ginny process the emotions she was feeling.

  Sophia opened her mouth to employ one such strategy—but something entirely different came out. “I told you my fiancé died.” What was she doing? One thing she never did as a therapist was share her own story. This was Ginny’s time. It was about her, not Sophia.

  Yet that same muffled voice inside of her seemed to be nudging her toward sharing. Because after all, today she was not a therapist, just a fellow sojourner on the path from pain.

  “What I didn’t tell you is that I waver between being sad about it . . . and glad for it.”

  As her own story came spilling out, Ginny moved closer, grabbing her hand and clutching it, not taking her eyes from Sophia’s. “Oh, Sophia.” Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked and they spilled onto her cheeks. “I’ve only known you a little while, but I already can tell you’re an amazing person. You deserve nothing but happiness.”

  “A lot of people deserve happiness and don’t get it.”

  “But a lot do. Maybe we just need to keep walking, even when it takes us somewhere we don’t want to go. Maybe on the other side, that’s where the happiness is found. But if we give up when we’re wading through the muck and mire, we’ll never discover . . .” Ginny paused. “Come on.”

  Then she tugged Sophia gently back down the stairs and out of the lighthouse. They walked a short path to the railing where the coast dropped off into rocks below.

  “The ocean here is gorgeous, isn’t it? So different from the view from my home on Nantucket, which is also beautiful. But it always signified imprisonment. A taunting of what could be but never was, not until I had the nerve to cross it and look for a different view. So, in a lot of ways, the ocean is a symbol to me, the thing that separates me from my old life. It’s given me a new future.” Her friend turned to Sophia. “If we give up hope, we’ll never discover the ocean of possibility spread before us, or what it could hold.”

  Sophia squeezed Ginny’s hand. “I don’t know how you’re able to be so optimistic with everything you’re going through.”

  “My only other choice is to give up completely and admit defeat. And I can’t, not when the stakes are so high.”

  They both fell into quiet reverie. The ocean rose and fell in the distance. Even though it smacked against the rocks every time it came ashore, it managed to get up the courage to come back. To give and take another thrashing. And it occurred to Sophia suddenly—over time, the rocks had been changed by the waves. Worn down.

  Change was inevitable. But like Ginny, Sophia had a choice. How was she going to respond?

  Emily’s story.

  There was that voice . . . again. It grew less muffled with every word it spoke. Would Ginny think she was crazy if she brought it up? She leaned on the wooden railing. “You know how I said I was here to write my own story?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know this is nuts, but I feel like this journey is somehow linked to that notebook I found last week in your storeroom.”

  Ginny’s eyebrow lifted. “What about it?”

  With an inhale of fresh air, Sophia launched into an explanation. “It’s filled cover to cover with elegant prose. I devoured it all in a few sittings. It’s either about or written by a young woman who wants to be a writer. And the story she has to tell—it’s one of love and loss and heartache and bravery and all kinds of things that hit me right here.” She thumped her heart.

  Ginny chewed her lip. “I wonder . . . I mean, William is a lit professor. Maybe he could help you find out more about it.”

  She allowed the idea to simmer, then brought it to a full boil in her mind. “What if it’s just a novel?”

  “It might be. Or it could be someone’s true-life account. Wouldn’t it be fun to find out?”

  “It could be a wild-goose chase.”

  “Or it could be the adventure of a lifetime.” Ginny pointed once more to the view in front of them. “It could be your ocean.”

  Ginny’s words reverberated in Sophia’s mind all day through a Skype session with her mom, a shift at the bookstore, and dinner out with Ginny at the Cornish pasty place she’d seen her first day in Port Willis.

  That night, she read Emily’s story from cover to cover once more. Then she leaned back against her bed’s headboard, sighed, and looked at the clock on her bedside table—an antique oak piece with intricate carving that matched the designs on the bedposts and the dresser. It was late, and she should just go to sleep. With a tug on the lamp cord, she snuggled down under the covers. But sleep wouldn’t come, her mind swirling instead of shutting down.

  “Or it could be the adventure of a lifetime. It could be your ocean.”

  Was it the most ridiculous notion in the world, trying to find the author of this story? Wouldn’t it be just another distraction on her journey to write her own story and find healing?

  Sophia turned the lamp back on and grabbed her phone, hitting the second number on speed dial and waiting with the device pressed against her ear until she heard Joy’s voice.

  “Hey, Soph. How are you? It’s been too long.”

  “It really has.” Try five or six days—they’d never gone that long without talking. “What have you been up to?”

  “It’s too hot to do much of anything. I’m on lunch break right now, but after work I fully intend to laze around with my dogs and marathon watch Dr. Who.”

  “And you say I have a boring life.” Sophia snatched a nail file off the side table. “Why not go out, meet some handsome doctor?”

  “I like my dogs better than any of the men I’ve met lately.”

  “I hear you.” Except, that wasn’t entirely true. Because now there was William.

  The file whizzed over the edges of her nails.

  “What aren’t you saying?” Joy’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Nothing.”

  “Spill it, girlfriend. You’ve got something juicy to tell me, am I right?”

  Sophia laughed, though i
t felt forced. “You’re crazy.”

  “Wait. Have you met someone?”

  “What? No.” She cringed as the file slipped slightly and attacked her cuticle. “Well, kind of. But no.” She filled her friend in on William and their brief interaction at the beach. “He showed up at the beach where I was attempting to journal. We talked for . . . a while.” It had been amazing. And terrifying.

  “As in . . .”

  “All day.” She still couldn’t believe how easy it’d been to chat with him. Of course, it was easy to talk literature with anyone. But then they’d gone deeper, talking about their travels and chosen professions. They’d briefly hit on the topic of their families, but William hadn’t mentioned his brother at all.

  And Sophia hadn’t mentioned David.

  “And have you seen him since?”

  “He’s been by a few times.” Sophia couldn’t help the way her heart skipped at the memory of his visits. “He’s only teaching a few summer classes, so his schedule allows him to pop in and help Ginny with the bookstore when she’ll let him.”

  “Girl, I’m—”

  “I know, I know, it’s too soon.” At least, that’s what Mom had implied when Sophia had slipped up and mentioned William during their talk this afternoon. Her mother wouldn’t rest until she heard every last detail, then reminded Sophia that she should remain cautious given her proclivity for making bad choices.

  Well, she hadn’t said that last part. Instead, she’d asked if Sophia would like her to come out to Cornwall at some point during her stay, which probably meant she didn’t think Sophia could handle herself. And who could blame her? Of course, Sophia had refused and Mom had seemed to accept that. But still.

  “That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say I’m happy for you.”

  “Oh. Well. It’s nothing . . . really.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay, so switching subjects then. How has the writing gone?”