“I’m happy to help too if you do any research at night or on a day when I can close up shop early.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on that. I’d definitely feel more comfortable with you there.” Sophia gobbled up the rest of the muffin. “That was delicious.”
Guess they were both good at changing the subject. “Eh, it’s nothing special. Mr. Trengrouse—have you met him yet?—makes one with frosting that is to die for.”
“Yes, he keeps trying to ply me with pastries. Says he wants to fatten up the American before I leave.” Sophia hopped off the stool and headed to the sink to wash her hands. “And I’ve had his muffins and find them a bit dry, to be honest. Yours was moist the whole way through. If I didn’t know you’d be baking up more treats tonight, I’d grab another one right now.”
Ginny snatched a new recipe card and flashed it at Sophia. “Next is something you can really help me with: chocolate chip cookies. Everyone here considers them an American delicacy, so I haven’t been able to perfect mine. No one has anything to compare it to. It’s hard to even find decent chocolate chips at the market. I’ve had to order them online. I won’t tell you how much they cost. It’s been a nightmare.”
With a snort, Sophia dried her hands. “I’ll bet.” She returned to her stool.
Ginny grinned and stuck out her tongue. “I know, I know, I’m being dramatic, but seriously. They’re my favorite treat. I came up with my own custom recipe and think I have it as close to perfect as I can make them.”
“As long as they’re ooey and gooey and chocolaty, I don’t think you can go wrong.”
“If only that was the case.” Ginny gathered the ingredients and began mixing them together with an electric beater. Her entire body began to relax, getting into the rhythm of the flour blending with sugar and butter and . . . ah. If only she could live life here, in this place, and forget she ever owned a bookstore, ever married a man named Garrett who was breaking her heart . . .
With a sigh, she put the mixer down. “Where would you be right now if you’d never met David?” She couldn’t keep her denial tamped down any longer—didn’t want to. The question had just flown out, but she really wanted to know, so she didn’t take it back.
Surprise flitted across Sophia’s features, but she recovered quickly, folding her hands and placing them on the countertop, leaning forward on her stool. “Not here, I guess.” A sad smile lifted the right corner of her lips. “And neither would you if you hadn’t met Garrett.”
“I never would have heard of Port Willis before, much less left everything behind to move here.”
“Do you ever consider going home?”
Ginny scooped a bit of the soft dough with a spoon, dropping it onto a parchment-lined cookie sheet. “It’s not really an option. Not if I want to maintain any sort of independence.” Ginny’s hands created lines of dough rolled into balls. The parchment rustled as the dough fell. “Besides, if I left, then the bookstore would close.”
“But you said it was more Garrett’s dream than yours. How can he bear to leave it behind?”
Sophia’s words held such a double meaning—probably not her intention at all, but Ginny’s eyes grew wet all the same. Talking about it was one thing, but she was so sick of all the tears. She willed them to stay put. “Maybe . . .” Her lips trembled, and she nearly reached up to steady them. She continued to spoon dough onto the sheet. “Maybe the reality was not as glorious as the dream.” Saying it was like stabbing a soufflé to see if it was done—it deflated all the breath from her lungs.
“Hey.”
Ginny looked up at Sophia’s soft voice, her heart trying to gallop away from her.
Sophia’s eyes held such compassion, such understanding. “If that’s the case, then it’s truly his loss.”
Oh boy. Ginny nodded, because what could she say? Words stuck in her throat like peanut butter on little-kid fingers.
“And as for your question, where would I be if I’d never met David? I really don’t know. Maybe I’d be the same person I was back then—extremely focused and stressed out all the time from trying to be successful, trying to help as many people as I could, trying desperately to make my life count for something, to live up to my mom’s level of awesomeness.” Sophia tugged on the ends of her short hair. “I do know that without my experience, I wouldn’t be who I am today. Or rather, the person I hope to become because of this. Right now I feel like a shallow shell of a person sometimes. Other times I feel so full of emotions, I’m like an overstuffed Easter egg that won’t close. But eventually, if I let it, all the pain will lead to a better me. I hope. That’s what I hold on to when all of this gets too rough.”
“I like that perspective.” Ginny scraped the last bit of dough from the bowl and made one more cookie. It was smaller than the rest, but it would still taste just as sweet. She stuck the cookie sheet in the oven and set the timer.
Sophia pointed to an apple-strawberry pie Ginny had made yesterday. “Okay, now that we’re both all depressed and stuff, can I please try the amazing-looking piece of heaven over there?”
With a chuckle, Ginny found the pie knife and server. “Be my guest. I’ll join you.”
They dished up the pie and each took a bite. Sophia closed her eyes and moaned. “This is seriously the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Why aren’t you selling your baked goods at the bookstore?”
Ginny choked on her bite. “What?” Sophia’s nonchalant comment had the makings of a very workable idea.
Sophia seemed to realize it too. “You totally should. A café would be amazing too, though that would take some renovation. But for now, maybe set up a few tables and chairs in the corner. You know, where the nonfiction overflow is? And I’ll bet you could easily add a display case on top of the desk up front. There’s plenty of room. Ooh, and do some promotions—buy a book, get a muffin free, things like that—to give customers an extra incentive.”
“You are a genius.” Ginny snatched a piece of paper and started recording ideas.
Finally. A way to marry her skills with Garrett’s dream.
It wasn’t guaranteed to succeed—but trying was much better than the alternative.
16
EMILY
FEBRUARY 1858
Today perhaps, my luck would finally change.
Wind whistled through my bonnet, and dirty snow crunched under my boots. I clutched my manuscript with both hands, determined to keep it from falling from my grasp into the puddles on the London street. All around me, people bustled to and fro—servants running errands for their masters, daughters of fine families stepping out of their carriages to shop, vendors plying their wares on the corners, inviting potential customers into their warm stores.
Why did society love London so much? The smell from the sewage, the factories pumping out smoke, and the horse droppings left along the road were enough to make my eyes water. My senses rang with the cacophony of the muffin man’s bell, the clamor of the clarinet player on the corner, and the clickety-clack of the pattens on ladies’ feet.
I wished Edward’s had been like other families who stayed in the country until after the Easter holiday, but his mother did not want to miss any part of the season—unofficial or official—the latter of which would not truly begin for another few months.
But London did afford me one thing I could not get in the country—access to publishing houses. The thought brought renewed vigor for my mission. I passed storefronts for the Daily Telegraph and Courier, a popular dressmaker’s shop, and a small millinery.
But I only had eyes for Smith & Richards Publishing.
I had already been turned away from two publishers since arriving in London two months ago, but a fellow author I had been communicating with suggested I try Smith & Richards, a fairly new publisher that might be open to female authors. Given the extent of my duties and the fullness of Louisa’s and, thus, my schedule, I’d been unable to find the time to visit and inquire regarding the submission policy. However, this morning
I was informed that Louisa had a headache and would not be venturing out.
It came as no surprise. We had stayed at the latest ball until four in the morning. The constant parties had grown tiresome for me, except for the bright light that was Edward. Of course, seeing him dance with so many young ladies vying for his attention gave me physical discomfort every time. But I stored all the stolen moments of laughter and teasing between us away in my heart.
Smith & Richards came into view. It had only taken approximately five minutes to walk here from the family’s London home, but I still shivered—from the cold temperature or from nerves, I did not know. The building in front of me boasted a brick exterior that was clean but neither modern nor old-fashioned. There was no indication of the power held within its walls—the power to change lives, both mine and those of readers.
I inhaled, exhaled, and saw rather than felt my gloved hand push open the heavy door in front of me. Once inside, a quiet hum filled my ears. The room I’d stepped into was quite small, with several hallways leading in various directions. A young woman sat at a desk near the door. She glanced up from her pen and smiled at me, eyeing the manuscript in my hands. “G’day to you, miss. How can I help you? Are you here to drop off a manuscript?”
“I am.” Her friendliness took me aback. I did not expect such a warm welcome. I stepped forward and carefully laid my manuscript on the polished desk. “Is it possible for me to speak with the person in charge?”
“Mr. Richards is very busy today. Is he expecting this manuscript? Is it Mr. Joseph’s or Mr. Langley’s?”
A niggle of doubt blossomed in my mind. “No, he’s not expecting it. I heard you accepted unsolicited submissions.”
“We do. Though of course there is no promise of publication. Only the best are selected.”
I had placed my very heart into this manuscript. “I believe this will meet your standards.”
The girl smiled again, though this time I could sense an underlying haughtiness that had not been there before. Or perhaps it had. “I am sure you think so, but Mr. Richards will be the judge of that. How can he get in touch with your employer?”
“What does my employer have to do with this?” It was preferable that they never find out—not because I was doing something unsavory, but because Edward’s mother in particular was the type of person to base everything on reputation. And while some women had succeeded at this profession before, they were not always respected by members of well-bred society, many of whom believed women should be spending their time in other ways.
The woman at the desk lifted an eyebrow. “Is this not your employer’s manuscript?”
The humming in the room seemed to grow louder. I straightened my shoulders. “No. It is mine.”
A giggle bubbled up from the woman. “I see. I regret to inform you that Smith & Richards does not accept unsolicited manuscripts.”
I couldn’t help the way my mouth fell open, how my hands automatically found my hips. “You told me only moments ago that you did.”
“Yes, from the best.” The woman looked like she might begin snorting in delight, her lips twitching from holding in more laughter.
I could have handled her censure. But her mockery? Nothing was worse than that. My hands became fists clenched at my sides. “And why should mine not be one of the best?”
“Look at you, my dear. You are clearly a servant of some kind—”
“I am the companion to the daughter of one of the most respected families in the county.” My voice shot barbs at this woman, and I prayed one would hit her square in the nose. “But why should my station or my gender”—which was obviously a problem for her too, despite her also being female—“matter when a great story should stand on its own?”
The woman shook her head, and a look of pity replaced the ridicule. I had been wrong. There was something worse than mockery. “I—”
Before she could get out another word, I snatched the manuscript from her desk and flew out the door. Warmth gathered behind my eyes, threatening to leave and burn a trail down my cheeks. I began weaving in and around the crowd on the street outside. In my distressed state, my foot slipped on a patch of ice and I fell, watching in horror as my manuscript slid from my hands into a slushy pile of days-old snow. People continued to move around me, either unaware of or unconcerned about my fall. I dove for the manuscript and lifted it from the snow, nearly weeping at the sight of running ink and sopping parchment.
“Emily?”
I looked upward from where I crouched on the dirty London street, holding the remnants of my heart in my hand. Was any of it salvageable?
“Emily.” A girl crouched next to me and placed her hand on my arm. “Emily? Are you all right?”
I blinked. “Louisa? I thought you were staying abed today.”
Behind her stood a friend I recognized from last night’s party.
“Here.” Louisa tugged me to my feet, surprisingly strong. “I decided that nothing would better cure my headache than being out among society in the fresh air.”
I nearly laughed at her depiction of London and how very different our perspectives were. Though we’d grown up on the same land, Louisa and I had never been particularly close—she the very essence of propriety and decorum, I the girl who did not care one whit for the rules. And when I became her governess and then her companion, there was a certain professional relationship that had developed, a wall between us that was the consequence of our different classes.
One I suddenly realized I had erected.
Now, though, the concern in her eyes made me wonder if I had written off a potential friendship. Though she tended to be much more vivacious, perhaps the joy she exuded would be a good thing, if I allowed it to affect me.
“Thank you.” I tucked the manuscript under my arm, praying she would not notice. I may have been ready to attempt befriending her, but divulging my secret was not the beginning I had in mind.
But some prayers do not come true.
Louisa’s friend stepped forward and snatched the manuscript from my hands. At my cry of protest and Louisa’s scolding “Hattie!” she rolled her eyes and tossed it back in my arms, but not before she glimpsed the first page.
The sneer on Hattie’s face told me exactly what she thought of my endeavors. “Have you written a story?”
I lifted my head in as regal a manner as I could. “That is none of your concern.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Louisa, dear, are you going to let your companion speak to me that way?”
Louisa bit her bottom lip, studying me. She must have decided something, for her shoulders rose ever so slightly. “She may speak however she wishes. Who am I to censure her?”
Before I could send her a grateful smile, Louisa turned to her friend and took Hattie’s hands in her own. “Be a darling and let’s keep Miss Fairfax’s secret, hmm? It’s rather exciting to know an authoress, isn’t it?”
Hattie tipped her nose a bit. “I suppose so.”
“Good. Now, I promised Mother I would be home for tea, so I’d better leave. Emily? Do you mind accompanying me?”
“Of course not.”
Louisa waved good-bye to Hattie, who had seen another acquaintance down the street, and she and I climbed into the family’s waiting coach.
“Thank you, Louisa. For not saying anything to anyone about this.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” Louisa smiled and looped her arm through mine.
17
SOPHIA
Stepping inside a library always toasted Sophia’s insides, plying her mind with beautiful memories of Saturday mornings spent lounging in beanbag chairs, reading the latest Baby-Sitters Club books, and getting lost in someone else’s dream world.
But being inside the depths of the Port Danby University Library lit an inferno of joy in her soul.
“Just this way.” George, a librarian in his forties with a thin frame and oversized, horn-rimmed glasses, led Sophia, William, and Ginny through the stacks.
> Sophia breathed in the scent of old books—distinguished somehow—and allowed herself to be enveloped by the pure quiet surrounding her. Most students were away on summer “holiday,” and the stillness was enchanting.
As if reading her thoughts, William turned his head, looked down at her, smiled, and winked.
Ginny nudged her. “This place is kind of creepy, isn’t it?” Her whisper broke the enchantment.
But Sophia couldn’t be upset with Ginny, not when she had closed up the bookstore a bit early to tag along. Her friend had sensed that being alone with William again made Sophia all kinds of nervous. She just didn’t know how to feel about him and this blossoming . . . something . . . between them. Ever since the day at the beach last weekend, she’d second-guessed everything she’d said to him. Had she come off as flirty? Had she sounded like a complete idiot? Was William here because he thought it might score him points or because he was genuinely interested in the mysterious notebook like she was?
Sophia pulled her gaze from William and leaned toward Ginny as they walked. “I love old libraries. And this one isn’t creepy, not by a long shot. You should have seen some of the libraries at my university.”
The archives room at that library was located in the basement with no natural lighting and a smell that rivaled a men’s locker room. But as they approached the Port Danby University Library’s Archives and Special Collections room, her breathing hitched. Four stained glass windows adorned the walls, and an arched Tiffany window over the door welcomed visitors. Three sturdy, large oak tables and twelve chairs provided ample space for researchers to spread out and linger over their findings. Bookcases and a few exhibit cases lined what was left of the wall space. Other than the two state-of-the-art computers lingering in the corner of the room, she could almost imagine she’d stepped back in time.
“This university is five hundred years old, so ‘old’ is quite accurate.” The amusement in William’s tone made her blush.
Her whisper must not have been as quiet as she’d thought.
The Secrets of Paper and Ink Page 10