The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  “Oh?”

  How did one word, spoken with such false innocence, have the power to shake me so? And why was I finding it difficult to speak?

  “I am sorry, Miss Fairfax. I had it on good authority that you had written a novel and were attempting to have it published. I wanted to wish you luck in that endeavor.”

  Who had told her? But only two people could have done so. I turned my head to Louisa, and when she refused to meet my gaze, I knew it had not been her friend Hattie. Her fingers trembled slightly as she sipped from her glass. Betrayal sliced through my gut.

  “Really? I am most surprised.” This from Mr. Banks, a wealthy barrister who lived in London year-round. He and his wife had climbed high in the social sphere, and Edward’s mother had been thrilled when they’d accepted her invitation to the dinner party. “Young women should be spending their free time learning the domestic arts or attending to the duties they already have.”

  “Quite right, dear.” His wife eyed me with suspicion. “Young lady, if you have enough time to pen a novel, you must be neglecting your duties in some way.”

  My cheeks were on fire now, but this time it was not due to embarrassment. How dare this woman who did not even know me say such things—she, in her finery, with her well-padded life, who likely knew nothing of suffering? I folded my hands in my lap, and it took every fiber of control in my body to keep from throwing my goblet at her.

  “Now, now, let’s all calm ourselves. Miss Fairfax has been a very attentive companion to Louisa. You must have misunderstood.” Edward’s mother came to my rescue.

  It was Rosamond’s turn for a reddened face. Both of her parents appeared slightly alarmed at the turn in conversation. “I do apologize, ma’am. It was not my intention to stir up trouble, merely to congratulate Miss Fairfax on such an achievement. Is it not an admirable thing to write an entire novel? The self-discipline, the talent it must take to weave an entertaining tale when your own life has been so misfortunate—does this not warrant congratulations?”

  I was not the only one with talent. The way Rosamond managed to compliment me and insult me in the same breath was talent indeed, all while making herself appear naive and blameless.

  Surely Edward could see through her act. But his smile at her words appeared genuine, as did his sadness when he looked my way.

  I had hidden a deep part of myself from him, and now he knew it.

  “You’re a dear girl.” Edward’s mother smiled at Rosamond, and the young woman beamed. “Now, let’s discuss the upcoming ball at Camden Hall.”

  The conversation spiraled away from me and my chosen hobby—as if that was all it was—and onto frivolous topics.

  As we adjourned from the room, Edward’s mother approached me. “Miss Fairfax, I must know. Is it true?” The other guests were out of earshot, and it was only the two of us and a few servants standing in the corner of the room.

  I may have been able to avoid directly answering the question at dinner, but that was not an option available to me now. “It is. But I promise I have never once neglected my duties. When I was the governess, I wrote in the evenings after the children were in bed. Now I write each day once Louisa no longer needs me.”

  She considered me for a moment. “I admit, I have never taken such a hard line regarding female authors. However, you heard Mr. and Mrs. Banks tonight. There are those in our circle who would look down upon us for employing you—especially as a companion to our daughter. Your father’s indiscretions are one thing. This is something you are choosing to participate in yourself. I cannot abide it.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it again. What could I say? It would probably not change how she felt on the subject because it would not change the perception of female authors overnight. But there was one sentiment I needed to express. “I will respect your decision, whatever it is. However, I cannot stop writing. It is a physical ache, and if I do not let it out, I will die inside.”

  She reached out a hand as if she might pull me into a hug. But she must have remembered I was only a servant, and her hand fell to her side once more. “I cannot pretend to understand the losses you have endured and the pain you must feel. Your mother was a wonderful woman and a good friend to me. I see she taught you to be strong and mindful of your own needs, and I do admire that. If writing helps you in your sorrow, then by all means, write. However, I cannot allow you to seek publication while in my employ. It might reflect poorly on us.”

  Her words were a balm to my soul and a chisel all at once. I nodded, because what else could I do? If I could have afforded to refuse her terms, I might have done so. But I needed the pay this position provided.

  We joined the rest of the ladies in the parlor. I found my place beside Louisa, who turned to me with tears in her eyes.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Emily. I did not mean to tell. Rosamond was simply asking about you and I was so proud of your accomplishments that I just . . .” Louisa’s voice squeaked. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Why would Rosamond have been asking about me? But it was no matter. The damage had been done, and Louisa clearly had not let my secret slip out of malice. I patted her hand. “All is well, Louisa. Of course I forgive you.”

  She visibly relaxed and smiled at me.

  When the men joined us, I saw Edward coming toward me, no doubt to ask me about what we’d discussed at dinner. Rosamond intercepted him. I’d never been more grateful to her.

  I rose and made my way to the opposite side of the room, where there hung a few paintings I could pretend to study. One depicted a man riding atop a horse, adorned in a military uniform, a sword pointed in the air. Soldiers marched on the ground, following him to war. His posture was that of one confident in a win.

  The war that waged inside of me felt impossible, with no win to gain. How could I maintain my position here—and thus my income, my livelihood—and still be true to my own heart?

  Footsteps approached behind me. Had Edward finally been loosed from Rosamond’s clutches?

  But as I turned, it was Edward’s father I saw. “Good evening, sir.”

  He smoothed his mustache and nodded at me, once, twice. “Indeed.” His mannerisms had always been a bit strange, methodical and slow. In my experience, it always took him a long time to say what he wanted to say—or his wife just said it for him.

  We looked at the paintings together for a full minute before he finally spoke again. “I think . . .”

  “Sir?” I peered up at him.

  He cleared his throat. “I think, were you to use a pseudonym in your professional pursuits, my wife would have no objection, so long as nothing could be traced back to her. Ever.”

  “Truly?”

  A nod.

  Finally, a bit of hope. “That is very kind. Thank you, sir.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I promise. I will never publish under the name Emily Fairfax.”

  I’d managed to avoid Edward all the rest of the evening, which was not terribly difficult given Rosamond’s interest in him.

  But the next morning, as I walked toward Louisa’s room to begin the day’s duties, Edward appeared, almost as if he’d been waiting for me.

  “Emily.”

  “Hello, Edward.” He looked even more handsome than usual in the dim hallway, though he wore the same thing he always did—a brown waistcoat and long, cream trousers. The smell of the cigar he had smoked last night still clung to him, a sweet, potent scent that was entirely too manly.

  And though I had seen him in all kinds of situations throughout our lives, standing here with him in the early morning hours—the bustle of other people seeming far, far away—brought with it an intimacy that was different and new.

  He tilted his head and gazed at me. “Why did you not tell me?”

  Unexpected tears filled my eyes at the grief in his. “I’m sorry. I did not tell anyone. Not on purpose anyway.”

  “I did not think I was just anyone to you.”

  Not for the
first time, I wondered if Edward was aware of the way I felt about him. If so, he was cruel to say what he did. But that was not Edward, which meant he must be blessedly unaware of my love. “You’re right. You are my best friend.” That I could tell him. “And I am afraid that is all about to change.”

  “It is.” His lips fell into a straight line and he leaned against the hallway wall. “But what does that have to do with you not telling me about your writing?”

  “I suppose . . . perhaps I was beginning to pull away.” It had not been intentional at first, but I recognized now the truth in the statement. “This is the most personal thing I have ever done. And when you are married, we will no longer be able to share such personal things.”

  “I wish it were not so.”

  “As do I.” I settled against the wall next to him, my arms aching to touch him.

  “But I’m not married yet. And I so want to know what is in your heart. Will you tell me?”

  If he knew what he was asking . . . but he did not. So I told him as much as I was able—that writing had saved me when nothing else could, that it was where my future hopes were pinned, and that I would fight with all my being to see my dreams realized.

  Nothing else in the world may be certain, no one else might fight for me, but I would remain steadfast in my pursuit of some greater meaning in my life.

  As I spoke, something lit in Edward’s eyes. He seemed to move closer to me, intent on every word I said. His gaze did not leave me once, and his lips parted ever so slightly when I finished.

  Silence buzzed between us as we stared at each other—and something seemed to shift. I didn’t know how to define it, but it was as if he suddenly saw me differently, noticed me for the first time as someone other than his childhood playmate.

  It might have been my imagination run away from me, but the tension between us was palpable. My heart pounded.

  “Would you . . . show me?” His whisper trotted into the silence but did not break the spell. “Can I read your book?”

  And in that moment, I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Because this was reality, and reality dictated that I take a step back. Much as I wished he would sweep me up in his arms and kiss me soundly, declaring his love, I knew he never would. He was the only male heir to a fortune, one that required him to marry well. And while I was not lowborn, my fortune was nonexistent.

  “I . . . can’t.” How could I explain to him that handing over my book would be like handing him all of me? I would be his—mind, body, and soul—and would be left with nothing in return but memories and even lonelier nights than I already experienced.

  “Em . . .”

  I opened my eyes once more and realized my mistake. His fingers approached my cheek and wiped at a tear I had not realized I’d cried. Edward’s touch was so gentle, amazing for the boy who had been as rough-and-tumble as they came.

  But he was no longer a boy. I was no longer a girl. We were no longer children.

  And we could no longer pretend to be so.

  “Oh. Pardon me, sir.”

  A voice snapped me from the whirlwind of emotions churning inside of me. Edward lowered his hand fast as lightning and nodded at a maid, whose features had communicated surprise but now were void of expression.

  She cleared her throat. “Miss Fairfax, the missus is asking where you are. Louisa is awake and needs your assistance.” She walked away.

  “I must be going.” I flashed Edward a tentative smile, but his frown followed me all the way to my rightful place serving his sister.

  20

  SOPHIA

  The last time she’d been to St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, Sophia was a college junior—full of hope for the future, with a driving desire to help others and a naiveté that rivaled Giselle from that Disney movie Enchanted.

  Now here she was again, stronger in some ways and beat down in others, trying her best to chase the inspiration to write her story.

  Sophia stood next to William in the cathedral’s nave, her gaze taking in everything from the black-and-white checkerboard floor tiles to the dome decorated in brilliant frescoes three-hundred-something feet overhead. Visitors moved throughout the nave in hushed reverence. Some sat in the chairs, heads bowed. The sight stirred something within her chest.

  “It’s so beautiful.” She murmured the words as she and William continued to wander, taking in each monument, plaque, and statue.

  William remained quiet. From the short time she’d spent with him, she knew being reflective was not unusual for him. But something seemed off.

  “You okay?” She felt the urge to give his arm a squeeze, but gripped her purse strap instead.

  He continued to stare at a carved marble statue of two women before a tombstone.

  “William?”

  His head shot up, his gaze finding hers. “Sorry. What?”

  “I just asked if you were okay. You were studying this statue with intensity. And, I mean, it’s a cool statue, but not overly unique from what I can tell.”

  The lines around his lips were more pronounced when he frowned like he was doing now. “I suppose I’m just worried about Ginny.”

  When they’d heard from William’s professor friend in London, who thought she could help if they were willing to visit, Ginny asked if she could come too. At first, they’d assumed she merely wanted a distraction, but this morning—much to William’s protest—she had declared that she was going to see Garrett. William had insisted on going with her, but she said it was between her and her husband.

  “I’m worried about her too.” Sophia had also offered to go with Ginny for emotional support, but she understood Ginny’s desire to do this alone. In fact, she admired it. “Hopefully the face-to-face time will help. Communicating over the phone isn’t all that conducive to resolving things.”

  Since William’s friend couldn’t see them till this afternoon, and there was no point in coming to London and not going sightseeing, Sophia had begged him to take her and Ginny to some of his favorite sites in the city before their appointment. After Westminster Abbey, Ginny had split off from them, and they’d come here for a quick peek around.

  With every interaction, she was loosening up around him. Hearing all the good things Ginny had to say about him sure hadn’t hurt.

  “It’s probably better I don’t see Garrett right now anyway. I’d be liable to clock him.”

  Sophia’s hand tentatively found his shoulder. “You don’t exactly strike me as the punching type.”

  “Anger and disappointment can make you do things you might not normally consider.”

  “True enough.” Sophia considered her words carefully. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but whatever happens between him and Ginny, he’s still your brother. You’ll have to talk to him eventually—probably without the punching part—or you’ll be miserable. I can tell you really love him, or you wouldn’t be so angry.”

  William studied her for a moment, his look so intense she couldn’t interpret how he’d taken her words. But then he noticed Sophia’s hand on him.

  She yanked it back to her side.

  He frowned again, something he did far too often. He had a nice smile. And Sophia wanted to see it again.

  “Come on.” She reached out her hand, and after a moment of studying her, he took it. His hand was large, slightly calloused—not smooth like David’s had been. But William’s father had been a carpenter, and his sons had grown up working alongside him. Of course, William had confessed he hated woodworking, that he much preferred reading and studying. He’d only done it to be close to his dad.

  David had grown up the entitled son of a wealthy businessman. His idea of using his hands was doing the dishes, and he hadn’t even done that. “But, baby, why should I do them when you’re so good at it?”

  She couldn’t keep comparing the two men. It wasn’t fair to William. He didn’t even know about David.

  But she didn’t know how to stop.

  Let yourself enjoy
this moment.

  So she put her worries and fears from her mind as best she could and focused on more pleasant things, like the gentle pressure of William’s fingers entwined with her own and the way he allowed her to lead the way up the steps to the next floor. They emerged and stepped out into the circular gallery, which overlooked the cathedral floor below. The last time she’d been here, it had been super crowded, but only a few others milled about at the moment.

  Sophia walked to the iron railing, catching sight of the same checkered floor where she’d been standing moments before. Something like a sunburst graced the center of the flooring. If she looked long enough, it almost appeared to be spinning.

  William leaned over the railing, angling for a better view. “This is called the Whispering Gallery.”

  “I seem to remember something about that. We took a tour here during my college trip.”

  “It’s fun. The acoustics are such that you and I can stand at opposite sides of the gallery and whisper something for the other to hear.”

  “Oh yeah! My classmates spent ten minutes whispering crude things to each other after the tour guide told us that.” Sophia rolled her eyes.

  William turned to face her, leaning one hip against the railing, his hand still gripping hers. “I would love to remake your memory of this place, but I’m hesitant to let go of your hand.”

  Her cheeks likely betrayed her mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. “I agree. That is a dilemma.”

  “Perhaps if you promise that we can re-create this moment when we’re done?” He smiled, and a pair of dimples appeared.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’m willing to risk it then.” William tugged her gently to the bench that sat flush against the wall and wound its way around the gallery. “You sit here.”

  She did as he asked, then watched as he walked around the ring of the gallery. When he was directly across from her—the gallery was over one hundred feet in diameter, from what she’d read—he sat too. Sophia leaned back against the wall and waited.