The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  But it was probably just nerves, the worry in the back of her mind that she’d fail the women she’d counsel, right?

  William frowned. Did he feel the same way about her leaving? “We’ll figure this out before you go. Don’t worry.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that we’ve been working so hard already.”

  In fact, they’d spent countless hours trying to fill in the blanks. It hadn’t been easy. The land office hadn’t been much help in learning the history of the title for Elliott Manor either, since the information wasn’t yet available online and the waiting period for any sort of request was anywhere from two to eight weeks. So they’d decided to move forward with genealogical research by starting with Hugh and working their way backward. Because they weren’t sure whether the manor passed via his father or mother’s line, they had a ton of research to do. They did a lot of guesswork and had to backtrack frequently when they realized they’d followed the wrong trail. It was tedious work, but in between the research, she and William had grown even closer.

  He’d taken her surfing again a few times, and every night when he didn’t have a class, they ate dinner together at Sophia’s kitchen table, usually takeout from a pub they both enjoyed. They took turns reading aloud from Dickens or Gaskell, and he introduced her to a few lesser-known authors like Braddon, Grand, and Edgeworth. Then, while the sun made its descent for the evening, they’d stand by the large window in her apartment, his arms wrapped around her shoulders as they watched, silently taking in life together.

  And he was such a gentleman, kissing her softly, passion brewing just beneath the surface, a promise that he would always leave before things became too heavy.

  She’d never been treated with such care.

  And that made the thought of leaving Cornwall downright horrible. Sometimes, impossible.

  Of course, when she’d told Mom how close she and William had gotten, her mother’s pause said everything that her “That’s wonderful, dear” did not. Or was she just reading her own fears into things?

  Sophia only prayed she wasn’t being naive or falling into some trap. But looking back, she realized David had never been this unselfish, this loyal. For some reason, she’d been too blind to see it then.

  Hopefully that was not the case here.

  Sophia shook off her morose mood. “Okay, so we ended on a marriage certificate for Henry Bryant and Vivian Sherwood in 1912.” Sophia leaned against him to peer at the screen, her fingers curling around his arm. He felt sturdy and warm. “Should we start with a search of Henry’s birth certificate?”

  “Sounds good.” William navigated to the site they’d previously used for research and typed in Henry’s name. Several results popped up.

  “Should I start searching for Vivian’s birth certificate?”

  “Sure.”

  She looked up at him, and he leaned in for a kiss. The jab of anxiety that had first come from being with him faded a bit with every kiss, every interaction with William.

  They both went back to work, the room filled with the clacking of their keyboards. The smell of chocolate emanated from the box of Ginny’s donuts Sophia had brought with her. Her eyes began to blur after an hour. “I need coffee.”

  “Hmm?” He sat up quickly, then winced and rubbed his neck.

  “Were you asleep?”

  His sheepish grin gave him away. “I’ve been staying up far too late grading papers after coming home from your place.”

  “Sounds like you need some coffee too.”

  He grimaced. “You know I dislike coffee the way you dislike British tea.”

  “And yet we get along so well. Maybe I can convert you yet.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” William scooted his chair closer.

  Oh, his nearness did something to her. She pushed him away, laughing. “Coffee it is.” Sophia stood and stretched, then rubbed a sore spot in her lower back.

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Oh yes, you do. I brought some over last time I was here and stashed it in your cupboard for just such an occasion.”

  “You didn’t.” William tried to grab for her as she passed his chair.

  She laughed and flitted from his reach.

  Sophia strode toward the kitchen, amazed. She hadn’t flinched at his playful grab. In fact, she hadn’t had any sort of flashbacks of David in weeks.

  His voice was gone.

  A thought struck her. What if it had been her own voice in her head the whole time? Negative self-talk had been a part of her psyche for as long as she could remember—failure was not an option, and whenever it seemed near, she panicked—and yet she couldn’t recall any major episodes of it in the last few weeks.

  Perhaps she really had made more progress than she’d realized.

  Sophia made quick work of putting the coffee together. William happened to have a small coffeepot, perhaps a housewarming gift from when he’d purchased his two-bedroom home. As the coffee brewed and dripped into the pot, the delicious scent filling the kitchen, her eyes were drawn to the side of the refrigerator, where a variety of pictures and fliers were affixed with magnets. One photo stood out in particular. William and Garrett stood with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Garrett was saying something and William was laughing.

  She’d seen William laugh—but not like this. His laughter always seemed reserved in some way. Maybe only his brother was able to pull pure joy from him like that. And his brother had betrayed him when he’d betrayed Ginny. William didn’t talk much about Garrett, but when he did, a sadness overwhelmed everything about him—his voice cracked, his shoulders slumped, his mood darkened. He’d acknowledged he would have to forgive him someday, but didn’t know how.

  The people in their lives had such power to wound them. It was tempting to pull away from everyone when even one person hurt you because it might seem easier to not allow yourself to feel the pain ever again. Sophia had done that after David, in a way.

  But she and William were both fighting through the pain, weren’t they? They weren’t letting the people who had disappointed or failed them run their lives.

  Maybe it didn’t even matter that she hadn’t written her story yet. Perhaps she was healing without it. By trusting again. By letting love win.

  Whoa there. Where had the L word come from? Slow down, Sophia. You just mean love in the general sense.

  Sophia snatched two mugs from William’s shelf and poured in the coffee, adding a dash of cinnamon to each. She carried them back to the table, where William was humming as he worked. Setting the mugs down, Sophia leaned over and tossed her arms around William’s shoulders from behind. “Find anything good?”

  “I certainly did.” He twisted and pulled her into his lap, a crazy grin on his lips.

  She giggled. “What?”

  “Something I’ve been waiting for for a long, long time.” His eyes grew serious as he searched hers.

  Oh boy. Was she ready for him to look at her like . . . that? “I mean, did you find anything good about the Bryant family?”

  “Oh, that. Not really.”

  “Bummer.” She nestled back against him. Just then, her phone dinged, indicating an e-mail had come through. Reaching for it, she took a peek—and sat up straighter.

  “What is it?”

  She opened the e-mail and scanned it. “The Land Registry office addressed our request. They sent over the information on Elliott Manor.”

  “And?” Now William was leaning forward.

  “There’s a little note in the body of the e-mail and an attachment with the actual documents. Here, I’m going to get on my computer so we can see all of this better.” She hopped off his lap and returned to her own seat, pulling up the information on her laptop screen. “The e-mail says that the Land Registry Act of 1862 allowed landowners to officially register their property titles, many for the first time. In 2014, the government released a bunch of digitized records of handwritten parchments they scanned in, but they still
have more to add to the database. That must be why we couldn’t find the information online.”

  Sophia’s breath caught.

  “Out with it, woman. What does it say?”

  She swung her eyes toward him and smiled. “In 1862, a Randolph Bryant registered a deed for Elliott Manor. It’s the same address.”

  “Brilliant.” William’s eyes scanned the deed and information on the screen. “So now we can narrow our research to the Bryant side alone. We just need to figure out if Randolph came before or after Edward.”

  “Exactly.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I’ll forward you this e-mail and we can look through the attachments to see if an Edward Bryant ever owned Elliott Manor, and if so, when. If we don’t find one, we can assume he came before Randolph.”

  “How about you do that, and I’ll search for Randolph’s birth and marriage certificate and see what I can find that way?”

  “Deal.”

  It didn’t take Sophia long at all to locate the information they wanted. “It says here that an Edward Bryant owned the title for Elliott Manor beginning in 1878. So he must have been Randolph’s heir. After him, it passed to a James Bryant.”

  “Nice work.”

  But where did they go from here? The dates and names and uncertainty of it all started to blur in Sophia’s mind. It was difficult keeping it all straight.

  Then, inspiration struck. Of course. “Should we maybe look for James’s birth certificate and see who his parents were?”

  William snapped his fingers. “And if his mother was Rosamond something . . .”

  “Then we know they were real. Or at least that there’s a strong chance. And if they were real, maybe Emily was too. Of course, everything we have is circumstantial. We’re assuming we have the right house.” Sophia tucked her lip behind her teeth and tried not to grin. “I hate to say this, but maybe we’ll need to chop down Hugh Bryant’s front door to get any legitimate information.”

  William laughed—and it was the happiest sound in the world. “Whatever we do, just stay beside me, okay?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Of course, that wasn’t entirely true, but Sophia wouldn’t think about that today. Today belonged to progress and victory.

  32

  EMILY

  SEPTEMBER 1859

  I had not written a word since Edward married. At first, it took too much energy—surprising, since it had always given, not taken, strength. Then I told myself I was simply too busy. And I was. The children kept me so, as did avoiding Edward and Rosamond as much as could be managed during Louisa’s second season, a difficult task since we lived in the same London townhouse. But Edward evaded me as much as I did him during those three horrible months. Now that we had returned to the country, I at last had some relief, as Rosamond preferred to reside elsewhere.

  The note that came to me one night in September interrupted my carefully assembled routine. It requested my presence at the family’s dinner party. Now that I had returned to my post as governess, I regularly took meals alone in my room. Why should I have been asked to attend that night? Since the incident in London over a year before, Edward’s mother hadn’t spoken to me unless absolutely necessary, and Edward’s father was often away on business.

  Whatever the reason, it would provide a nice distraction from the monotony of my existence. I dressed and forced myself to walk at a normal pace toward the dining room. When I entered, I saw Edward’s parents and Louisa, whom I missed spending time with now that I was governess again. There were also several neighbors in attendance, as well as a few guests I had yet to meet, including a gentleman with spectacles and a white mustache and a woman with a high brow and silver hair done up in the latest fashion.

  I lingered on the edge of the room until Edward’s father saw me. “Ah, Miss Fairfax. Please, join us.”

  As I walked closer, Edward’s mother raised an eyebrow my direction, almost as if she did not know I was attending. I hadn’t mistaken the invitation, had I?

  Edward’s father ignored his wife’s stare and guided me toward the unknown visitors. “Mr. and Mrs. John Davis, may I present Miss Emily Fairfax.”

  The woman’s smile was kind. “How do you do?”

  “Well, thank you.”

  Mr. Davis inclined his head. “Pleasure, miss.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” I looked at Edward’s father, a question in my eyes. Why was he introducing me to such fine guests as these?

  He winked at me. “I must speak with the serving staff, and I know you all have much to discuss. Please excuse me.” And then he was gone.

  What did he mean, we had much to discuss? Unsure what to do with my hands, I folded them behind my back and tapped my toes inside my slippers, staring at the ground.

  Mr. Davis cleared his throat. “Our host tells us you are an authoress.”

  That caused my head to rise. It had been so long since Edward’s father and I had spoken of it, I assumed he’d forgotten. “Y-yes.”

  “Have you met with much success?” Mr. Davis’s tone did not indicate judgment.

  “Unfortunately, no.” I almost hated to disappoint him, though I hadn’t met him until a few moments before.

  He studied me. “Where have you submitted?”

  I closed my mouth before it appeared I was gawking at him. Most people would have stopped their inquiry at this point. “Are you familiar with the industry?”

  He stroked the ends of his mustache. “I am.”

  His wife leaned closer to me. “My dear, he is also an author. You may know him as Lionel Wilson.”

  “Truly?” I could not help the awe tingling in my tone as I breathed out the word. Lionel Wilson was a prolific author, one who had helped to shape modern British literature, and he was standing here in my presence. “I adore your fiction, sir.” Edward’s father allowed me to borrow books from his library, and he always brought home the latest from his visits to London. “You are brilliant. Your serials are my favorite.”

  “Now, now.” Mr. Davis waved the compliment away.

  “If you do not mind my asking, though, why do you use a pseudonym? You are a man, after all.”

  “Yes, well, John Davis is not a very memorable or unique name now, is it?”

  I laughed softly. “I suppose not.”

  “Besides, I prefer anonymity.” He eyed me. “Are you attempting to pursue publication using your real name?”

  “No.” The dream of using anything close to my name had died when Edward’s parents asked me to use a nom de plume.

  I detailed to Mr. Davis my attempts to pursue publication thus far—and the dead ends I had reached.

  Just then, dinner was announced. I was escorted into the dining room by an unfamiliar male guest in his forties, who immediately turned to the lady on his left to discuss something of seemingly great importance. Thankfully, on the other side sat the Davises—Edward’s father’s doing, I suspected. We continued our conversation.

  Mr. Davis told me about his journey toward publication and from where he drew his inspiration. “Life in every season is inspiring, is it not? And I do not mean in simply the highest highs and the lowest lows. There is something thrilling, almost miraculous, in the everyday things, in the mundane tasks we do. The small wonders found in nature. The way a child clings to his mother when he is afraid. The way a single flower bends to the will of the wind. All of it defines us, and yet none of it does. Life in all its glory and in all its plainness is what causes me to hold pen to paper and cull a story from within.”

  “But how . . .” I didn’t even know the question I wanted to ask, not until it was on the tip of my tongue. “How do you wade through the emotions warring in your heart? How can you form a story when life brings you nothing but grief? How to create such beauty from the pain?”

  He set down his fork and turned to me. “My dear, writing is the only way I have found to help the grief make sense. That, and knowing in my very core that there is a purpose in it.”

&n
bsp; I had thought that to be true, too, once upon a time. When my father died, I poured my pain out with my words, and they became a healing balm.

  But when my friendship with Edward died, every word pricked my heart, scraping my insides raw until I was a hollowed-out shell.

  I had always considered myself strong, but perhaps my strength had never truly been tested. Perhaps Edward had been my strength. I only knew that maybe this weak puppet of a person I had become was the real me all along. Without him.

  What was I to do? How could I become something better than I was, on my own?

  Mr. Davis seemed to take my silence as a sign I needed time to think, so he engaged others at the table in conversation. When the meal had ended, he turned to me once more. “Miss Fairfax, I know how difficult it is to begin in this industry, and our host has told me you are a very intelligent and hardworking young woman. I am happy to read a sample of your work and offer critique and feedback if you would find it helpful.”

  Then he stood, wiped the crumbs from his mustache, and left with the other men to smoke cigars.

  And I sat there, keenly aware that something had changed.

  Someone had finally noticed me drowning and offered to point me in the direction of the shore. Now it was up to me to keep stroking through the water until I reached the sandy beach beyond.

  33

  GINNY

  A knock sounded on Ginny’s door.

  She stopped rolling the dough on the counter. Who would be here at six o’clock on a Saturday night? Sophia and William had been out sightseeing all day and probably weren’t even home yet.

  Ginny ran her doughy fingers under the faucet and wiped them dry, then walked through the living room. Looking through the peephole, she saw Steven and opened the door. “Hey there.” She’d seen him several times since that night on the boat two weeks ago, when he’d pried her heartstrings loose with his musings, but they hadn’t had much opportunity to hang out one-on-one.

  The last couple of weeks had been filled with further bookstore improvements, filling online orders, and trying new recipes for the store’s pastry case—oh, and dodging calls from Garrett’s lawyer. She just didn’t have the mental or emotional energy to cope with the divorce stuff right now. Already her broken dreams for the future took up too much room in her heart and head space, and she fell into bed exhausted as it was.