The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  He clutched me to his chest. “It’s not fair.”

  “What?” Afraid to move, I spoke into his shirt and the word was barely audible.

  “That she . . .” He steadied his voice. “I do not love her. I love y—”

  “Don’t.” I swallowed hard. “Do not say it. Please. I could not bear to hear it only once in my lifetime.” Pulling away, I looked up at him once more.

  But he did not kiss me again. Something like resolve passed over his face, and he released me, grabbed my candle, and placed it in my hands. “Go, Em. Please. If you stand here for one more moment, I cannot promise to remain apart from you.”

  I nodded, a few tears starting to flow and blur my vision. With a last glance at him—my best friend, things forever broken between us—I flew down the hallway. Once I reached my room, I closed the door behind me. With a cry, I blew out the candle, threw the candlestick against the wall, fell on my knees, and let loose the torrent of tears that had been building for months. For years.

  Edward was right. It was not fair. But it was still the reality of things.

  When the torrent ended at last, I shuffled to my desk, bound up my manuscript, and walked toward the library once more. The light of a candle flickered beneath the doorframe and I heard Edward pacing. After slipping the package under the doorway, I scurried away.

  Even without a note, he would know what this action meant.

  And I prayed he would know what I needed, for I was just beginning to understand it myself. If ever the candle within me was to live again, I must light it with a different source.

  The next morning, I found the manuscript returned under my door. A note adorned the top, slipped under the twine binding the pieces of parchment together. I picked it up, opened it, read it:

  My dearest Emily,

  Even if I had wanted to sleep last night, I would not have been capable. I was far too enthralled by your novel. You have a talent few can boast of and I am glad you are using it to make the world a better place. Thank you for sharing your heart with me. It is not merely the story that is beautiful, but the soul of the one who created it.

  I wish our story had turned out as happy as this one. I take full responsibility that it did not.

  I must apologize for my conduct. I did not behave as a gentleman should—but more so, I did not behave as a friend should. Please forgive me. To think you might be angry with me is a thing I cannot bear to consider.

  When you read this note, Rosamond and I will be on our way back to the country estate. When the family returns at the end of the season, we will go to London or Rosamond’s family’s home. In doing so, I hope to cling to what I have and allow you to do the same.

  Your friend always,

  Edward

  Though my chest hurt, I smiled softly, kissing the note. Then I wrapped the manuscript in brown paper and whisked away to the post office to post the parcel to M&L Publishing.

  With a final hug of the parcel to my chest, I let go and gave my heart permission to fly.

  37

  SOPHIA

  The moment Ginny walked into the bookstore with the manila envelope and stack of other mail, Sophia knew what it contained.

  She kept ringing up patrons, trying to catch Ginny’s eye as she spoke with a new mom, leaning over the stroller to say hi to the little bundle inside. The bookstore had played host to a whole slew of people today—Ginny had done such a nice job revitalizing this place—and there were three more people in line, so Sophia couldn’t abandon her post.

  But her fingers itched as she took one credit card after another.

  Finally, Ginny approached the desk with the pile of mail. “How’s it going in here?”

  “Good.” Sophia smiled as she bagged a copy of the latest Emily Giffin novel and handed it to the college student who had purchased it. “Is that for me?”

  Ginny looked down at the envelope. “Yeah. Oh hey, the General Registrar Office. You think it’s—”

  “The birth certificates for James Bryant. At least I hope so.”

  “Here, open it. I can cover the desk for a bit.”

  “I can’t. Not without William.”

  “Go find him. He should be home from work by now. I’ll take over for the rest of the evening.”

  “No, no, I couldn’t do that to you.”

  Ginny placed a hand on her hip. “Soph, I’m offering. This is my bookstore, remember? And you work more hours than I’d ever planned for you to work anyway. Go. Have fun. I hope you find some answers.”

  “Okay, but I’m taking your morning shift tomorrow.” Sophia grabbed Ginny in a quick hug, then snatched her phone and the envelope and headed up the stairs to her room. She dialed William’s number and found out he was at the post office and could stop by in a few minutes. Sophia didn’t tell him why she wanted to see him. Surprising him would be fun.

  Her nerves buzzed with anticipation. Another piece to the puzzle might be falling into place soon.

  To take her mind off the wait, Sophia grabbed her laptop and slid into a chair at the tiny kitchen table. She navigated to Facebook, but all the images blurred as she scrolled.

  A knock reverberated on the door. “Come in.”

  William entered. “So what’s this surprise?”

  “I think the GRO sent the birth certificates over.” From where she sat, Sophia held up the envelope. Who knew that something so thin and light could be the answer they’d been waiting for?

  “Yeah?” William strode over and sat in the seat next to her.

  Sophia tore the top of the envelope and reached a hand inside. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  She turned, eyebrows lifted. “What was that for?”

  “For being you.”

  Whew, this man. How could she be leaving him in ten short days? She studied him and abandoned the envelope for a moment, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a long kiss.

  When he drew back, both surprise and joy lingered in his eyes. “And what was that for?”

  “For being you.” She winked, then focused once more on the envelope. Reaching inside, her hand emerged clutching three sheets of paper. The top one was their original search request and receipt. But the next page was a sort of salmon color, with darker and lighter shades of orange. All of the information was handwritten in cursive.

  Sophia’s eyes scanned the document. “Okay, this James Bryant was born in 1868 to a John and Elizabeth Bryant. Not our guy.” As if in slow motion, she moved the last piece of paper to the front of the stack. Her fingers trembled. “William.”

  “I see.”

  This James Bryant was born September 13, 1860, in London—to Edward Bryant and Rosamond Turner Bryant.

  “Soph, look at the residence of the person who reported the birth.”

  Though the day was warm, Sophia began shivering, goose bumps appearing along her arms. The birth certificate revealed that E. Bryant, James’s father, had reported the birth—and his address matched that of Elliott Manor. “I can’t believe it. Do you think we found them?”

  “It sure seems that way.”

  But one glaring thought kept rippling in her mind. “We still don’t know if Emily Fairfax was real, though.” After seeing the possible results for James Bryant, they’d already done a search of Emily Fairfaxes born from 1830 to 1840 anywhere in England—and the results were inconclusive. William had reminded her that not all births were reported, they didn’t know where Emily had been born, and something could have happened to the parish records.

  Despite all their research, they were coming up empty. They didn’t have any other information to go on.

  “So. Are you content with knowing what we do, or do you want to try to find out more? We could try to hire a professional genealogist.” William reached toward Sophia and encased her hand with his.

  It should be enough, right? They’d done almost all they could. She should be satisfied they’d received as many answers as they
had.

  And yet.

  That voice inside—the one she’d barely recognized a few months ago, but had slowly started listening to again—seemed to urge her to try for one more Hail Mary.

  “Let’s try to visit Hugh Bryant one more time. If he won’t tell us anything, we back off. Leave all of this alone. Conclude that we weren’t meant to discover anything else about it, and be grateful for what we’ve learned with this search.”

  And learn she had.

  Because despite all the work they’d done to find the answers about Emily Fairfax, Sophia had a feeling that they weren’t the ultimate prize.

  The narrow roads of Wendall didn’t leave much room for even William’s car, but they managed to navigate their way back to the run-down flat at the end of Wellington Street. The shutters were cracked and peeling, and what had likely once been a prized garden in front now grew only weeds—dry, dusty, brown.

  They climbed from the vehicle and walked to the front entryway. Sophia lifted the brass knocker and rapped it three times against the solid oak door. William grabbed hold of her hand and rubbed gentle circles into her palm.

  A few minutes passed.

  That was it. She had to call it—the end of their journey. “I suppose he’s not home.”

  The door opened. A man who looked to be in his sixties stood on the other side.

  Sophia held in a squeal.

  “Hi, Mr. Bryant?” William stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  The man lifted one bushy eyebrow as he studied them. Then he nodded, quick. “That’s me.”

  There was nothing overly unique about his appearance—he had a slight beer gut, his hair had thinned up top and was peppered with gray, and he wore jeans and a plain white T-shirt. “And just who might you be?”

  “William Rose, sir. And this is—”

  “Sophia Barrett.” Mr. Bryant hadn’t bothered to shake William’s hand, so she didn’t offer hers.

  The older man’s lip curled. “Ah, the American who won’t stop leaving messages on my mobile and notes on my door.”

  “Yes.” Sophia couldn’t help the blush that crept into her cheeks. “I’m sorry to have intruded on your privacy, but we have something very important to speak to you about.”

  “Let’s get this over with.” Hugh turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway, his shoulders hunched and his steps heavy.

  After exchanging a look of surprise, William and Sophia scurried after him. She was nearly bowled over by the strong scent of tuna that seemed to have leached into the walls. Boxes were piled everywhere, from floor to ceiling, with not much space available for walking.

  “Are you moving, Mr. Bryant?” If so, they’d lucked out that he was still here.

  “No, why?”

  No pictures adorned the walls, almost as if he had never unpacked from his move there twenty years ago—just slid everything inside and kept his life boxed up.

  When they reached the living room, they found Hugh already sitting in an overstuffed chair that was far too fancy for this ramshackle flat. Though old with a few scratches and cracks in the leather, it appeared sturdy, like it had weathered the test of time with dignity.

  She and William sat on a sofa across from Hugh.

  Sophia took a deep breath. “Thank you for taking time to—”

  “Look here, missy. I don’t know why you see fit to bother me, but I only agreed to talk so you’d leave me alone once and for all.” He turned and lifted a small box from the side table next to his chair, opened it, and pulled out a cigar. Running it under his nose, he inhaled. “But while you’re here, you might as well have a Cuban.”

  What an unusual man. “Thank you, sir. But we don’t want to trespass on your generosity that long,” Sophia said.

  “Suit yourself.” The man clipped his cigar and lit it. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “A few months ago, I was working in my friend’s bookstore when I discovered a notebook.” She launched into her story.

  Hugh took a puff from the cigar, held it in a few seconds, then released it. His eyes remained steady on Sophia as she talked. While he seemed to stay almost perfectly still otherwise, his right foot tapped up and down with fervor.

  “So that’s how we ended up here, Mr. Bryant. You appear to be the descendant of Edward Bryant and Rosamond Turner, and possibly our last hope for any sort of answer.”

  “I see.” Though it was only partially smoked, Hugh extinguished the rest of the cigar. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and speared Sophia with an intense look. “Do you have this notebook with you?”

  Though the man hadn’t given any indication he knew what Sophia was talking about, his interest gave her hope. “I do.” She pulled it from her bag. The corners of the notebook had begun to bend from being stuffed in there so many times.

  He reached for it, turned a page, and studied the printed words. “I seem to recall my cousin—my father’s sister’s girl—bringing me a notebook like this years ago. She had the original, which was discovered in the parsonage attic on our land and passed down through the generations. What you’re describing sounds like the contents of that notebook, though I couldn’t tell you for certain. I never read it.”

  “Would it be possible to meet with your cousin to view the original?”

  “She passed away a few years back.”

  “Perhaps her children have it?”

  He shook his head. “Never married. And no siblings. Not sure what happened to all her belongings. Probably donated somewhere.”

  Another dead end.

  William jumped in. “If this is indeed your notebook, do you have any idea how it would have ended up at the bookstore?”

  “Earlier this year there was a young man who came by collecting donations for the library. I told him to take whatever he could find—I inherited a lot of books from my parents. I’m not a big reader myself.” Hugh harrumphed. “I suppose he really did take whatever he could find.”

  Would they get any firm answers today? Sophia chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t mean this in an offensive way, but I’m curious. Why didn’t you ever read the notebook? Weren’t you curious why your cousin brought it to you?”

  He closed the notebook. “She was always prattling on about our family history, but I never cared for such things. The past is the past, and it doesn’t affect me one way or the other. And like I said, I’m not a big reader.” Standing, he pushed the notebook into Sophia’s hands. “In fact, you keep this. It clearly means more to you than it does to me. Now, will you go on and leave me in peace?”

  “Thank you.” A weight pressed against Sophia’s heart as she took the notebook from him. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . So you’ve never heard of Emily Fairfax?”

  William put his arm around her, a reminder that whatever happened next, he was here. Even if Emily Fairfax wasn’t real, he was. They were. This thing between them . . . it was too.

  Hugh Bryant fixed her with a stare, but as he studied her, something around the edges of his eyes seemed to soften. “I didn’t say that. According to my cousin, she was very much a real person. And this story wasn’t just a story—it was her life. But I’m afraid I don’t know much more than that.”

  38

  EMILY

  SEPTEMBER 1860

  On a day in mid-September, when the birds sang in the bushes and the flowers swayed in the breeze, I learned my book would at long last be published. In addition, the publisher requested more manuscripts and offered me the chance to submit material for serialized penny novels, a possibility that could lead to a greater writing income.

  My heart felt freer than it ever had. Not only had my dream finally been realized, but I had managed to move beyond the pain of what had occurred between Edward and me. Of course, his removal from the estate once we arrived—much to the protest of his parents—had helped immensely. Observing Rosamond’s blossoming form every day, as well as his dotage of her, would have simply been too much.

  As I
walked toward my room, the publisher’s letter in my hand, I heard an exclamation. Peeking over the railing, I saw Edward’s mother waving a letter of her own in the air, running as much as was dignified toward the drawing room. “Rosamond has had the baby! A boy named . . .”

  At that moment, my ears buzzed and my head grew fuzzy. I slumped against the nearest wall and heaved in air. Though my legs wobbled, I forced them to carry me back down the stairs, out into the light, onward toward the tree—the place where I had always been happiest.

  But now . . . now Edward was a father. I pictured him cradling a tiny version of himself, kissing his brow, whispering that he would always love and protect him from the perils of the world.

  I tore the letter from the publisher into hundreds of tiny pieces, continued tearing and ripping and shredding with my fingers as I flung each one into the ocean below. They were swallowed up and taken away, exposed to the elements and drowned in the roiling nature of the waves.

  Why could I not escape this feeling of rejection, of failure? Was this always to be my fate? I had sought to save my soul through written words. I had bled myself dry with ink. I had allowed myself to dig deep as John Davis suggested—to give more of myself to the story.

  And still . . . my soul continued to feel bereft.

  What then was the purpose of it all? What would it matter if I poured out my story or kept it locked inside of me? What difference could it possibly make? Why was I here at all?

  Such lofty questions could not be answered in one sitting, in one day. But I had finally come to the end of myself. I had offered all I had to give—and found my offering lacking.

  Perhaps the striving had given me purpose. But once achieved, my efforts had proven to be in vain.

  My father’s final words came back to me then: “All we have in life are the choices we make. We must make choices we can live with—and die with, if it comes to that.”

  His choices had led him to death—both physical and spiritual. He had turned his back on his faith and his family, all because he could not live without the person he loved most, because life had turned out differently than he had imagined.