She looked once more at the site on his screen. “I like the clean lines, but the creative bent to it too. It seems like it’d be easy to find your way around, but it’s not boring either. The plug-ins you have for keeping track of inventory sounded intriguing, too, and just what I’d need.” Ginny paused. “But I can’t not worry about the cost, Steven. Things are . . . tight.”
He shut the lid of the laptop and studied her. “Then why redo the site? What’s your vision here?”
She explained her goals for the project. “Sophia is funny. She loves books. Like, loves them the way macaroni loves cheese. The way noodles love spaghetti sauce. The way—”
“I think I get the general idea.” Steven smirked.
“Right. Well, anyway, she talks about books as friends who need a place to belong, a new home. And . . . I guess it’s kind of silly, but I sort of relate to that. So the idea of getting them online, where we can hopefully sell them more quickly, really resonated with me and seemed to be one of the best ways to turn our business around.”
Wow. Funny how her brain worked sometimes.
“What?” Steven lifted an eyebrow. He must have noticed her awe.
She shook her head. “I just don’t think I’d made that connection until right now. I’ve always been a verbal processor, but boy—thanks for asking me that. So many things lately have been purely about getting the bookstore out of the red, but this . . . this goes a little deeper, I guess.”
The serious weight of her thoughts hung heavy in the air.
“I am pretty amazing like that.” Steven winked at her, grinning.
She let loose a giggle. What a nice friend to make her laugh when she should have been crying. “Well, yes, that too.”
He sobered. “But really. If you do ever need to verbally process, I’m a pretty good listener.”
“You are. That’s it—I’m finding you a woman, pronto. Oh! Sophia’s single. Maybe I should set you two up.” Ginny nudged Steven with her elbow.
He put his laptop away, chuckling. “I’m going to be too busy designing your site to date anyone right now.”
“Oh, come on. There’s always time for a little romance. But you still haven’t told me how much it will be.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m not sure—”
“I’m doing it free of charge.”
“What? No, I couldn’t accept that. That’s not why I came to you. I refuse to take advantage of our friendship.”
“But you did come to me, and I want to help your vision come alive.” His teasing eyes turned serious once more. “No matter what happens with Garrett, you’ll always have friends here. Though I do hope you two can work things out. I’m rooting for you.”
She swallowed hard. “Thank you. That means the world.”
11
SOPHIA
Today was the day. She was finally going to finish writing her story.
Sophia settled on a blanket in her chosen spot near Chaser’s Beach about a half hour’s drive from Port Willis. She’d promised herself that she’d branch out a bit and see more of England, and this was a start. It was still early on Saturday, so the beach wasn’t very crowded yet, though research had told her it was a popular spot for surfing.
Not that she’d be partaking in that—not today. But maybe someday soon.
She sat on the grassy headland that overlooked the golden sand below. There were already numerous surfers plunging their arms through the water, paddling out on their boards to catch the next wave. Some rode monster waves back toward the land. What would it be like to feel weightless, to let the water carry her, to be one with the surf and sea?
The clouds from yesterday’s storm seemed to be lingering just enough to make it a bit chilly. She zipped her jacket and pulled her white journal from the bag that sat next to her. Last night, she’d reread the story in the mystery notebook for the tenth time. Something about the author’s yearning spoke to her soul, and she knew she had to get away and write more than the few pathetic pages she’d penned since first finding the notebook three days ago. Her fingers itched to sketch the words of her heart onto the paper, like Emily had in the story.
With trembling fingers, Sophia opened her own journal. Her eyes flitted over what she’d already written. The words fell flat. All she’d managed to say was a whole lot of nothing.
Why was this so hard? She knew what she felt, didn’t she?
She ripped the two pages from the journal, balled them up, and stuffed them inside her bag.
“I thought you seemed a creative soul when we first met.”
Her head turned and looked up to find a man standing over her, a surfboard in his hands, a wetsuit covering his body—his quite sculpted body. She blinked and shook the thought from her mind.
“Um, hi.” He looked familiar. “Do I know you?”
“Car park. You were blocking the way . . .”
The kind, handsome stranger. “Right. Hi.”
“You said that already.” His grin was contagious. “I’m William.”
“Sophia.”
“I know.” He crouched down so he wasn’t towering over her anymore.
She raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?” How did he know who she was?
“Port Willis is a small town. Also, you’re working for my sisterin-law.”
Ah, yes, Ginny had mentioned her husband’s brother a few times in passing. “The lit professor, right?”
“My reputation precedes me.”
For some reason, the comment made her giggle. She never giggled. There was just something so . . . cute about this guy. “I suppose it does.”
“Mind if I sit for a moment?”
She eyed his surfboard and apparel. “I don’t want to keep you from surfing.”
He shrugged. “I come out here as often as I can. It’s all right if I’m a bit delayed today.”
“Okay, then sure. Sit on down.” She scooted over so he could join her on the blanket. “And what do you mean, I seem like a ‘creative soul’?”
He pointed to her journal. “I saw you ripping pages from your diary there. Only intensely creative people get frustrated enough to do that.”
“Oh.” If only he knew how wrong he was. She was no writer, though writer’s block had become her frenemy. Sophia closed the journal and pushed it back into her bag. “I thought this would be an inspiring place.”
“And is it?”
“I’ve only just arrived, so I’m not sure yet. But it is gorgeous and so different from home.”
“Where is that?”
“Arizona. Phoenix, to be precise.”
“The desert, then.”
“You know American geography. Have you ever been?” She pulled her knees into her chest and studied him. He didn’t seem much older than her, though Ginny had said he was a tenured professor already. Maybe thirty-five?
“Sadly, no. I’ve always wanted to, but my travels have stayed on this side of the pond.”
“I haven’t traveled much, but in college, I took a trip to London with students and faculty from my university the summer before my junior year. We visited the British Library and I was forever ruined for American literature. From that moment on, all I wanted to do was read what the Brits wrote.”
William’s mouth curved into a smile. “See? Creative soul. I knew it. And who are your favorite authors?”
“Of course there’s Austen, the Brontës, Dickens, and Hardy. But an author whose work has really spoken to me lately is Robert Appleton.”
His eyes brightened, and he shifted his body to face her more. “Most Americans have never even heard of that particular author.”
“One of my professors who chaperoned the trip abroad was obsessed with him. Of course, Dr. Rosenthal was convinced ‘he’ was really a ‘she.’”
“I actually focused on Cornish authors for my dissertation. Robert Appleton was one of my key focuses. And I tend to agree with your professor.”
She’d considered the possibility but wasn’t sure wh
ich way to lean. “So little is known of his life, so what makes you think he wrote under a pseudonym?”
“That’s one of the main reasons. Why wouldn’t more be known of him? Just look at how much is known about Charlotte Brontë and her sisters, who wrote around the same time. But not one single letter or piece of information was ever recovered about Robert Appleton. Of course, for many, that adds to his appeal. Still, outside of Cornwall, his is a quiet fame.”
“Once my professor introduced me, I fell in love.” Sophia leaned back on her hands. “I’ve read each of his books at least twenty times.”
“Which is your favorite?”
“That’s like asking a mom who her favorite kid is. Impossible to decide. They each bring something different to the table. Each one speaks to me in different ways. Like Whisper Across the Bluffs. It’s a story about courage and becoming someone new, and goodness knows I need to be more like Margaret.” She sighed, her eyes studying and following the horizon. “And then there’s Moonbeams. A great love that conquers all, even death? How could that not speak to someone?”
“Indeed. I love how Appleton took so much inspiration from the Bible, don’t you?”
She pulled her gaze back to William. “Did he?”
“That’s what my dissertation was about, actually. Biblical symbols and parallels in Cornish fiction.”
Ironic what a pull Appleton’s stories had on Sophia’s soul then, given her own wavering faith. She shrugged her shoulders. “Regardless of what inspired them, they’ve in turn inspired me. It’s why I’m here.” Partly, anyway.
For a moment, they were quiet. Then he started chuckling.
“What?”
“Outside of my colleagues at the university, I’ve never met someone who enjoyed reading as much as you. It’s refreshing.”
Sophia found herself laughing along. “I’m definitely a book nerd.”
“Do you like the show Unsolved Mysteries of a Literary Nature?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You mean you don’t have it in America? I never miss an episode. It’s brilliant. They discuss all the theories of mysteries within and surrounding literature. For instance, who wrote Beowulf? Or in James’s The Ambassadors, what was the ‘little nameless object’?”
Sophia couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across her face. “Okay, you officially win nerd of the year right there.”
William laughed. “Don’t pretend that you’re not going to go look it up when you return home.”
“You got me.” Actually, the show sounded right up her alley. It was the kind David would have mocked her for liking, so she would have waited until he went out with his buddies on Friday night and snuggled up on the couch to watch it.
“So how long do you plan to stay in Cornwall?”
She snapped back to the present, with thoughts about her fiancé souring the beauty around her. “Three months. Then I have to return to my job.”
“Which is?”
She picked at her cuticles. “I’m a women’s therapist.” That was all she could manage. Why was she able to go on and on the moment anyone mentioned books, but when asked about her own life, she shut down? If she’d been psychoanalyzing someone else, she’d have said perhaps they were not able to face the pain of their past or present and so avoided those topics altogether.
But she’d been in counseling for months now. She’d talked ad nauseam about how David had made her feel, how she longed for a fresh start.
So why was there still some sort of blockage there? It wasn’t just with William. He was actually fairly easy to talk to. Of course, she wasn’t used to talking much to men other than David. He’d grown into a jealous person the last few months of his life, constantly accusing her of things she hadn’t done, so it’d been easier to just avoid other guys.
She could hear David’s voice in her head now, all the lies—what she knew were lies—raining down on her mind:
Slut.
Seductress.
Cheater.
Nonsense, all of it. They’d been lies when he’d thrown them in her face, and they were lies now. But even things she could identify as lies held weight sometimes.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your journaling then.”
William stood, snatching up the surfboard in his hands.
It’d be easy to let him walk away. To dismiss him and not engage. To push away anything she really felt, to bury it deep inside and never go digging for it again.
But the path toward healing wasn’t an easy one.
“No. Stay, if you like. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about things.”
A smile graced his lips, and he plopped down once more. “Like what?”
Then they chatted for hours, till the sun was about to set and she realized she hadn’t eaten a thing all day and he hadn’t surfed and she hadn’t written a word. But that was okay. Because she’d cracked the door to another friendship—let someone in. A man, no less. This was progress, whether she’d reached her “goal” for the day or not.
Her eyes scanned the beach, where a photographer set up his camera, ready to capture life in stillness. But life could not be captured that way, not really. A photo would always lack a little something, however beautiful, because a photo couldn’t capture what the sprinkles of salt water felt like against the skin or how the warmth of the sun crested over her face and soaked itself in.
And if a camera had been pointed her way, it wouldn’t be able to show how her heart was beating wildly at the way a man she had just met looked at her like she was more than just a little interesting—or how the equal fear and exhilaration of something new swept through her veins.
12
EMILY
AUGUST 1857
When I wrote, the dark days of my past obscured around the edges, and I was capable of forgetting for just a moment the pain of losing nearly everyone I have ever loved. Whenever I poured myself out on the pages and invited myself into a story, I found the kind of life I had always longed for.
If only that sort of magic could be translated to the rest of life.
My pen flew across the page as quickly as I could manage it, thoughts streaming from my mind through my hand and becoming etched onto the page. I spent every spare moment here at my desk, though those moments seemed few as of late. Being a governess to Edward’s sisters had proved quite challenging at times, but he had been so kind to arrange it. I had no right to complain.
A knock sounded at my door, and a servant girl stepped inside. “Your presence is requested in the sitting room, Miss Fairfax.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there in a moment.” Perhaps Edward’s mother had more to discuss regarding the upcoming school year. I had already been tasked with making sure Edward’s sister Louisa was as “accomplished” as possible, given that she would be presented during this year’s social season.
The servant curtsied and closed the door behind her as she left.
I placed the pen on the desk and rolled my head either direction, rubbing the sore muscles at the base of my neck. How long had I sat here? I’d ended the school day early, given the children’s desire to have a picnic and roam the countryside this afternoon.
In the schoolroom, I counted the seconds until we were finished. But when I held a pen, hours could pass without my notice.
I rose and checked my appearance in the ornate looking glass—a luxury I’d never had in the parsonage—and was astonished at how visible the sadness in my narrow brown eyes had become. Other than the freckles dotting my cheeks and a small ink stain on the front of my frock, I seemed presentable enough with my blond hair pulled back into tightly pinned plaits. Of course, I was not a great beauty like my mother and older sister had been, but I had always enjoyed the noble slope of my petite nose and the fact I could eat as much dessert as I liked and not worry about my dress becoming too snug.
With a quiet step, I left my room and walked down the long hallway of the house toward the sitting room. Before becoming the gove
rness, I had only set foot inside the house on the rare occasion when the family had invited mine to dine with them. Edward and I had done most of our childhood romping outdoors on the family’s grand estate.
Finally, I reached the sitting room. But when I stepped through the door, Edward’s parents were nowhere to be found. His mother had recently hired a new decorator to adorn the room in the latest styles—red silk window treatments, gold-framed mirrors, damask furniture, wrought-iron candlesticks. A large chandelier overhead boasted the simple elegance of this home and its occupants.
The servant had said the sitting room, hadn’t she? I turned back toward the hallway to inquire—and nearly collided with a tall figure.
“You simply couldn’t wait a few extra moments so I could surprise you, could you?”
The voice brought to life every fiber of my being, and my eyes swung upward to find Edward standing before me. Edward, in the flesh. Edward, whom I had not seen since my father’s funeral eight months before. He had been away at school and then living in London to help his father run some aspects of business after graduation.
I couldn’t contain my grin. “When did you arrive?”
“Only just. I had to see how you were faring.”
I forced myself to ignore the connotation of his words—that he had sought me out immediately upon arrival. It meant nothing to him, and everything to me. Even if he never loved me as I did him, to at least have his friendship was of paramount importance. I do not know how I could have survived my family’s deaths without him. “I am well, thank you.”
“Come. Let’s wander the garden. It’s such a lovely day.” Edward ushered me through the door and outside, where the sun hung low in the sky. Dinner would be served soon, but for a few moments we could enjoy the glorious crispness of the air, an indicator that autumn would soon be upon us.
“I didn’t know you had planned to come home.”
We descended the steps leading from the house into the extensive gardens below. Rhododendrons, Himalayan magnolias, and more than 120 species of cream-and-white magnolias brightened each step we took. They were arranged in an orderly way, but I could imagine them longing to burst from their constrained beds and twirl about once they found their freedom.
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