Sophia set aside the nail file and stood, the wooden floorboards cold against her toes. “It hasn’t. Much.” She walked toward the refrigerator, opened the door, and searched for a soda. She found one in the very back and pulled it out.
“Still stuck?”
“That’s one way of putting it.” She popped the lid of the soda can and took a swig. The liquid sloshed down her throat, hard and biting. “I thought I’d have found some inspiration by now.”
“Sounds like your rut followed you all the way to England.” Joy paused. “I told you when you left that it would be good for you, but only if you aren’t using your trip to escape. Because even though you’re not in your house right now, the memory of David follows you wherever you go.”
Sophia leaned against the counter, letting the soda fill her empty stomach. Ugh. That wasn’t going to feel good in an hour. But she guzzled it anyway. “You don’t think I realize that? I have the same degree you do. I understand how all of this works psychologically.”
“You understand from a provider’s perspective, but not from a client’s. We can have all the head knowledge in the world, but our hearts are often what lead us toward destruction—or healing.”
Sophia let Joy’s words soak in. She walked to the window and peered through the curtains. In Phoenix the entire horizon would be dotted with lights—people up late, out on the town. Here, the only lights on were streetlamps and the occasional window like hers, where people shuffled about their homes and enjoyed the quiet.
“I do feel different here. I’m starting to let my memories find me instead of running away. Nothing major, I guess. But in little ways.” A boat horn sounded in the distance, low and guttural. “I haven’t totally retreated into my shell like I’ve been doing for the past fifteen months.”
“Listen, you know I love you.” Another pause. “But, Soph, you’ve been retreating for far longer than that.”
Her words hurt, but they were true in many ways. No matter how many times Sophia had gone over it all in her head, no matter how many hours she’d spent in therapy or talking about it with the people closest to her, she still couldn’t get past one fact. “I knew better, Joy.” She finished off the soda and crushed the can in her hand.
“I don’t know how else to tell you this, but I’ll say it again—it’s not your fault.”
“Whose fault is it, then?”
“David’s. Would you dare tell a client that it was her fault her boyfriend or husband abused her?”
“No, but they’re not therapists. I am. I should have . . .” Sophia sighed. Once again, there was no right answer. Like Joy said, she knew the answer in her head, but her emotions were telling her something different.
“Any one of us can become a victim, Sophia. Abuse does not discriminate, and neither do abusers.” Joy had said these same words to her before. What a patient best friend. “When you and David got together, he tried to mold you into the person he wanted you to be. He trapped the real Sophia. She’s been buried for so long you don’t remember who she is. I think you get little glimpses of her, but then you start to feel ashamed about it.”
“He may have buried me, but I handed him the shovel.”
“He manipulated you. Called it love and then did the very opposite of real love. It. Is. Not. Your. Fault.”
“I really do know that. But my heart won’t listen. And I can’t figure out how to forgive myself for it.”
“Start by reclaiming your life. It’s not enough to know in your head that you’re hearing a lie. You have to actually replace that lie with the truth.”
“But how do I know what’s the lie and what’s the truth?”
“By realizing that you’re not the source of either one.”
“I don’t understand.” The ocean frolicked just outside her window. The waves sang her a lullaby, like it was trying to soothe a baby to sleep.
“I know, friend. I’m praying that someday, you will.”
Sophia wandered back to the bed, got in, and sank under the quilt. She was so tired of it all—the thinking, the crying, the futility. “Ginny thinks we should try to locate the author of the story I found. She thinks it’ll be an adventure.”
“What do you think?”
“I worry that it could be a distraction from the reason I’m here.”
A tapping filled the silence—Joy always drummed her pen against her desk when she was deep in thought. “You know, when authors have writer’s block, they go take a shower, or a walk, or watch TV. Basically, they do something else to get their minds off their stories, off of trying so hard to produce it. But their minds are always mulling over the story subconsciously. Maybe that’s what you need to do. Get your mind off of the trying, and in the meantime, you’ll give your heart room to heal.”
14
EMILY
NOVEMBER 1857
“Charlotte, come away from the window, please.” I tried to keep the exasperation from my tone, but given the scowl the seven-year-old sent me, I was not successful. She crossed her arms over her chest, stuck her bottom lip out as far as she could manage, and flopped into the chair next to me as if anchored by a great weight.
With a sigh, I tapped the book in front of her. “This work would not take quite so long if you did not wander to the window constantly.”
Across the table, her sister—age nine—snickered. I shot her a look and her eyes swiftly found her book once more. In the corner of the room, their oldest sister practiced writing French. She sat so elegantly, so poised. Though five years my junior, Louisa far surpassed me in grace and etiquette. If only she applied as much energy to her schoolwork as she did to dreaming about her upcoming season. I had only been teaching her half as much as usual, as her mother had hired a special tutor to help her put the finishing touches on her social graces education.
I tapped the page again. The seven-year-old’s lip quivered and she looked up at me with eyes full of tears—eyes that reminded me so much of Edward’s.
“Please, Miss Fairfax. Can I go outside soon?”
The plea cut at my core, for it was a question I had often asked my mother, who taught us at home as long as she was able. She had always indulged my love of the outdoors, and my education had not suffered for it. I glanced down at the young mistress once more and narrowed my gaze, trying not to smile. “If you finish this page of work, then you may take a short break to explore.” It was a rare dry day in the very wet month that was November; in fact, the sun shone without clouds to dim its light. “Perhaps we can convince Cook to pack us a picnic. What do you say to that?”
Her eyes brightened and she began completing the work with fervor. I couldn’t keep the chuckle inside. It had been too long since I’d really laughed, and I missed that part of me. Once upon a time, I’d been full of more than gloom and misery.
An hour later, we were spreading a blanket on the ground and pulling sandwiches and fruit from a basket. Edward’s and my tree would have been the perfect spot for a picnic, but it did not feel right taking others into our realm, so we settled for a spot near a cluster of trees on the lawn.
Louisa had decided to stay indoors so she did not freckle, but I turned my face to the sky. Though a bit on the chillier side than most picnic days, the sun did its work in warming me.
If I had been alone, I would have removed my bonnet and let my hair loose. Something about the day seemed destined for joy—a thing I had not felt in a long time, that I’d only had a slight taste of that day three months before when Edward and I had talked on the edge of the bluff until it was dark and he said we must return in order to protect my reputation. If it had been up to me, I’d have stayed in his company, talking until morning about the dreams in our hearts.
Perhaps I would have even revealed my own—my dream of becoming a published author, not the one that began and ended with him.
That dream I would take to my grave.
We ate quickly, so I pulled a book from my bag, soon engaged in a story of adventure and buried
treasure, and the girls chased the family dog. Then they were begging me to climb trees with them—Edward had told them I used to be the best tree climber around.
I glanced about and had my boot in a foothold on the lowest limb when a servant approached. He cleared his throat and looked at me pointedly, letting me know the missus wanted to see me. I should have been embarrassed, but a silly grin fixed itself to my face and would not leave me. The girls giggled and I winked. I felt more myself than I had in years.
After dusting a few stray leaves and twigs from my skirt, I followed the servant inside and he led me to the drawing room, where Edward’s mother sat in a high-backed chair sipping tea. Her skin was pale like porcelain, and her cheeks perfectly rosy, her hair perfectly coiffed. A pearl necklace adorned her graceful neck, elegant and stately just like her. Every movement she made reflected her genteel upbringing.
“Miss Fairfax, please sit.” She indicated the chair across from her, next to the fireplace, and set her teacup onto a tray. With the ring of a bell, a servant moved from the edge of the room to whisk the tray away.
I did as she asked, smoothing my dress and twisting my hands into my lap as I sat. Despite the many times I’d been in my employer’s presence, something about this meeting produced unexplained nerves. The heat from the fire roared at me and flamed my twitter of emotions.
“Miss Fairfax, I wanted to let you know about a change in plans and see if you were amenable to them.” She paused and tilted her head to look at me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Miss Hayworth has given her notice, effective immediately.”
“Oh?” Miss Hayworth was Louisa’s companion. “That is poor timing indeed.” The unofficial season began around Christmastime, and the family was scheduled to leave for London in a few weeks’ time to settle in and begin preparations that could not be made until then. It would be my first visit to the city, and while I looked forward to seeing Edward again, my duties as governess would keep me busy and far from most of the excitement.
“Yes, I am well aware. That is where the change of plans comes in, and why I needed to speak with you.”
Something about her perusal caused me to finally look away, into the fire. The orange flames leapt and disappeared, reappearing in a random, undulating pattern.
“I have great regard for the way in which you conduct yourself, Miss Fairfax.”
I nearly reacted, but managed to remain unaffected by her comment. If only she had seen me ready to climb that tree not moments before. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“And while I know you must adore teaching, I wonder if you might set it aside and claim the position of Louisa’s companion for the duration of the season. After that, you may resume your current duties.”
My eyes snapped back toward her. Before I could react to her false perception about how much I “adored teaching,” the rest of her words caught up to me. She was asking me to take part in a world to which I had never truly belonged. Though my family had genteel roots, my father’s decision to follow God’s leading and become a preacher placed us outside of his own father’s will. My grandfather had disinherited him and refused to ever meet his only grandchildren.
Surely Edward’s mother, who cared a great deal what others thought, could not truly want me as a companion for her daughter, especially given the way my father’s life had ended. “I’m flattered, ma’am. But—”
“I know how your family is viewed by society, but by now we must let your conduct speak for itself. You are not your father.”
For Edward’s mother to look past the scandal of my father’s last years in this world, she must have been desperate indeed. Perhaps all the other suitable candidates for a lady’s companion were already committed for the season.
The thought of being judged by others made me equal parts nauseated and bellicose. I opened my mouth to refuse, but another thought came. Being a lady’s companion would provide me with more experience to put into my writing. My novel was almost complete, but I could still benefit from the knowledge when writing future stories.
Perhaps I could even find the time to visit a few publishers and present them with my manuscript. I would perhaps have more flexibility in my schedule as a companion than as a governess.
And best of all, being Louisa’s companion would allow me more time with Edward, who spent most of his time in London these days.
“If it pleases you, ma’am, I am happy to relinquish my duties as governess and become Louisa’s companion.”
Edward’s mother clapped her hands with pleasure. “Wonderful. This eases my mind greatly.” Her shoulders relaxed, as if she had been afraid I would say no. “I must be able to trust that she is in good hands when I am not present.”
This was the highest praise Edward’s mother had ever bestowed on me. For a moment, I could not speak. Even though she likely had no notion of the way her words had affected me, something in me chose to believe her maternal instinct was rising up in favor of me.
I pushed the thought aside and straightened in the chair. “I will do my best, ma’am.” With a pause, I considered my next words carefully. “Do you intend to pursue a match for her this season, or will you wait another year for that?”
“What a thoughtful question. Yes, you would need to understand our intent on that matter. No, we do not intend that, as she is still quite young and both her father and I feel she would benefit from another year of tutelage in the domestic arts.” A smile flitted across her lips. “However, we have already spoken with several families interested in forming an alliance with ours.”
The way Edward’s mother spoke made me feel a part of her inner circle of friends—a confidante. I leaned forward ever so slightly. “Louisa will make a wonderful match, that is certain.”
Edward’s mother let loose a trill of laughter. “Oh no, dear. You misunderstand. We have been approached about matches for Edward, not Louisa.”
The heat in the room suddenly seemed unbearable, and black clouded the edges of my vision. “Edward?”
His mother’s smile shone like a million tiny stars lined up in a row. “Of course. It is our wish that he finds a wife and settles down, that he begins a family as soon as possible.” The stars went dark. “You look quite pale, Miss Fairfax. Are you quite all right?”
“Yes.” I squeaked the word out and excused myself as quickly as I could. When I was free of the room, my feet would not carry me unless I was running, so I sprinted through the hallway, past surprised servants, out the servants’ exit, and down the garden path to our tree.
I fell to my knees. Here on the edge of the bluff, a breeze stirred, first quiet, then like a storm raging around me. Dead leaves on the ground blew out, out, out to the embrace of the ocean.
Why was I reacting so strongly? I had always known Edward would marry someone else. Had schooled my heart into submission, told it to enjoy our friendship for what it was, to cherish our fleeting moments together.
But my heart did not heed my instruction, an errant pupil determined to misbehave.
I stood, not bothering to brush off my skirt. I walked back to my room, picked up my pen, and poured my heart into the only thing that would ever be my salvation.
15
GINNY
Ginny groaned as she pulled the tray of cookies from the oven. Instead of succulent and soft, they appeared dry and hard. What had gone wrong with this batch? She set the tray on the counter of the tiny kitchen, where Sophia sat at a barstool. Her new friend eyed the cookies and reached for one tentatively.
“You’re kind, but I won’t let you try that one.”
Sophia withdrew her hand. “I hate to see home-baked food go to waste. I don’t get it anymore unless my mom brings something over.”
“But bad home-baked food is much worse than takeout. I can’t believe I messed these up. I’m just off today.” Ginny took a spatula and tossed the cookies one by one in the garbage. She pointed to a platter of cranberry-orange muffins she’d baked early this morning. �
�Have one of those if you’d like.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’m baking plenty. Always do when I’m stressed.”
She’d spent the day trying to eke out as many extra dollars as she could from the bookstore’s budget in order to pay her landlords, as rent was due soon. And then there was Steven and his generous offer. How would Garrett feel about her accepting free help from him?
Of course, he was the one wasting who knew how much money living in London of all places when he could have been “finding himself” here, with her.
She slammed the lid of the trash can shut.
“I’m sorry you’re stressed.” Sophia continued their conversation as if Ginny wasn’t behaving like a child throwing a temper tantrum. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Denial clawed up her throat, but she swallowed hard. She did want to talk about it, in a way. She normally didn’t have trouble opening up about stuff, but this . . . this was different. He was her husband. The one person who wasn’t supposed to fail her. And fail her he had. She only wished she understood why.
Time to change the subject. “Oh, by the way. I talked to William this morning, and he said he’s happy to help you find the author of the story. Has he told you how much he loves that TV show where they do all this literary research and stuff?” Ginny made a face. “He talked my ear off about it. Apparently he loves stuff like this.”
Originally she’d thought Sophia and Steven would make a good couple, but after seeing the interest in William’s eyes when talking about Sophia, Ginny had changed her mind. Plus, with how much they both loved books, it seemed a no-brainer.
“Oh. Thank you for asking.” Sophia blushed.
Ginny could sense the hesitation in Sophia regarding William—and who could blame her, given what she’d gone through in her last relationship? But William truly was one of the good guys. Hopefully Sophia could see that in time. This project would be the perfect excuse for them to see more of each other. If Ginny had to nudge things along a little . . .
The Secrets of Paper and Ink Page 9
